Nachos Interrupted
The absolute worst thing to be eating when you receive a phone call would have to be nachos. Your fingers are covered with melted cheese, guacamole and sour cream and your mouth is filled with a corn chip mush mixed in with salsa. 'Hnrufgh?' you ask, still licking the remaining nacho from your fingers. It's a call informing you that the ambulance that was supposed to pick your father up at his nursing home is two hours early, how quickly can you arrive to escort him to the hospital? 'I'll be an hour at least.' I tell Nora the manager of the nursing home. 'I don't think they'll wait that long.' says Nora.
Dandruff, or something like it, had been slowly taking over Dad's body at the rate that a fast food franchise devours a city. Red, itchy, flaky blotches of skin had been forming all over Dad and we were going to the hospital to find out what up. But the dandruff had me worried. For selfish reasons. I have dandruff. Back in 1692 if you were convicted of owning more than two broomsticks or had excessive dandruff you could be hanged as a witch. And although in this day and age being a 'witch' only means you;
1) are supposed to know what crystals do what,
2) hang out with unemployed lentil-eaters with names like "Solitary" and
3) bitch about how crappy 'Charmed' is
I'd still have dandruff that could one day engulf me.
Dad and I take a cab to the Alfred Hospital, which is about $20.50 away from his nursing home. The conversation is a little stilted. The relationship I have with my father is similar to the relationship Billy Crudup has with Albert Finney in the Tim Burton film Big Fish. In the film Albert Finney plays a lovable guy who tells long-winded stories full of imagery and wonder that, thanks to the brilliance of film magick, unfolds before the eyes of the audience. He is also full of shit. Billy Crudup plays the boring son who has heard the stories so much he's like: 'Just tell me what REALLY happened Dad.' for the whole film.
We get to the hospital just as Dad is finishing his story ('....and THAT'S what a Dirty Sanchez is'). After the breakneck pace we've set running through several red lights to get there we have to wait for an hour and a half in a room full of coughing, hacking, sneezing and slightly deceased patients. We eventually see the Dermatologist- an Asian gentleman who would take a look at Dad's skin and chart for five minutes and then disappear for ten minutes to presumably talk about the Condition but I suspect in truth to discuss other doctorly pursuits like golf or banging nurses. He eventually comes back and says ' I recommend either a beheading or cream to treat your father's Condition.' Dad and I look at each other. 'We'll take the cream.' The Dermatologist seems slightly disappointed. He must be a cat person.
And that was almost it for the hospital visit. I did almost beat up an old lady on the way out. She had parked in such a way that our cab couldn't pull out and there was a traffic jam forming behind us. Before the cab driver, the guy in the van behind us or I could lay the smack down on the old bat ('I DON'T have to move! How DARE you talk to ME that way! No! He HONKED me and I want an APOLOGY!') she grudgingly moved her car and thus deprived me of a cool end paragraph.
Eating things is fun,
Fatman
Dandruff, or something like it, had been slowly taking over Dad's body at the rate that a fast food franchise devours a city. Red, itchy, flaky blotches of skin had been forming all over Dad and we were going to the hospital to find out what up. But the dandruff had me worried. For selfish reasons. I have dandruff. Back in 1692 if you were convicted of owning more than two broomsticks or had excessive dandruff you could be hanged as a witch. And although in this day and age being a 'witch' only means you;
1) are supposed to know what crystals do what,
2) hang out with unemployed lentil-eaters with names like "Solitary" and
3) bitch about how crappy 'Charmed' is
I'd still have dandruff that could one day engulf me.
Dad and I take a cab to the Alfred Hospital, which is about $20.50 away from his nursing home. The conversation is a little stilted. The relationship I have with my father is similar to the relationship Billy Crudup has with Albert Finney in the Tim Burton film Big Fish. In the film Albert Finney plays a lovable guy who tells long-winded stories full of imagery and wonder that, thanks to the brilliance of film magick, unfolds before the eyes of the audience. He is also full of shit. Billy Crudup plays the boring son who has heard the stories so much he's like: 'Just tell me what REALLY happened Dad.' for the whole film.
We get to the hospital just as Dad is finishing his story ('....and THAT'S what a Dirty Sanchez is'). After the breakneck pace we've set running through several red lights to get there we have to wait for an hour and a half in a room full of coughing, hacking, sneezing and slightly deceased patients. We eventually see the Dermatologist- an Asian gentleman who would take a look at Dad's skin and chart for five minutes and then disappear for ten minutes to presumably talk about the Condition but I suspect in truth to discuss other doctorly pursuits like golf or banging nurses. He eventually comes back and says ' I recommend either a beheading or cream to treat your father's Condition.' Dad and I look at each other. 'We'll take the cream.' The Dermatologist seems slightly disappointed. He must be a cat person.
And that was almost it for the hospital visit. I did almost beat up an old lady on the way out. She had parked in such a way that our cab couldn't pull out and there was a traffic jam forming behind us. Before the cab driver, the guy in the van behind us or I could lay the smack down on the old bat ('I DON'T have to move! How DARE you talk to ME that way! No! He HONKED me and I want an APOLOGY!') she grudgingly moved her car and thus deprived me of a cool end paragraph.
Eating things is fun,
Fatman
posted by Fatman | 11:52 am
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