Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about party invites, health advice, and more O!

"Modern Manners says it is rude to ask a hostess who else is invited to a party. What do you think?"

What's up you guys? Today looks like it's promising as far as fun, interesting blog entries are concerned (in one way or another), so let's get right to the prompts.

Hell yeah I think it's rude to ask someone hosting a party who's all on the guest list...most of the time. There are legit exceptions, but generally, hey, mind your own frickin' business and just be happy there was a party and someone thought enough of you to ask you to join in the fun.

And I think that while most hosts have a pretty good idea of the people they're inviting and believing everyone's gonna play nice together, you can't expect them to know why Person A can't be in the same room as Person B, or that Persons C & D are jerks when they're together, and Person E is an asshole after three drinks, and so on. People are so spoiled sometimes, not being able to put aside petty beefs and feeling like they have to be the center of attention at someone else's throwdown. If that's why you want to know if so-and-so has been invited, fuck you and don't come.

But chances are, the host/hostess already knows you've got a restraining order against someone, or that both parties in a nasty divorce aren't gonna show up at the same time to little Billy's 8th birthday, or who the shameless whore in the group is targeting for a ride home. Some questions don't need to be asked, but in situations like these maybe it's alright to have the bases covered.

So no, don't ask. Be respectful. If you don't like someone but your mutual friend is opening their home up to you with food and drinks and harmless merrymaking, don't be a little bitch about it. Act like the bigger person. The bigger, more mature person (and not the bigger, uglier asshole). When crowds gather they can smell who doesn't fit in, and you don't want that to be you because not only will you be outed quickly, but you'll ruin your chances at future invites. Especially if I told you that it's at that party in 2018 that you'll meet the love of your life, so long as you can keep your big fat yap closed this weekend when your boss's wife is opening her second personal bottle of wine and starts going on and on about how "this country needs a real man like Donald Trump to lead us and bomb all of Asia and half of Europe" and bites her bottom lip like she just had sexytime in her head with the thought of him actually achieving any of that.

Plus, it's just a bad look if you're scoutin' out the guest list and wondering why you got in but your homies didn't. Not everyone is capable of overlooking flaws like you are, and won't tolerate the same bullshit you have for twenty years of friendship. Sometimes, it's better just letting things be.

"What's the best piece of health advice you have ever received? Did you follow it? Why or Why not?"

Ok...here we go. I don't want to make a big production out of it, and I've only talked about with a few people, but I may as well get it out there so I can get it out of the way faster. I saw my psychiatrist last Friday. His office is on the second floor of the building, at the opposite end of the stairs (and there's no elevator). By the time I made it to his couch, I was exhausted. Spent. Gassed. A little sweaty from the exertion even. And I'm not a model of perfect health by any means, but I've done fairly well in the physical department throughout my tenure as a human being (besides the various broken bones, but that's not the point). Instead of talking about football for a half hour and getting refill scripts for my antidepressants and insomnia meds, he wrote up an order for blood work...to "rule out a few things". So that's how I spent my Monday, going to the hospital and having them shove a needle in my arm (which went surprisingly well, because usually they jab away for awhile and then give up and go in through the back of my hand, which then swells and bruises and looks like the hand of a 96 year old's).

I woke up Wednesday morning and had a missed call and a voicemail from him...and you know they don't call you with good news or no news. Basically, in his words: "Your thyroid has stopped working." Normal levels of <insert his fancy medical wordology here> are 3.6-3.7, and mine is 12. And "I don't normally do this, because I'm a psychiatrist, but I'm writing you a script because I don't feel comfortable with you walking around untreated."

And mind you, I'm not a very big "see your primary doc twice a year" kinda guy. In fact, I don't even know who my actual primary is right now, because the first time I saw one when I moved to Cortland, it was that guy's last day at the medical place I was sent to, and the next time the doc or physician's assistant or whoever I saw was, he didn't seem very interested in me or my health at all. So even before any of this started happening, I called a doctor my shrink recommended who he said he's had a good working relationship with, and some of his other patients have seen him, and glowing reviews and blah blah blah, but I can't get into his office until later on in January. So I've got the ball rolling on him, as far as paperwork and whatnot goes. And it's not like I'm languishing half-dead or anything, with a new pill in my daily repertoire.

So there's that. My thyroid is no longer compliant with the rest of my body, which explains why it's more of a pain in the ass than usual just going downstairs and checking my mail.

As for medical advice, I'm sure I'll be hearing some in the near future, as my condition comes up in conversation with people I'll run into while visiting at my mom's during Christmastime. And like most conversations that revolve around me, I'll get sick of it really quick. Everyone's got a story, and everyone has either been through some shit or knows someone else that has the same damn thing you have going on. And suddenly everyone's a doctor, and will tell you exactly how you should treat your new ailment because "it worked for me". Except I'm not you, and I know what works for some people doesn't work for everyone. So I don't often listen to the advice given out from others...and just because you asked me what's going on and I tell you, that's not an open solicitation for your miracle cure. Everyone's concerned for a second until they can turn it around and make it all about them...I could be lying in the street, bleeding from a gunshot wound, and sure as shit someone's gonna come up to me and say "You should put something on that...I got shot last week and rubbed some ragweed and dried apricots directly on the bullet, and I'm running a marathon next month! Lemme tell ya 'bout my guy...". Naw man. Fuck that. I don't wanna hear it. Unless you have a degree, your medical advice is lost on me. I'm not a mechanic, so don't expect me to fix your car when you tell me you got a flat tire. I just...I can't take that shit.

I know I'll hear some genius commentaries soon..."Quit smoking!" "Eliminate sodium from your diet!" "Do some push-ups!" "God hates you and is punishing you because you don't like guns!!1!!!" Save it. No one takes you seriously when you share that pic of the sick kid with the caption "Jesus will cure the world's apathy if this post gets 100,000 likes!", and no deity of your preference is gonna fix me or put a new thyroid under your Xmas tree with my name on it because you prayed about it and posted my face on your Facebook wall asking that we all have a moment of silence. That's not how thy body shall return itself to its normal, quasi-fat and quasi-old and generally miserable condition.

My terms. That's how I'm going out. This won't kill me, and if it does, I'm goin' while doing what I enjoy...I'm not gonna live in fear and take every precaution and brush my teeth and say my prayers every time I step off a curb. If I'm meant to get hit by a truck on the way to a doctor's appointment, so be it. That's life. I could click my heels three times upon achieving a clean bill of health and then keel over from a random heart attack. There are still chicken wings I haven't eaten and supermodels who haven't divorced me. Getting a diagnosis of anything sucks balls. It's a bummer. I've had my day or two of being sad and pissed off about it, so don't be sad and pissed off for me. This is just one more thing I have to deal with in a life full of shit I've had to overcome. Let's not be concerned, and let's not play doctor in the comments section (and I'm sure I'm guilty of passing along home remedies and well-wishes and all that in the past, but this is how I feel and all I ask is that you respect it).

No big thing y'all. Now that I've had my say about it, I'm not gonna bring it up here anymore (unless shit takes a crazy left turn somewhere, which I suppose is a possibility). Let me worry in peace, privately and to myself. Maybe I don't have anything to worry about. And maybe I didn't even tell you this . Carry on.

This is Day Six already of "Invalid Item" ? I've torn up the sheets of music on five other Christmas classics? I still have this and one more to go? I've been, uhhh, distracted a little this week, so forgive me for not knowing how this is gonna turn out...first though, I'm gonna need another reason to stare at Sarah McLachlan playing a guitar for about three and a half minutes.

"The great glad tidings tell."
Lyrics.  

If the internet lived and raged on back in the 1800's when this was written like it does now, there would be haters climbing Christmas trees and decrying our zealot nation hearts regarding Bethlehem by throwing ornament bombs laced with pungent glitter. "Can't give them dirty hippies a home if they don't wanna live where they came from! Dur dur dur guns, dur dur dur premarital sex, dur dur dur what about us dur dur dur." We would be awash in backwards rhetoric and filling our sin bins with all the hatred for things unlike us. Oh wait...we already do that, only it's called a "comments section" and instead of casting away our demons in churches, we use the internet to make ourselves holier than thou. Here's your daily holiday Spam update on another O classic number, as part of the War On Christmas Music.

O Belligerent Town Of Internet

O belligerent town of internet,
how quick we are to judge.
Armed by anonymity
because we hold a grudge,
we can hate and hate and hate
because you're not like us.
Science gave us wondrous things
but this isn't evolution.

For your opinions
I bid you all the shame.
I think I know who you are
and you know my fake name.
Please go on about your cause
and tell me who you blame.
I promise I will share your point
if a hundred do the same.

How magical, so masterful,
that you could quote Fox News!
If it came from MSNBC
you'd swear it wasn't true.
Everyone knows you're out there
yet we don't hear you talk
until the bad stuff happens
and you're the first to squawk.

O belligerent town of internet
why're you the first to blame
all of society's problems
on those who aren't the same?
You're not helping;
in fact you're hurtin' us, kid.
Get off of your high horse
and practice community service.

And while I'm on the topic of keyboard warriorism, could Donald Trump be anything more   than a used-beyond-its-means giant orange-y/pinkish dildo? Good ol' Vlad Putin is an evil sonuvabitch, so when he endorses you for anything you should probably GTFouttaDodge. But your boy with the troll hair tamped down by too many sticky-fingered strokings has embraced Putin's words and again doubled down on his stupidity. Don't fuck with him, man! No need to get into a dick-measuring contest with someone who will lull you into thinking yours is bigger just to cut it off! But what do we expect from this guy? He's not going away, and people are still loving him, more and more. How much crazy do you people need in your lives? I have a few ex-girlfriends I'd like you to meet.

Sorry our conversation last night went batshit awkward and abruptly ended when you mentioned Creedence Clearwater Revival, Charlie ~ . But the truth is, there's just no end to all the happy music that has inundated our lives. It has become the soundtrack to all of our existences, whether we like it or not. What happened to the angry musicians?   Why aren't we more socially in tune with what's happening in the world when we go into a restaurant or store? Where are all the Rage Against The Machines or NWAs? Why is it all about happy now and not justice? Why have we become so spoiled with appeasement and how come no one makes an album today that represents all the world's bullshit that appeals to earholes and music buyers and still has the tenacity to creep into the mainstream? Where's this generation's "Fight The Power"  ? When the world's dysfunction creeps into our everyday lives, why are there so few artists standing against that? Why can't popular music today address issues of violence or governmental injustice in a way that pleases people? Who is suffering more, the general public who turn to music that has softened our souls into indifference, or the artists stifled by the hopes of radio airplay, Spotify spins, and blasé notoriety? Even the old political rants that bent ears in ways to make change don't do it anymore, and eventually we get tired of them and the same shit we turn to that used to make us happy no matter what. And then? It's a cycle the industry hasn't figured out, and doesn't want to, as long as there are dumb hot chicks and dudes who can sell records by singing and saying nothing at all.

And finally, look, like some of you I appreciate a good crime story. Me, not so much in book form, but in internet articles about people and places who aren't like us and where we don't live. It happens all the time, and someday it'll happen in your little peace-burg. And because yay internet and year-end lists are a thing, have a gander at the craziest crimes of 2015  . Maybe someone should find out if Brother Nature and Andre The Blog Monkey are in good graces with other international governments, because it appears that there was a TROOP behind #1, and last I was aware that was Andre's management co.

Ok, well I've said all I need to say for another day, and I really need to get something to eat (if only to get the taste of this entry out my love-filled mouth from all the hugs I've gotten lately just from being me). Peace, cast our sin and enter in, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!