I went to the doctor the other day for my annual physical (which I’ve got down to once every two years). The nurse told me my urine looked good. “Well, gee, thank you.” These are the kinds of compliments you get once get past 50, I guess. Not, “you have nice eyes,” or even “I love the way your silver hair sparkles under these fluorescent lights.” Just, “hey, good-looking urine you got there, pops.” Well, I guess you take what you can get.

I really don’t like going to doctors (I suppose most people would say the same, though I think it’s a social activity and source of conversation for some people). Nothing personal against my doctor, of course – she seems nice enough. Better than most I’ve encountered over my years of working (albeit peripherally) in healthcare industry. The only professionals that come close to rivaling the arrogance of physicians are (please forgive me for saying this, Kat) attorneys. And the lawyers aren’t even close (I’ve met many more normal, down-to-earth – or at least pleasant – lawyers than I have doctors – there were some law professors who were real pieces of work though).

Of course, when you’re the patient (as opposed to some worker bee, who, clearly, must be an idiot because otherwise you’d be a doctor, after all), most doctors at least pretend the mere sight of you doesn’t fill them with disdain, which I guess is good enough (just don’t think you’re fooling anybody, ya bastids).

The main problem with doctors of course, is that they’re all a bunch of goddamn perverts (worse than nurses, and that’s saying a lot). You’re lucky if you get to “hi, how ya doin'” before they’re trying to stick their finger up your ass (not judging anybody, if that’s your thing. I just prefer to get to know somebody a little better first).

But, apparently, I’m a man “at that age” (a phrase I’ve truly begun to detest) where these perverts feel justified in snapping on the ol’ glove and poking around. And it seems the doc isn’t content to just feel around up there, but is now clamoring for pictures, because she’s insisting that I get a colonoscopy, for which it seems I’m not only “at” the age, but rather well beyond it.

So now I’ve got to go for a “screening” on Thursday morning, where I assume they’ll ask me all the questions I’ve already answered on the form I already mailed back to them, hand me a gallon jug of some vile concoction designed to make me shit myself inside out, and then charge me (and my insurance company) some ridiculous amount of money to go and sit and wait so some NP can talk to me for two minutes.

So, one day – a vacation day, at that – shot to hell. Though of course that’s the easy part. I’ll be wasting another day eating lime jello and sitting on the toilet (thank goodness they invented laptops and WiFi – I only wish I had room for the PlayStation in there), and another day getting a goddamn roto-rooter shoved up my ass.

Well, I’ll try anything once. But if I don’t have colon cancer, they’re not getting me to do this again.

They want to gradually ease me into a post-retirement life the revolves around doctor’s appointments, invasive medical procedures, and, if I’m lucky, the early bird special at the diner. No good food, though. And no beer. No fun allowed.

Friday will be even worse, unfortunately, as it’s dog #2’s (of three) turn at the vet. Another vacation day down the tubes, but I suppose it’s better than working, and he isn’t due for anything too terrible. I just wish I knew the trick to getting them to get on the scale, because I’m getting a little too old (and they’re all getting a little to big – Friday’s candidate was 85 pounds last year, and he sure as hell hasn’t gotten any smaller) for that shit.

Today was supposed to be a work-from-home day for me, but because life sucks and then you die (after a few years spent rotting in doctor office waiting rooms), the remote connection to my workplace wasn’t working (never fear – as soon as I got here, they fixed it). Once I realized I’d have to go to into the office, I had to hurry up with my coffee and breakfast and shower and all that so I could make it to the bust stop on time. Oh, and did I mention it was about 30 degrees and snowing?

Sometimes, it just doesn’t seem worth it, you know?

Today is Friday the 13th, as you’ve probably heard. The 13 part doesn’t mean much to me (plenty of actual bad shit out there without worrying about some silly superstition), but I like the Friday part. This is the day when I eschew public transportation and treat myself to driving in to work and arriving at the convention center garage in time for the Early Bird Special – in before 9 AM, and it’s “only” $5 for the whole day. Since the five bucks is only slightly more than the $3.60 cost of two rides on the old bus pass, I figure it doesn’t break the bank. Although when you figure in the cost of a couple of gallons of gas, it’s more like ten bucks. But I can usually sneak out a little early on Fridays, and it’ worth it to not be trapped here until the next bus comes (they don’t exactly run frequently out the boonies where I live; I’m thinking of moving to “Out of Service, NY.” I don’t know where it is, but there seems to be a bus heading there every five minutes).

The other exciting thing about the trip is that I get to walk through the convention center, which is currently hosting the United States Bowling Congress Open Championships – which runs from the end of March until July or something, and appears to be a very big deal.

I’m not really all that into the world of bowling (though back when I was a kid and there were only three teevee channels, I certainly watched the Pro Bowlers Tour on ABC – hosted by Chris Schenkel and Nelson Burton Jr. – with the likes of Earl Anthony, Mark Roth, Dick Weber, and Billy Hardwick), but just being around all those magnificent athletes (and their snazzy outfits)….

I feel kinda sorry for the participants, personally. It’s no Buffalo, but Syracuse is certainly a prime spot for folks to bowl (I mean, with eight months of winter, it’s a great excuse to get out and drink beer, as opposed to staying home and drinking beer). But it doesn’t really seem like much of a place for those who bowl to get away to. Not much of a prize for reaching the pinnacle of your sport, if you know what I mean.

“Congratulations, you’ve won an all-expenses paid trip to Syracuse, NY! In March! Just in time for pothole season!”

Yay?

Still, they have like 48 lanes set up, and while it costs money to go and watch (I assume), the whole place has that bowling alley smell to it (like, lane wax and sweat with a hint of stale beer) and walking through the lobby in the afternoon you can hear that unmistakable roar of the allies. Kinda like the Daytona 500, only, I dunno, woodier.

Brings back memories.

Back when I was in showbiz, there wasn’t a lot to do by the time the movies ended, so on the weekends a bunch of projectionists, theatre managers, ushers, usherettes, and candy boys and girls would converge on Flamingo Lanes to roll a few (balls, that is – we projectionists and managers would typically have rolled – and smoked – a few on the ride over) and have a few plastic cup-fulls of shitty beer. And if you got a strike when there was a lilac head pin, you got, um, something or other. A free game I think. I forget, but I remember it was fun.

Back in those days, we’d stay out all night and sleep all day. Unless we had to open for those godless matinees (afternoon Disney movies were a killer with a hangover). Who’d have thought I’d be getting up earlier nowadays than I made it home back then (no joke – finally decided to quit pretending I was sleeping and got up at 3:14 this morning)?

Then again, who’d have thought that Ronald Reagan would actually be looking good as President, compared to what we’ve got now?

Yep, sure doesn’t need to be Friday the 13th to be scary anymore.

As I prepared myself to face another mind-numbing day at the salt mines, I had a hankering to listen to “Merry Christmas From the Family” by Robert Earl Keene. It probably had something to do with the fact that I awoke to a winter wonderland this morning, with heavy snow and blustery winds. It certainly felt more like the week after Christmas than the week after Easter. So I said, “hey google, play Merry Christmas From the Family,” which google dutifully did. And then google decided to go on and play about 20 minutes worth of bluegrass and country versions of Christmas songs, as I brushed my teeth and watched the snow fall. All I needed was a yule log.

Google seems to fixate on one particular genre of music at a time. Left to its own devices (as in, “hey google, play music”), it uses some sort of algorithm based, I guess, on time of day and where I’m at and what I’ve listened to before. Despite the fact that I have a relatively diverse taste in music, it seems to think I want to listen to one specific genre at a time.

For instance, it often thinks I only want to listen to geezer music (can’t imagine where it gets that idea from). Or because I often listen to what I guess you could call “roots” music, it will decide that all I want to hear is Country and Western music (which, frankly, I do not). Some days it actually does a very good job of picking what I want to listen to, but if it settles in on something annoying (one morning it seemed to think I wanted to listen to what I’m guessing is classified as “urban contemporary” – not sure, really. I’m old and out of the loop on what the kids are listening to these days, which is one reason I’ve been totally uninterested in the Grammy’s for the past 30 or more years), I have to think of a song that fits my mood, and it will kind of take over from there.

Normally I wouldn’t care for X-mas music, but there was something therapeutic about having it on while watching the snow fall – especially the bluegrass stuff. More snow forecast for tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll ask for James Brown’s “Santa Claus Go Straight To The Ghetto” and see where that takes me.

Cynthia Nixon is coming to our fair city for a visit today, which our lo-cal paper says is the first for her since she announced her campaign for governor. I’m willing to bet it’s the first for her – ever. No doubt her advisers told her she needed to get up here and kiss some hillbilly ass. I hope she likes snow. And cold. It’s in the 20s here, but the windchill makes it feel like it’s about 10°.

I’m trying to take a Zen attitude, personally. Though it’s not really working. Not only am I exhausted beyond words by this cold, shitty, snowy weather, but it’s really pissing me off and although I know it’s irrational, I’m taking it personally.

I mean, enough already, for chissakes. Isn’t Trump bad enough, the weather’s gotta suck, too?