Things seem to have returned to normal right around noon, except for a tendency to break back into a cold flop sweat at the slightest provocation. Apart from the weird cold sweat, though, I no longer feel ill apart from the pre-existing weirdnesses (numb fingers, numb foot, weird shooting tingles partially damped by the Neurontin). I guess I'll take that as a win, though I'm going to have to seriously examine whether I particularly regard going through that kind of thing every weekend as a fair tradeoff for such a nebulous benefit.

In aftermath matters, I have a tiny red spot on my leg where the needle went in. It's not painful or growing, and doesn't appear to be a surface reaction - just the tiny bit of inflammation you might expect from a place where the skin had a hole poked in it. (Oddly, putting the needle in didn't feel like anything at all; not until I took it out did it sting a bit.)

One thing is now reasonably certain: of the interferons, I seem to be able to tolerate the most hardcore of them acceptably. (On the downside, that could be an indication that my body doesn't particularly give a crap about them, which would mean their already-hard-to-define benefit may be reduced. As with so many things about these therapies, there is no effective way to answer that question.) That means if I do decide it's Not Worth It, I'll be switching straight to Copaxone and not bothering with either of the "lighter" interferons first (much as some part of me wants to do the little science experiment you have to do before taking your Betaseron at least once :).

Pentagon considers a non-smoking, non-chawing military.

While a terrific idea for all sorts of well-established health and hygiene reasons, this will never fly; it'll just lead to an erosion of discipline as people at all levels of the military structure ignore the regulation and get away with it because their bosses are doing the same. And even if it did somehow work for the actual people involved, it would topple the grey-market economy of everywhere our soldiers are stationed. Without cigarettes to use as currency, they won't be able to score anything from the indigenous peoples.

All the above hours were spent in bed feeling rather cold. Not the sort of chill that includes shivering or, really, any sort of debility at all, but certainly the kind that has one piling on blankets and then bursting into a flop sweat because there are too many. I still feel cold now, in fact, and am contemplating a return to bed, despite the fact that (if you count the time I lay there reading) I went to bed, oh, 12-1/2 hours ago.

Weirdly, that didn't start until after lights-out. Probably a coincidence, but still.

Not particularly worse, but very sleepy. Going to bed, because, what the hell, why not.

Feeling a bit spacey and achey, but to be honest I've felt worse than this just left to my own devices. Oh, and a tad bit of a headache, but it occurs to me that I skipped lunch for fear of Grand Central Nausea (which I haven't had). I just cut my front lawn without killing myself, anyway. Five hours to go until it hits its peak, or so I'm told.

Also, I forgot to mention earlier: The traveling nurse was really nice. And she had a little device that simulates a patch of thigh or arm eerily, apart from lacking hairs and being a color not found in nature. I don't know what it was made of, but it felt, took needles, and sealed up after them just like skin. Creepy.

nothing to report. no site reaction, no biochemical freakout yet. the suspense is the hardest part at the moment.

Injectable Science starts now! Or, well, it started half an hour or so ago. The shot wasn't a big deal. I'm told the Flu-Like Symptoms should begin in 3-4 hours. Looking forward to that, boy howdy. More as it develops.

Circumstances on a trip to Bangor today dictated that I ride in the back of the car on the way home to keep the dog company. As a consolation prize (because, while the back of the car is fairly comfy - it's a Cadillac, after all - the seat belts don't work for me back there, making a return trip from Bangor back there a bit more of a gamble than I generally care to take) I got to pick out a movie to watch, because, being a Cadillac, the car is all ostentatious and stuff and has a DVD player in the back.

I now have a mighty case of eyestrain (for the screen, it is quite small) and a sore neck (for the screen, it is at quite an awkward angle) and ears (for the included headsets, they are not very comfortable), but on the other hand, I have watched the first two episodes of the HBO miniseries based on David McCullough's John Adams, and that was worth the tiny, poorly placed screen and the pinchy headphones and, indeed, the manifest risk to life and limb. I was already a Paul Giamatti fan, but if I hadn't been I would be now. It's difficult to believe this is the same man who chewed an entire motion picture's worth of scenery as the bad guy in Shoot 'Em Up.

For the first time since 1995, the Pamplona Bulls are on the scoreboard! Wooooo! Go Bulls!

So during the second intermission in tonight's show, we were informed that the City of Bangor's fireworks display was being held in spite of the intermittently drizzling rain, and the intermission would be extended should we wish to walk a block or two up Main Street to a better vantage point and observe it. Fitted with little green wristbands to denote that we should be allowed back in when we returned, we were turned loose to go and see what there was to see.

I duly walked up a couple of blocks and found a spot on a low stone wall in front of a church, from which the waterfront was in plain view, and got settled just about the time the firing started.

At which point a guy came up, looked around, fixed on me with that strange instinct some people seem to have for who, in a crowd, is most vulnerable to being bothered, then walked up blocking my line of sight and asked to use my cell phone, because - and here he produced what appeared to be a restaurant guest check with a Bangor phone number scrawled on it in green crayon - he had to call his Gran.

Now, the fuck I'm handing my cell phone to some random stranger on the street in Bangor in the middle of the evening. It's not even technically mine. Besides, I was getting rained on, the feeling of Strange Alienation that had been building throughout the opening acts was very strong in me, and here was this guy visiting upon me precisely the sort of human contact I least wanted, as if sent by some cosmic force to ensure that I felt as distant from my species as I could possibly feel. So I told him "Sorry, pal, can't help you."

Of course, that wasn't enough for him. He proceeded to sit down on the wall beside me (actually sort of behind me, since I was half-turned to face diagonally down/across the street toward the waterfront) and repeat, in the kind of penetrating whiny voice with which some people are naturally gifted, the better to be able to annoy others, that he had to call his Gran, whose number he had written down in crayon so it would't run in the rain. Gesturing to the apartment building across the way, he added that she lived right there.

I should've just kept silent, but something about that explanation offended my sense of... well, of sense, so before I could stop myself I heard myself tell him that in that case why didn't he just go ring the bell instead of bumming someone's phone to call her from across the street.

"Because she's afraid of fireworks," he explained in the sort of voice one uses to explain something obvious to someone very stupid.

I gave up at that point and just ignored him, muttering something to the effect of, "trying to watch the fireworks here."

Twenty seconds or so passed. Then: "You're not gonna do it, are you."

"No, I don't believe I am."

He demanded to know if I thought he was planning to run away with his phone, insisting that he wouldn't make it across the street if he tried. I shrugged and said I certainly wouldn't be able to catch him if he tried it, and repeated that I was trying to watch the fireworks.

"Or maybe you're just not one of those kind-hearted people," he said accusingly.

"Maybe I'm not," I agreed. "Maybe I'm having a shitty day and I'm trying to watch the fireworks and I want you to go away."

Well. I thought I was having a shitty day? He had to fucking walk back (where from was not specified) in the fucking rain to fucking shithole Bangor and now he had to call his son's grandmother (suddenly she's become his son's grandmother, did you notice that?), and that's no fucking lie and all he wants to use my fucking telephone for five fucking minutes and he's not going to fucking steal it, Jesus H. Fucking Christ.

(Keep in mind, this is during the Fourth of July fireworks. All around us on the sidewalk are little family groups, all of whom are now edging away and eyeing us with terror.)

By now I had begun to suspect that this dude was trying to start some shit, a suspicion confirmed a moment later when he lurched up from the wall and said something to the effect of that I was a fucking asshole and if I felt like doing anything about that I could just try to get up off my fat fucking ass and fucking go for it.

I faced down the road, watching the fireworks, and ignored him, wondering idly if I was possibly about to get shanked. There was a Bangor city police car sitting in the street about 10 feet away, waiting for the Union Street traffic light; if it hadn't been slightly past where I was, so that the cop couldn't see me unless I got up and crossed the near lanes to tap on his window - and if the now-furious intruding dude hadn't been between me and it - I might seriously have considered involving the nice officer. Maybe he could let the gentleman use his cell phone to call his (son's) grandmother.

Mercifully, at that point he fucked the hell off down the street, presumably to try his luck with one of the groups down at the corner or over in front of the Greyhound bus terminal. I didn't see him again, though you can bet that I had my keys in Improvised Brass Knuckle Position inside my pocket and kept a weather eye on doorways and bushes on my walk back to the Opera House.

As mentioned before, I was already feeling out of sorts; my mood nosedived after that and never really recovered. When I got back to the Opera House, one of the guys who was there with (but not a member of) the second opening band sat down next to me and struck up a conversation in which he seemed to be trying to recruit me to help him develop a television show (he said he worked at MTV), which was very weird but also kind of intriguing, and unlike my previous interlocutor he seemed like a nice guy; but by then I was so completely unprepared to deal with anybody that I'm afraid I must have been rather brusque with the poor chap, because he lost interest as LAtM were tuning up and went back to sit with his band again.

I should know better than to do things like this, but somehow I keep forgetting: Going to a small-venue concert alone is a perfect way to emphasize that you are alone.

For those of you not on the same page with me here, I went to the Bangor Opera House tonight; they had a showing of The Big Lebowski prefaced by a performance by Richard Cheese and Lounge Against the Machine. I'd never been to the Opera House before; it's an interesting old theater, though rather less grand - actually, quite a lot less grand - than its name suggests. It's considerably smaller, in fact, than the auditorium at my old high school (which was, admittedly, the envy of pretty much every other high school in the state, and may still be for all I know).

Anyway, what I mean is, it's an intimate little place, and I think I was the only person there who wasn't with anybody - at times it seemed like I was the only one there who didn't know everybody else there.

Still, it was a pretty good show. Two opening bands I'd never heard of, one a subset of the other, the larger of the two rejoicing in the name "French Horn Rebellion". I'm not sure I quite got their act - kind of a comedy big beats thing, I think, and they actually did have a French horn, which was refreshingly up front of them - but they weren't bad. (I didn't catch the other band's name; the mics weren't very well-leveled and it was hard to make out anything anybody was saying. "Savoir" something, I think. It was two members of French Horn Rebellion doing a sort of Curtain Society-ish neo-shoegazer kind of thing; not really my cup of tea, but not objectionable in any way.)

LAtM were missing their horn section, alas, but still, a good performance. I maintain that that schtick wouldn't work at all if the people doing it weren't really good at their jobs. Only keeping to a seriously high standard of musicianship can possibly make a Las Vegas lounge version of 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny" anything other than an exercise in anguish, but when they do it it is, in fact, hilarious.

On the down side, the opening bands took just short of forever to set up and take down - there were a lot of keyboards to be dealt with - and there was an extended intermission before RC so people could walk down the street and take in the Bangor fireworks, so by the time RC was finished, it was 11:30. I couldn't see sticking around for another 2-1/2 hours, and getting home around 4 AM, just for a movie I'd already seen; and besides, by then the sense of...outsiderness was really starting to get to me, so I wouldn't have enjoyed it anyway, so I slipped out and headed back.

All in all, I had a decent time, and I think I'd have had a terrific time if I hadn't been so resoundingly alone (and if I hadn't had the weird and unsettling interlude during the fireworks, about which more under separate cover); but mainly the experience served to reinforce the fact that I shouldn't do things like that by myself. I end up feeling like an anthropologist dispatched to an island to observe the natives from hiding, or a newly arrived visitor from some other planet, watching other people have a good time together.

Current Mood: out-of-tune

My grandparents came to visit on Wednesday, and as it miraculously neglected to rain for the three or four hours they were in town, we were able to go out to the gravel pit and do some shootin'. That was fun, but in its own way, I had almost as much fun yesterday afternoon, when I sat down at my kitchen table and spent a happy couple of hours cleaning the couple of my guns I used.

The problem with WWII-vintage ammunition is that the priming used in cartridges back then was corrosive, which means the need for immediate cleaning is almost as obsessive as it was back in the days of black powder. (Ironically, if you use a modern black powder replacement, like Pyrodex, that's not an immediate issue in muzzleloading any more.) But that's not really a problem if you take a certain weird zenlike pleasure in the ritual of cleaning a firearm. Something about it appeals to me, if I have enough table space (if I don't, it's a pain in the ass): I unroll my cleaning pad, open up my little box of swabs and brushes, screw the rod together, and set to work; half an hour later my hands are dirty and my rifle's clean, and there's something deeply satisfying about putting a freshly cleaned and oiled rifle back in the case.

This is especially true with my old Lee-Enfield; there's the sense that I'm... I don't know, establishing a personal connection with the hardware by looking after it that way. Which, if you read the earlier article, it should be apparent why that makes me happy.

I know that's going to reinforce the image I have in some of your minds as a crazy gun nut, but I can't help that. :)

Up next: I went upstairs and retrieved my black powder gear today. If it ever stops raining, I'll get to head back out to the pit at some point and make some smoke.

Status: busted.

This was already busted by the death of Billy Mays, but even if you're inclined not to count him because of some bias against the modern infomercial equivalent of carny barkers (frankly, I always rather liked him for that), it's still busted if the reports I'm seeing of Karl Malden's passing are accurate. (One always has to wonder, now that anyone can say anything on Twitter and formerly responsible news agencies will pick it up as if it's true.)

Though I was a regular watcher of The Streets of San Francisco back when it was in reruns on WOR-TV (which my local cable system carried in the day), Mr. Malden's defining role in my mind will always be his performance as General Omar Bradley in Patton. He nearly steals every scene he's in, which is no mean feat when you're appearing opposite a man with the presence of George C. Scott.

My favorite scene: The one in Italy wherein General Bradley misplaces his helmet during an air attack on a convoy he's inspecting and hits the ditch along the side of the road next to a regular GI, grabbing a random discarded helmet with no rank insignia as he goes. Since Bradley always made it a point to wear ordinary uniforms (not custom-tailored jobs like many of his fellow generals, including Patton, famously affected), there's nothing on his person at this point to indicate his rank, prompting the GI to ask him rhetorically, "What silly sonofabitch is in charge of this operation?"

"I don't know," Bradley (the silly sonofabitch in question) replies sincerely, "but they oughta hang 'im."

From the same minds - and very possibly the same demented midnight post-gaming bull session - that brought you Inspector Gadget: Pretty Hate Machine and "Spud Wrench":

"I'll make a howitzer! And blast those bastard kids ta Hell a'fore they get me Lucky Charms!"

- Lucky the Leprechaun Loses His Shit, brainiac69 and myself, ca. 1991

courtesy mindways, and taken entirely out of context because I just love the bare phrasing of it:

"Lighting people on fire is wrong."

(emphasis his)

Victory at Sea! All 26 episodes on DVD... for $5!

Okay, they're not the fanciest, most extra-laden DVDs in the world; in fact, as far as I can tell they have no extras whatsoever. But who cares? Victory at Sea! For five bucks!

"There were three whom she went so far as to marry: One of the leading composers of the day, Gustav Mahler, composer of Das Lied von der Erde and other light classics; one of the leading architects, Walter Gropius, of the Bauhaus school of design; and one of the leading writers, Franz Werfel, author of The Song of Bernadette and other masterpieces. It's, it's people like that who make you realize how little you've accomplished. It is a sobering thought, for example, that when Mozart was my age, he had been dead for two years."

- Tom Lehrer
"Alma"
That Was the Year That Was (1965)

Today I stopped by the library a few minutes before closing time to return a couple of books, and the librarian on duty was showing another lady how to reshelve things. This led into a conversation between the three of us, who were the only people there, about the special private hell anyone with a bit of OCD discovers when shelving books that are part of a series, but not all the same edition. For instance, they've got the entire 18-volume Lord Ramage series by Dudley Pope, but only... I forget, 12 or so of them are in the same paperback edition, with matching cover designs and whatnot; the others are mostly old hardcovers published before anyone knew it was going to end up being a long series.

Thus, if you put them in alphabetical order, as the prevailing system at the library demands, not only are they not in proper series order, but the shelf looks like ass because the heights are uneven and the hardcovers are scattered throughout. Billie was surprised to find that I understood this personal torment.

"Oh, yeah, that happens to me every time I go by the Patrick O'Brien shelf. I mean, obviously Desolation Island comes after Post Captain. I have to stop myself from 'fixing' it."

"Yes! Exactly!"

I would totally go to this if I had anyone to go with.

So. I turned 36 today. The first year of the second half of my Biblically predicted lifespan has elapsed.

And, if I have to be perfectly frank about it, it sucked.

Also, I've been out of high school for almost precisely as long as I took to get through it (as of a couple of weeks ago), and in that time - I must assess these things as honestly as I can - I have accomplished... well, nothing of lasting practical value, actually. My trajectory took me through some interesting times and places, but it brought me right back to where I started from.

I'm not saying I regret the way I spent the last 18 years?

... actually, I guess I kind of am. At least I regret the way it all turned out. I can look back and very clearly identify at least five points where I had a chance to keep from ending up where I am now, and what I should've done at each of those five points, but here I am anyway.

Sorry, kind of a downer, I know, but that's where my head's at right now. Which is a little scary, since I haven't even started on Injectable Science¹ yet.

Speaking of which, Injectable Science probably starts next week; the blood work came in yesterday and my liver passed, so we can start damaging it with interferons any time we like.

In other news, my father and I went to a small car show in Bangor today (at the open house of a big ole body shop in town), and an odd thing happened. This requires a little bit of background. See, last Labor Day (as longtime readers may recall), we went to one at the Owls Head Transportation Museum, and at one point found ourselves standing next to a Hillman Minx.

Well, today we were poking around inside the body shop - it's a big place for a body shop, but pretty small for a car show, so there were only a dozen or two cars in there - and found ourselves standing next to a Hillman Husky. Go figure, I mean, how many Hillmans can there be in Maine?

Tomorrow I begin a project that I thought of a couple of weeks ago but haven't had the opportunity to start on until now. If it works, it'll be highly ironic, given that my old corporate masters at the Katahdin Times used the claim that I had "no photography skills" as an excuse for not giving me a raise at least twice.

Now, though, I'm very tired - I'm told it's a Symptom, but on the other hand, it could just be because I got crappy sleep last night - so I think I'll go start getting ready for bed.

¹ band name courtesy ardaniel.

Current Mood: sleepy
Current Music: The Fabulous Thunderbirds: "Lookin' Forward to Lookin' Back"