Sonicrusk Blog

I’ve always been blessed with pretty good dental health. When I was in the army, I only visited the dentist a couple of times which is yet another fallacy involving the military. Dental care in the military is provided free of charge, but they make you feel guilty for using it. They also make it a pain in the ass to use and give you appointments for months in advance. I guess all of the best, timelier appointments are used by officer’s bratty young kids.

Lately these past few years, I’ve been going to a dentist recommended by my mom. I didn’t have health insurance until recently so I didn’t visit Mom DDS often. The last time I went, I paid out of pocket because I was worried about some strange pains in my gums. I thought I had cavities rotting my teeth. It turns out that they were not cavities but benign abrasions. Mom DDS did find one cavity during an exam. He said it was in the beginning stages and to schedule an appointment for repair with something called a “composite” that costs two hundred bucks. I went to the receptionist after the exam to make a composite-fixing appointment. It was like making an appointment for a sit down with Jesus. I told Mom DDS that I would get back to them. I knew I would have dental insurance a few months later so I would handle it at that time.

After acquiring dental insurance from my cushy and lucrative nurse job, I found that Mom DDS wasn’t part of the insurance “network” I was now a part of. However, Dad DDS was.

Dad DDS is a friend of the family. I visited him a few times as a kid in the early 1980’s. On my recent visit, I found that he was aloof and arrogant as ever. He has pictures of himself all over the office. As a kid, my brother and I found him to be an incredibly snobby dick.

I walked into his office and found that it hadn’t changed much in eighteen years. His hair had grayed. The office staff had me fill out some paperwork and escorted me to a room filled with DDS fun photographs of himself. What a narcissist.

The doc, who now looks like former Oakland mayor Jerry Brown, walked into the exam room brusquely with a simply “Hey.” He looked at the x-rays of my teeth that were located behind me. He then sat down next to me, ran that pointy metal implement all along my teeth, looked at my gums, and said I was fine. He asked why I had visited, was it for peace of mind? I said I wanted a dentist to visit in case I got a tooth knocked out. He then left the room. His bedside manner hadn’t changed much either since the Reagan era.

Like always, after leaving the office I started thinking about the discrepancies between the two dentist’s assessments. Mom DDS said six months ago that I had a burgeoning cavity. He also said that I had a problem with grinding my teeth. Dad DDS made no mention of either, and proclaimed me to be in excellent dental health. What gives?

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Here I am, getting ready for the night shift.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done it. In fact, I haven’t had to work a graveyard shift since the army. Back then, it was 2100-0500.

Here in Bakersfield, the last time I had to work a graveyard shift was back when I was a bum working crappy jobs at convenience stores. This was about ten years ago.

I kind of forgot how to prepare for a graveyard shift. I stayed up late last night and slept in until 1030. I got into a funk, you could say literally, with when to take a shower. Should I take one right away, or wait until before work? What about being a true freak and taking two showers within a few hours of each other?

Also, eating. I haven’t had to plan out my meals this closely in a long time. If I take no food to work tonight, I have to hope for a chance for a fast food run. Otherwise, I am shit out of luck. Am I going to eat when I come home? After work tomorrow, I will have been awake 21 hours. I probably won’t be much for anything besides hitting the sack.

I have always kind of liked night shifts. Less people, everyone is asleep you can get your work done without any yucksters in your face. There is the business at the beginning, followed by a giant lull. Toward the end of the shift, things pick up again with people waking up and regular folks beginning their day.

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I was leaving work yesterday when I got on the elevator going down. There was already a man in there but I didn’t pay much attention to him. I couldn’t tell you anything about his appearance. There was also a lady that works as a patient transporter.

All three of us went down one floor before the doors opened. The unknown gentleman walked out, leaving behind a distinctive scent that I am familiar with while working in the hospital.

“That guy smells like he’s been chain smoking in a cardboard box,” I said to the transporter.

She didn’t even notice, claiming that with all of the smells wafting around in the place, she had forgotten about that one in particular. Heavy Duty Cigarette Smoke Mixed with Unkempt Person and Dirty Clothing.

It reminds me of a conversation I had last week with a close family friend. For some reason I do not remember, she asked me what the worst smell in the hospital was. I answered quickly: Old Crotch.

I am not necessarily talking about the age of the person who possesses said crotch, or even anything menstrual. I’m talking about that area of a sick person that is sweaty, dank, and possible covered in urine. That is another gross smell of the hospital: Old Urine aka Old Catheter. Mix Old Urine and Old Crotch – the most godawful smell in the world. It even trumps Adult Shit aka Bedside Commode. Urine reeks quickly, and when it is spilled on a bed, inside an adult diaper, a Chux, or all over the bathroom floor, you know it fast. Also, when women try to save their urine for you in the plastic hats. Patient’s urine is always dark yellow because they are usually not well hydrated for a number of reasons including NPO status (no eating or drinking), poor health choices, and simply not drinking enough water.

Another nasty smell is Wound. Sometimes, wounds have drainage or become infected. The smell is awful. Bacteria at work! Hell, biology at work. Nature makes things smell bad so you stay away.

I’ve also heard that lochia stinks. If it does, I must have banished that memory from my mind.
 

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Tonight, I was putting away some clean clothes in the bedroom so I turned on the Dodger game on the bedroom TV for some clean clothes entertainment.

Some entertainment. Los Angeles had the bases loaded. Furcal hit a dribbler to the pitcher that luckily wasn’t a double play. Have no fear; Kenny Lofton came right up and did the same thing. This time, it was a double play. Mr. Scully told the viewers that the Dodgers had the bases loaded with no outs, and got nothing out of it. They must put on some special glasses right before the game, or drink some groovy elixir that makes the San Diego Padres appear to be 15 feet tall ogres or sexy babes with jiggly titties. Los Angeles cannot beat this team.

It reminds me of the last week of 1996. If I remember correctly, LA had the lead going into a four game series against San Diego to close out the season. All they had to do was win one game of the four to win the division. Of course, the Dodgers were swept.

A few nights ago, LA played the awful Cubs whose record is 62-89 (what is that, 27 games under .500?). They had a 7-0 lead in the sixth inning, squandered it, and ended up losing in 11 innings 9-8. I thought it was the perfect microcosm of disappointment the Dodgers have put me through over the past fifteen years.

Pitchers go there to become .500. Hitters go there to hit .250. Everyone goes there to get injured. They must pay the million dollar contracts with heavy bricks of gold strapped to player’s backs. Once those fat contracts are signed, tendons dissolve. Only in LA. This doesn’t mention the awful trades LA has made.

Delino Deshields for Pedro Martinez
John Wetteland for Eric Davis
Paul Konerko for Jeff Shaw

Just wanted to blow off some steam. The Dodgers are about to lose to the Padres again.

EDIT: SWEET HOLY JESUS THE DODGERS HIT FIVE HOME RUNS IN THE LAST TWO INNINGS TO WIN 11-10.

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I am way behind the times, man!

For my entire life, I have had a pretty structured way of handling my finances. For the most part, I pay for everything with cash. I rarely make big purchases, and since the age of the Internet, most large purchases have been over the web using a credit card. For food, gas, clothes, and other goods bought at brick and mortar places, it has been cash or a credit card that I would pay off each month. I only use checks for bills.

I didn’t buy into the check card frenzy because I thought I might go hogwild with spending. Also, I have been out socially with groups of people that only carry check cards and no cash. We end up having to get separate checks and I feel bad for the server. Or, everyone has cash and one lone person has a check card. Everyone then gives their cash to the cardholder who gets stuck with the large bill. This also means that the cardholder decides the tip. You might be paying for a portion of the cardholder’s meal or drinks if they are cheap and give a paltry tip.

My mom, dad, and sister sing the praises of their check cards. For those of you that don’t know, a check card spends like a credit card except the dollar amount is taken directly out of your checking account. Check cards are affiliated with major credit card companies; whoever accepts that credit card also accepts your check card.

As I am making more money now, I find that I want more things. I want to eat at restaurants more. I want more things and better food. I don’t want to go to the ATM ten billion times. I want to go to the store and buy something for $40 bucks and not have to stop by the ATM first. I also don’t want to keep charging things onto my Mastercard and seeing those large bills every month. It feels like play money, notional numbers. Wee, numbers, fun!

So I went to the bank today and got a check card. According to the teller, the ATM portion of it works but it will take a couple of days before the credit card portion is activated, so I am thinking Monday. Still, I don’t see myself going to Cindy’s or some other place with a bunch of friends and being one of those Check Card Holders with zip cash in their wallet/purse. I just want to be able to buy Lost Season One when I am on the town and the impulse is too strong.

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I just finished watching the last three episodes of the HBO series Deadwood. Those of you that read this blog regularly know that I am a great fan of this show. I believe it would be hard for anyone to argue that it is not the best show on television.

But for how long? The news is that, minus a couple of two-hour movies, the show will end after only three seasons. Costs are apparently high; HBO doesn’t want to fork over the dough.

This is the only television program that really requires multiple viewing. The dialogue is amazing, yet rich and serpentine in its delivery. I’ve joked that I am going to buy the series set and watch it with the closed captioned feature on, reading along with the dialogue. I’ve seen every episode, but for a handful, only one time.

So Hearst left camp? What of Hawkeye’s men? What of the Chinese, the Pinkertons? Why did Al acquiesce to him so much in those last few episodes of season three?

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I went into the break room at work last week to find one of the traveling nurses talking with someone else about Bakersfield. The nurse is from South Africa and has a thick Afrikaans accent. For those of you that don’t know, an Afrikaans accent can be easily recognized and imitated by thinking of the world’s worst English accent. It will sound dead-on like the South African language.

The South African was telling the co-worker how much she liked Bakersfield. I inquired further and she said, “Yeah, I like it here.” My sinister laugh boomed inside of my sinister mind. The vortex had ensnared another victim.

For those of you that have lived in Bakersfield for a long time, you know what I am talking about. Bakersfield rarely gives up citizens. People don’t leave this town once arriving. If they do, they always come back. It should be an episode of The Twilight Zone. Here are some examples from my own life:

- I grew up in Bakersfield, and then went to the army for four years. I came back to go to college. Still here.
- My dad’s girlfriend moved to Bishop for about a year for a higher-paying job. She returned and bought a house with my dad.
- The Baby Nurse from Nebraska, who I have talked to and met, digs this town. Snared.
- My friend Boody went to college in the LA area for four years, and came back. Still here.
- My friend Chuck is from the LA area. His plan was to go to school here in town and then return to his hometown. He met a Bakersfield girl, fell in love, and bought a house. Still here.
- Number Six. He left for the Air Force for four years. Came back, and is still here as far as I know.
- My friend John went to school in LA for a couple of years. Came back. Still here.

I find myself assisting the sinister forces in ensnaring more victims. My friend Hoat visited once, and thought it was nice. He said he wouldn’t mind living here. I then touted all of the good points of the city. My buddy Adam can’t afford to buy a house in Northern California. I said, “Why don’t you buy a cheaper place down here?”

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“They’re so damn worried about a slogan and a sign, downtown gaslamps, and running out rock culture when downtown looks like a 1970s episode of Emergency, with big side burns on the buildings and everything.”

That’s a great line from a post today at N.L. Belardes blog about the persecution of Bakersfield clubs in relation to live music. Town bigwigs get paranoid and close down establishments whenever something goes slightly awry.  Live music venues are among the innocent bystanders. Unless, of course, you are talking about Jerry’s Pizza.

I don’t know. I do know that after the Rockin’ Rodeo shootout and even back to the famous choke-out at the old Downtown Joes, there have been these unfortunate events right before a perpetual closing. It threw law enforcement into a tizzy. Now, someone gets a paper cut at The Manhattan and they close the place down. It’s getting ridiculous. As I said at N.L.’s, the bigwigs must want us to stay at home listening to Christian rock on the boombox while procreating that second child. Virtually every woman I meet between 25-30 has two kids. Always.

On a different note, I took out my 1989 stamps from the Time Capsule, and laid them out for ogling. I had more than I thought. Brought back memories. I also saw how I fucked some of them up back at age 14. I remembered that I separated some with scissors instead of the provided perforation. Dumb. For those who care, the picture is below.

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Here is it September 7th, and I have been pretty much cigarette free for five weeks. I thought I’d give an update, just for fun.

I’ve been using the patch as directed on the back of the box. For the first four weeks, I placed a different 21 mg disc to a different section of clean, hairless skin on my upper torso. After four weeks, I decreased to the 14 mg patch, which is smaller in circumference and diameter.

I have placed about 40 patches onto my body for 40 consecutive days. It sounds like punishment from God, and in a dermatological sense, it is. I have many circular marks on my skin ranging from red to faded brown where a different patch each day eked out a morsel of nicotine to my dopamine receptors. When I am shirtless, it looks like Roger Clemens spent an hour hurling fastballs at my torso, red circles all over my chest, arms, and back.

I have fell off the wagon and smoked a few cigarettes. Before I headed up to San Francisco, I put the patch on my right side, grabbed my back pack, and jumped into my car for the 4-5 hour trip north.

When I got downtown, before getting to highway 99 from the east, my skin burned. I pulled over to a side street, pulled up my shirt, and looked at the freshly applied patch. I had applied it near an area of skin sensitive and a little ate up from a previous application a few days before. So I removed that patch, folded it up and got back on the road.

I felt kind of crappy. Long drives without any nicotine drive you crazy, especially along the long expanse of I-5. I thought about my options. I could stop somewhere and buy a box of patches, some nicotine gum, or lozenge for $30-40. Hell no, not for those prices. I didn’t want to smoke, so I stopped in Kettleman City and bought some Cherry Skoal.

I am not well-versed or practiced with smokeless tobacco. I put in a big dip between by lip and gum. My head buzzed with satisfaction and nicotine satiety. I kept swallowing the tobacco juice so I got the hiccups. I stopped off at a rest stop and saw an old guy smoking a long white cigarette. I politely asked for one, and he produced a pack of Doral Menthols out of his pocket. Not the best, but I smoked it anyway, and it tasted pretty good. I then got on the road and dipped Skoal a few more times until I arrived.

That night, after watching the Dodgers get pummeled, and drinking beer, toward the end of the night I broke down and bought a pack of cigarettes, smoking a couple. I left the pack at my buddy’s place. I also tossed out the Skoal. Since then, I have smoked a Prime Time cigarillo and a bummed cigarette from my pseudo brother-in-law.

So what is that, four cigarettes in five weeks? Not too bad. As to anyone who is still appalled by that consumption, I don’t care.

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Earlier this year, I wrote an obscure post featuring a blurb about my wayward brother and how he passed the GED. He felt that all the typing he has done related to the Internet helped him to successfully complete the essay portion of that test, even though that typing consisted of instant messages and email.

I was thinking recently about this. Let’s say the year is 1995. How much writing did you do? Any writing, whether it was fiction, journaling in a paper book, or letters to loved ones. Before I got my first computer in 1999, I’d write the occasional email from the army post library, or paper letters sent out through the USPS. That was grade A production compared to most people I knew. They didn’t write anything at all for months at a time.

That’s my point. Before the convenience and beneficial gradualness of the web, people hardly wrote unless they were Jeffersonian letter writers, or writers by trade, hobby, or profession. Now, even if they don’t realize it, people write everyday if they have computers and an Internet connection. They write emails, post responses on favorite forums, chat rooms, and post comments on blogs. Speaking of blogs, I never would’ve written as much as I do if all of this went into a paper notebook from Long’s Drugs, or on the hard drive of a Commodore. I write 100X more because of the Internet in virtually every medium. I even write more paper letters to people.

To me, this is one of the greater benefits of the web. People write more, and can’t help to improve.

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