The Britain Trip - Part Two: PARTY!!!

(Or, Tequila and Trampolines Don't Mix)

I awoke the next day (Friday) to pigeons doing their best Keith Richards impressions outside my window and decided it was an opportune time to whiz. When I emerged from the loo, however, I discovered my five-year-old niece, Sadie BumBum, standing in the hallway. She seemed uncertain about confronting a disheveled stranger in her toilet who had not been there when she went to bed the night before. To her credit, though, she just stood there, staring.

Groggily, I said, "Good morning, Sadie. I'm your Auntie Anne. Do you remember me?"

Probably not, because she continued to stare mutely.

"I'm going to stay with you for a while, is that okay?"

She nodded and bolted for her room, so I returned to mine and tried to sleep off the jet lag and all the beer from the night before.

Friday was a quiet day of preparation for the century's grandest 40th birthday bash. Stoo was expecting half of the U.K. to show up, or he must have been, judging by the amount of booze he laid in for the occasion. Hard liquor included scotch, vodka (several flavours), rum (spiced and un), Jack Daniels, sherry, vermouth, gin, tequila, Southern Comfort, and some hideous cinnamon and sour shots. Blech. Softer drinks included white, red and rose wines, ciders (Magners and two kinds of Strongbow), and various beers. With the exception of Corona, none of them were shitty beers, either. And all of these were available in quantity. I can honestly say, I have never seen this much booze assembled outside of a professional establishment, before or since.

Shmee, my sister, took us into the town of Brentwood, where we had lunch at The Merchant. My smoked mackerel and salmon pate was fucking amazing. In fact, I will say this about eating in Britain; forget eveything you've ever heard about shitty British cuisine. It simply isn't true. We had the most delectable meals during our time in the U.K., whether it was good old fish and chips or curries or locally produced cheeses...it didn't matter. The food was fantastic, and at least where we were, there was enormous emphasis placed on growing and eating both locally and fresh.


The Chapel of St. Thomas Becket

It was also in Brentwood where I saw my first proper medieval building. The St. Thomas Becket Chapel was established in 1221, and constructed of dressed limestone and flint. It is mostly a ruin now, but I was enthralled. I touched it, sniffed it, admired it; I almost licked it. Still, it's been standing for 800 years and thought I might run he chance of contracting the Plague, so declined.

The next day, Shmee went off to have her hairs did, and in her absence, we decorated the house and yard. Or yards, rather, as the fence separating Stoo and Shmee's backyard from that of Stuart and Wendy Brooks was removed to make one big party palace. Again, Stoo went all out. There were so many Canadian flags in the garden, one could be forgiven for thinking it was Canada Day! Only, there was no Bryan fucking Adams or shitty beer, thank ghod.

People started arriving around 3:00 p.m. By that time, the bartenders had arrived and were busy pouring copious amounts of booze down the throats of partygoers. The caterer was working on getting the grills hot so that we could indulge ourselves in chicken, sausages, burgers, and lamb. The weather was gorgeous, probably the hottest day we had throughout our trip (in contrast, it snowed that day in Canada. That's right, it fucking snowed in fucking August).

Things were blasting along. There was food.


Stoo orders the help about

There was drink.


John Smith, I love you.

There was live entertainment.


Mr. Dan Evans, ladies and gents.

There was dancing.


Me and the gallant Mr. Stuart Brooks. I'd emigrate for this man.

There was cake. A beautiful cake. 


Canada represents, eh?

There were no obvious douchebags. It was glorious. The party was only missing one essential ingredient... 


Mariachi Fiesta!

Yes. Stoo's final surprize was a mariachi band.

And the appearance of the mariachi band resulted in unbridled enthusiasm, which took the form of Shmee running from guest to guest saying, "There's a fucking mariachi band in my fucking garden for my fucking birthday!!!" 

"There's a fucking mariachi band in my fucking garden for my fucking birthday!"

The band played many of the mariachi standards, including "La Cucaracha" and "La Bamba," and, inevitably, "Tequila". Now, I haven't been on speaking terms with tequila for many years, not since a house party where I got so loaded on shots that I publicly opined that if a certain ADHD stepson couldn't be medicated, educated or otherwise modified in his behaviour, I should be allowed to eat him. I meant it satirically, a la Jonathan Swift, but my satire was not appreciated, least of all by his mother. Tequila is a bad influence.

But when there is a fuckin' mariachi band in your sister's fuckin' garden on her fuckin' birthday playing fuckin' "Tequila", and you're in the U fuckin' K, you fuckin' do tequila shots with your fuckin' sister and her fuckin' awesome friends. Possibly it can be said I didn't need to do quite so many. However, it was absolutely worth it to see how impressed the bar staff were by the fact that I was still standing after the last one. And believe me, the Brits are a hard drinking race of people.

Certainly, I didn't need to then crawl onto the kids' trampoline and thrash about trying to grab their toes while they screamed. That wasn't my wisest decision. I don't know how long it lasted, but I do vaguely recall stopping before I spewed everywhere. And at some point, Wendy Brooks and I were reclining on the trampoline with a little boy of about four, looking up at the mild British night.

It was, as Stoo, would say, the nuts.

Next Episode: London and the British Museum

The Britain Trip - Part One: Arrival

On August 19, the Fragrant Missus and I flew to the U.K. to visit my sister and celebrate her 40th birthday. This was a sooper sekrit plan and had been months in the making, as her husband, Stoo, had started planning it shortly after the New Year. It was agony, keeping it to ourselves for five whole months, but we did it, and what follows over the next little while is a chronicle of our 17 days in Britain and Paris. Some of the writing here has appeared already on my Facebook page, but bear with me--there will be additional info and some photos here that didn't appear during my very sporadic updates during the trip.

We flew out on Iceland Air. It was a six-and-a-half hour flight over Canada's tundra into Keflavik, Iceland. It was a bizarre experience being on a flight on which English was not the primary language. It was like travelling with Vikings. In fact, when the Fragrant Missus asked me for a translation, I said, "We come from the land of the ice and snow where the midnight sun and the hot springs flow." Then I added, "Duh."

Anyway, the flight was excellent. There were lots of movies to watch and a trio of tall, slender, angular flight attendants. The only challenge was the security line up in Keflavik, which took so long that our connecting flight to London Heathrow was in its final boarding call by the time we made it upstairs. I was tired and cranky and prepared to go all Erik the Viking on someone, but it was all good in the end.

Two and a half hours later, we touched down in London at precisely noon. Our flight was required to circle over north London for about ten minutes prior to landing. My sister lives in Kelvedon Hatch, a borough of Brentwood, which is also north of London. By this time, I was quite anxious to get off the plane. We hadn't slept a wink, and were sore, cramped, exhausted and starving. I just wanted Inga (or Helga or Olga) to give us a pair of fucking parachutes. But apparently that meant we' d bypass British Security, so that wasn't on.

I will say this about the British Security services--they were well-dressed, efficient and pleasant. This, in direct contrast to the lazy, rude, slovenly and obviously bored Canadian security personnel. British Security were dressed in uniforms with ties and  crisply ironed shirts - the Canadian security services were wearing bulletproof vests. Seriously. Britain has actually been subject to international terrorist attacks - Canada not so much. Any excuse to be dramatic, I guess.

Anyway, we were collected by Stoo, who drove us to the home of his friends and neighbours, Wendy and Stuart Brooks.We were to wait there for a few hours before the unveiling of the big surprize! Driving out of London along the M25 took a bit of getting used to. This driving-on-the-left thing. is fucked up. Also, the British cheerfully blast two vehicles headlong down a lane that is properly only meant for one. It is initially very poop-in-the-pants inducing.

We made it to Kelvedon Hatch with no incident and dozed for a while until Wendy and Stuart took us over to The Shepherd. Anticipation and spirits were high as Stoo and Terri approached! This was the culmination of five months of planning!!! Almost a half a year of waiting! She had no clue! How would she react???

There's a video on Facebook that I lack the technical skill to post here, but it was fucking brilliant, as they say. 

This may come as no particular surprize to any of you, but I got absolutely faced that night. I had two beers at the Brookses before heading over to The Shepherd, where we had two more. After that, we stumbled across the road to The Bongow for a sumptuous curry. Seriously, this was fantastic food, and the serving staff actually addressed Stoo as "guvnor". Of course, there was more beer and champagne, and combined with being up for about 24 hours, I got really, really shitty. I mean, when we finally got to bed, I hit those sheets harder than Dale Earnhardt. 

And there's no telling how long I might have slept, but around 6:00 a.m., the pigeons outside the window started. At first, I thought it was rather charming, but after 20 minutes, I was fantasizing about powerful hand cannons and a lot of dead fucking pigeons. Have you ever noticed that pigeons sound an awful lot like the backing vocals to the Stones' "Sympathy For the Devil"? It's impossible to sleep through this incessant "whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo/whoo-hoo".

And they have ruined this song for me utterly. So if there are douchebags in this story, it is the pigeons. Fuckers.


Next Post: The Most Epic. Party. Evar.

Stampede Douchebaggery

Get comfy. This is a long one, kids, but I can't stay silent any longer.

Well, it’s Stampede time again and both traditional and social media are abuzz with lively debate over the ethics of rodeo.  The Calgary Stampede is a shit show for a number of reasons; although the agricultural exhibits are educational and authentic, the rest of it is, as usual, a forum for douchebags to manifest their douchebaggery. A group of people were caught (and filmed and posted on YouTube!) having sex publicly. Of greater concern, three men were stabbed the other night and one remains in hospital in critical condition.  None of this makes the Stampede any different from any other large event, such as the CNE or Edmonton’s K-Days or what have you. People in large groups gonna be douchebags.

What sets the Stampede apart from these other events is the rodeo. Already this year, two horses have been euthanized due to accidents during the chuckwagon races. Every year, there are equine fatalities resulting from this blood sport, which, I might add, is NOT a traditional cultural activity. Cowboys never raced their chuckwagons—this is a purely modern invention, aimed at bringing tourist dollars onto the Stampede Grounds, and the animals suffer for it.

Invariably, after an accident/fatality on the track, there is enormous outcry from those who are justifiably horrified by the carnage. And invariably, the rodeo supporters respond with their usual bullshit excuses. Let’s look at some of these excuses in detail, shall we?

“We love our animals and would never hurt them intentionally. They’re like members of our own families.”

Oh, bullshit. I don’t doubt for a moment that on some level the “cowboys” care for these horses, but if they truly loved them, they would not expose them to so much potential danger. *That’s* what love is. The chuckwagon competitors care for these animals insomuch as the horses can win them a shit-ton of money; the Rangeland Derby offers a 1.15 million dollar purse to the winner. These boys have their eyes on the prize, and the horses are insured, so their losses (i.e. deaths) are factored into the overall costs of competing. The horses aren’t family members—they are commodities for which the competitors have some fondness. Mostly because the animals are useful and compliant.

“These animals are failed race horses. At least the chuckwagon races give them a few more years of life.”

It is beyond the scope of this blog to go into all the ways in which horse racing is also abusive and deadly, but this comment strikes me as kinda twisted. It is akin to saying, “Well, they couldn’t make it in one dangerous activity about which they never had any choice, so we’re gonna give them the gift of doing something else equally as dangerous. Because life is sacred, isn’t it?”

And it is actually the sacredness of life that is at the core of this debate. Rodeo protesters see animals less as commodities and more as sentient individuals who deserve the same respect and consideration as our human brothers and sisters. Rodeo apologists? Not so much. Again, these animals are commodities. They are “just” cows, “just” steers, “just” horses. Hell, if they weren’t in the rodeo, they’d be on somebody’s plate next to the potatoes. Right?

“Have you ever been behind the scenes at a rodeo? This is not abuse! The animals are cared for by veterinarians and are treated like gold!”

So, let’s look at the fact that none of these creatures have any agency whatsoever in terms of the rodeo. None of these animals choose to participate. This is a wholly human endeavour, and for a pile of cash, I might add. Over two million dollars in prize money is up for grabs in the various rodeo events, some of which include bronc and bull riding and the ever-controversial calf roping. 

And as for the rodeo events not being abusive, what is benign about this? 

Or this?

Or this?

How does one watch this egregious violence and not see it as exactly that?

And sure, I have absolutely no doubt that the livestock is cared for extremely well while they are part of the rodeo circuit—where is the glory in spending eight seconds aboard a tired old nag with open sores and hooves that need trimming? Obviously, it is good showmanship (and a stroke to your sad cowboy ego) to subdue a fiery, powerful beast with rage in his eyes. Yanno, the Romans and American plantation owners took care of their property, too, because their economies depended on it. Yes, their economies were dependent on slavery, which is precisely what these animals are. These animals are nothing better than gladiators, and they suffer injury, trauma and death for the amusement of humans.

“If it wasn’t for rodeo, a lot of these animals would die out.”

This argument is total shite. We don’t bait bulls anymore, but the bulldog didn’t go extinct. What the fuck kind of argument is that? And besides, because the animals are viewed as commodities rather than living creatures deserving of respect, we regularly see horses sold at auction for $25.00 to who knows who? And lets not forget the news reports we read of farm animals in need of rescue from some pasture where they have been allowed to starve or freeze to death. Perhaps fewer animals is exactly what is called for here, if we cannot care for them humanely.

Regardless of the care that is lavished on the livestock all the rest of the year, rodeo is neither humane nor ethical. Defenders of the activity (it is not a sport—a sport is between two consensual parties) point to the low injury rate during the actual events as evidence that rodeo is safe and humane. "An article from the January 15, 2001 Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association noted that a survey found only 15 animals injured in 26,584 performances of 21 PRCA rodeos – a 0.00041 percent rate.[14] A 2000 survey conducted by independent veterinarians at 57 PRCA rodeos found 38 animal injuries in 71,743 animal exposures,[15] and a 1994 survey conducted by on-site independent veterinarians at 28 sanctioned rodeos involving 33,991 animal runs documented the injury rate at .00047 percent, or less than five-hundredths of one percent.[6] A study of rodeo animals in Australia found a similar injury rate. Basic injuries occurred at a rate of 0.072 percent, or one in 1405, with injuries requiring veterinary attention at 0.036 percent, or one injury in every 2810 times the animal was used, and transport, yarding and competition were all included in the study.[7] A later PRCA survey of 60,971 animal performances at 198 rodeo performances and 73 sections of "slack" indicated 27 animals were injured, again approximately five-hundredths of 1 percent — 0.0004.[5]"

That being said, however, the study does not include practice time, where the public is not on hand to observe and where the cowboy is not accountable to anyone but himself for the treatment of the animal, which is easily replaced by another. The ASPCA reports that practice sessions “are often the scene of more severe abuses than competitions”.

It is also worth noting that there are no more recent studies of rodeo animal treatment than the 1994 study. Rodeo is a lucrative business adamantly opposed to transparency, because it is founded on the blood and gore of domesticated animals. The bulls and the broncs are given dramatic names to perpetuate the myth that they are enraged, dangerous creatures. In reality, they are driven to fury with electric prods, flank straps, sharpened sticks, spurs and other tack, all so the spectators can have the thrilling show they paid for.

Finally, here are the words of two American veterinarians who I will permit to have the final say on this subject.  E.J. Finocchio, DVM wrote the Rhode Island legislature urging a ban on calf roping: "As a large animal veterinarian for 20 years...I have witnessed first hand the instant death of calves after their spinal cords were severed from the abrupt stop at the end of a rope when traveling up to 30 mph. I have also witnessed and tended calves who became paralyzed...and whose tracheas were totally or partially severed...Slamming to the ground has caused rupture of several internal organs leading to a slow, agonizing death for some of these calves."

And also, C.J. Haber, a veterinarian with 30 years experience as a USDA meat inspector notes, "The rodeo folk send their animals to the packing house where...I have seen cattle so extensively bruised that the only areas where the skin was attached [to the body] was the head, neck, legs, and belly. I have seen animals with six to eight ribs broken from the spine and at times puncturing the lungs."

Rodeo is not humane, it is not ethical. It is exploitive and cruel and deadly, and if you attend the Calgary Stampede, you are supporting that.

Rodeo is douchebaggery.

Death by douchebaggery

Canada Day Douchebaggery

Yesterday, my glorious nation celebrated 148 years of Confederacy. It was a gorgeous day, and in the evening, thousands of my fellow Canadians of all colours and creeds from all walks of life gathered in the river valley under a full coppery moon to watch the fireworks. It was an impressive display and from our vantage point high above the crowd on the balcony of the Fragrant Missus's office, everyone seemed to be having a really good time.

But you know that this was only an illusion, because some douchebag will always drop a turd in the punch bowl and ruin it for someone else. To whit...

The Fragrant Missus, Stone Knight and I lingered for awhile, waiting for the crowds and the traffic to disperse. When we judged we could navigate the streets without much delay, we got in the car and headed home. Unfortunately, we only got as far as the corner when douchebaggery struck!

I pulled up to the corner and signaled to turn right. I checked for pedestrians and saw, shambling in our direction, an example of the Common Drunken Asshole (ebrius anus vulgaris), at large in his native habitat. I could clearly see he was going to ask us for money, which is what this species usually wants, but this one was giving off a menacing air. So, although it was a very warm evening, I put up the windows and hunkered down behind the steering wheel as if the city street had suddenly become an African Safari Park. 

Through the closed window, I indicated to ebrius anus v. that he should move along. I was assertive, but not yet hostile. Sexual activity with himself in another location was not yet suggested. However, ebrius anus was not open to dialogue and in a fit of pique, he smashed his fist onto the hood of my car, yelling incoherently. At this point, I ran out of patience; it was the end of a long, hot, busy day and I was tired and sweaty and just wanted to go home and not have my evening hijacked by some fucking cumbubble with nothing better to do than assault me and my vehicle over the issue of loose change.

I raised my voice and used some very assertive language with very specific instructions attached and put the car in gear, intending to go past him towards home. Ebrius anus, however, threw himself on the pavement in front of my tires, yelling, "Call the cops, I've been hit! Call the cops!"

The Fragrant Missus reached over from the passenger seat and began to honk the horn repeatedly. This drew the attention, not only of numerous bystanders (who did fuck all, I might add; thanks, dickbags) but also two cops on bikes. By now I was in a thunderous mood because I thought the cops would want a statement from me, thereby delaying my trip home. But no; they picked ebrius anus up off the road and and waved us on.

A little further on, we saw yet another display of douchebaggery in the form of two young males of the variety Angry Dick Bags (irratus penis sacculos). These surly cocksuckers vented their spleen by throwing a full, unopened can of soda at the garbage can, thus spraying pop friggin' everywhere, and then proceeding to kick the shit out of said garbage can. I suppose, relatively speaking, this was a benign form of disobedience in that the only victim here was the trash receptacle. I mean, it could have been another bystander. But I still rolled my eyes and wished they were wearing shock collars on their testicles to which I had the remote control. 

I am hoping over the next few days to blog again about some habitual, public douchebaggery I have witnessed in people whenever they congregate in any numbers. Which is why I hate crowds and people.

Her Majesty Interpreted

Her Majesty The Queen is quite possibly one of the most documented people in history. She has spent virtually her entire life, and certainly her entire sixty-two-year reign, in front of the camera. It's not surprizing, then, that occasionally, the lens captures the Sovereign in a moment of candid reflection, of disapproval, of bewilderment.

Constitutionally, Her Majesty is not permitted a public opinion, which I think must be one of the greatest drawbacks to being a Royal. All of The Queen's thoughts and feelings must be kept private--in public, in front of the ever-present camera and throngs of observers, Elizabeth II must appear to be interested, entertained and engaged by whatever is happening around her.

But what is she *really* thinking? Freed from the constitutional fetters of duty and service, what would Her Majesty say, given half the chance?

(click the photos to embiggen)

"Oh, you athletic types think you're so relevant, standing around punching a phallus bag. All of you need a ladder to get over yourselves. Why don't you go take a shower and volunteer at a shelter?"

"People climbing the wall. How banal. If you want to know what it's like to climb the wall, why don't you spent ten minutes with Philip sometime when he's on a rant about the working class? You won't need special shoes or divots in the plaster, One can assure you of that."

"Philip, One is sorry that you don't feel well, but no, you may not have One's hat. Perhaps you shouldn't have had that fifth cocktail--what did you call it? Hippo Laxative?-- before we left the Palace this morning."

And finally in this one, I like how Philip is careful to be looking somewhere else.

HM: Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr........
DOE: Nothing to see here, eh, Cabbage? Fancy a gin? How about those Hotspurs? Goodness, these pants are tight.
HM: Shut up, Philip. One is praying for a lightning storm. Fucking Canadians.

Update (A Day In the Life of Dids)

Sorry for my radio silence. I’ve been wickedly busy and rather than just call it in, I like to take a little bit of trouble with my updates, since some of you seem to like coming here and I want to make it worth your while.

A quick update based on past posts—I am pain free due to a new medication called Simponi and, as a result, have returned to fencing and archery and other activities. Also, the asshole raisin two doors down died (or was killed, but not by me) over the winter and has been replaced with a nice Aboriginal family who are not even remotely interested in being friends with the Fragrant Missus and I. It’s okay, I don’t take it personally; if I were them, I wouldn’t be friends with me either, just on principle.

The Three Didiots continue to amaze with their unique blend of stupidity and neurosis. Scooter never fails to disappoint. He spent all weekend trying to catch a fly that got into the house. He’d be standing around looking stupid as usual, and then race across the room, snapping at something invisible. Yesterday morning while dressing for work, I discovered the fly crawling across the bedroom floor, so I knew it was done. I called Scooter over and pointed it out. He didn’t know what to do—he sniffed it, licked it, spat it out, pawed at it, circled it…he did everything except eat it, which I thought was the point. Apparently not. He ate it when I told him to, but then he gave me a look of extreme dissatisfaction, as if to say, “I didn’t like the texture.”

Freak. I swear if he could talk, he’d sound like Bobcat Goldthwaite.

Dieter has taught the other two how to sing. When the Fragrant Missus and I leave the house in the morning, we can hear the song of their people, lamenting their loss and abandonment. It is clearly audible all the way to the garage, although I expect it only lasts as long as they can hear the car engine. Then they get down to the real business of napping, chewing on things, wrestling, and licking the varnish off the hardwood floors.

With the arrival of summer, they are spending a lot more time outside. Aside from the weather, one of the exciting backyard attractions is the Kitty Next Door. She is a lovely, long-haired ginger creature, and her appearance in the neighbour’s yard makes all three of them absolutely mental. 

There used to be a building downtown that advertised 25 cent peep shows. Of course, I never went near the place, but one can imagine the sordid scenes within—a bunch of loser assholes, plugging the machine with quarters and wanking mightily to whatever they see though the hole in the wall.

This is very much the scene when KND shows up; all three of them immediately abandon what they’re doing (wrestling, sniffing poop, grazing) to stand peering through the narrow gaps in the fence while Kitty grooms herself or lolls about luxuriantly in the sun. And although they make a lot of noise and jostle for the best view, she ignores them utterly. And Nipper is in on it, too, because if Nipper was a person, she’d be Little Boo on Orange Is the New Black, played by Lea Delaria.

One can almost hear the dialogue:

Dieter: PUSSY!!! PUSSY!!!

Nipper: Oh, yeah, baby. Work it!

Scooter: *whines anxiously and shifts on his front paws*

Nipper: Hey, kitty—I got a bone. You wanna see my bone?

Dieter: I got a bone, too. I chewed the end off.

Nipper: (looking at Dieter) What?

Dieter: I chewed the end off the bone.

Nipper: You don’t really get this flirting thing, do you?

But by then, Dieter is distracted by an ant on the sidewalk, which he is sniffing, and then he’ll say something completely random like, “Why is France so far away?”

Scooter: What’s France? Is it near the park?

Nipper: Who gives a fuck about France? The pussy is licking her pussy!

And then they crowd around the fence and get all excited and growly, and really, the only thing missing is the slot for quarters. And because they are terriers of one description or another, their attention is laser fine and constant until KND either goes inside or goes away.

And lately, I’ve had to tell Scooter to stop nailing Nipper in the ass on a more or less regular basis. Humping isn’t always an indication of dominance with dogs—sometimes it’s a way for dogs to say, rather clumsily, “You still like me, don’t you?” He never used to do that before Dieter came along. Scooter has always been anxiety-prone, but since Dieter joined us, Scooter is uncertain as to whether or not Nipper still likes him (she does).

Dogs—they’re like every boyfriend you ever had in high school.

Scooter Pot Pie

Scooter

I Got Stoned and I Missed It

Three weeks ago, my g.p. wrote me a prescription for medical cannabis. I had great hopes for this medication, because it is the last option on the list of suggestions my rheumatologist has made in order to combat my fibromyalgia. Believe me, I have tried everything: Elavil, Lyrica (which made my eyeballs vibrate from side to side like some kind of fucking cartoon character), Cymbalta, Prozac--most of them seratonin-uptake inhibitors designed to convince my brain that THERE'S NOTHING WRONG, STOP HURTING ALREADY. Medical cannabis--called Nabilon--was my last option, if I hoped to get off the 800+ mgs of naproxen and the 1000+ mgs of codeine I was taking every day. The pain of my stupid fibromyalgia has meant that I am not able to draw a bow or fence or even use the stairs (comfortably) for the better part of a year. This makes it hard to lose weight, yo.

A part of me was also fairly trepidatious, however. There aren't a lot of studies on the effects of marijuana (and no, I don't buy it as a "cure" for cancer), especially as it interacts with other medications. As it turns out, I was right to be wary. Maybe the dose was too high (*snigger*), but man, I was wasted for two entire weeks. In the first week alone, I was sent home from work twice because I simply could not function. I was dizzy and faint and mostly just sat around gazing at my navel. I was too impaired to drive or cook or clean, and often lost my train of thought in the middle of a sentence. 

I was also prone to odd outbursts, such as the time I randomly yelled out, "Pork loin! Pork loin!" during a staff meeting.

I will confess that it had an interesting effect on my thought processes. My brain on pot had a specific idea of what was significant--sometimes imperative--to share with the world. Yet, somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the translation was most often lost. For example, the Fragrant Missus is a cautious and competent (if slow) motorist. She very likely did not need to know, as I looked in the side view mirror, that "That car--is closer than it appears." What seemed to be perfectly reasonable, even important, one moment, ended up sounding completely stunned when it emerged from my piehole.

Possibly, the significance of my remark got swallowed in my all-consuming hunger. I was strving all the time. If it wasn't nailed down, if it needed no preparation, it was going in my face. All of it. I was like a fucking Hoover. No wonder when I get on the scale, I look down and see my phone number.

And when I wasn't stuffing my face or making pithy observations about the world around me, I was just kind of sitting around. My brain was like a big, fat bumblebee, buzzing lazily from thought to thought, getting a little insight here, some wisdom there, some humour over here.

And oh, God, the humour. Everything was so fucking funny. Especially the Fragrant Missus. Specifically, I remember going to a yarn shop with her to pick up needle felting supplies. One of the staff members had knit a baby sweater to hang in the shop door to indicate whether the store was open or closed. As we pulled up, the Fragrant Missus said, "The little sweater says open."

Well, I lost my shit. Apparently, this was the funniest goddamned thing that had ever been uttered in the history of humankind, because I laughed so long and so hard, I was physically incapacitated. We had to wait for the hysterics to end before I could get myself out of the car. And this was just one example. I'm sure it got old for her pretty quick, because it wasn't funny just the once. I laughed about that comment for DAYS.

Yet, despite the occasional hilarity, it didn't feel nice. I mostly felt numb and dislocated, detached. And it did absolutely nothing for my pain levels. So I discontinued use. 

Luckily, at the same time, my rheumatologist put me on injections of methotrexate. These injections are self-administered, which is fucked up. I understand that Type I diabetics do this all the time, but I'm having a little trouble adjusting. It is, after all, highly counter-intuitive to stick oneself with a sharp object, especially when the sharp object involves chemotherapy medication that inhibits cell division, which often results in GI upset, hair loss and/or seizures. 

However, since starting the injections (taken with Plaquin, an antimalarial that could result in plaque building up on my corneas, resulting in blindness), there has been a marked decrease in my physical pain. For the past week, I take my pain medication once in the morning, typically do not have to take it again all day and, especially later in the morning when I've limbered up, no longer walk with a limp. Oh, there's still some stiffness in my right knee (due to sero-negative rheumatoid arthritis) and my stride is slightly abbreviated, but I'm starting to think that we've turned the corner. So far, my only side effects include grogginess and some po'po' (short for "poor, poor bum", how my brother-in-law describes diarrhea), so I haven't yet had to ask myself if being spastic is worth being pain free.

Of course, the question must also be asked if anyone would notice.

But for those of you who were curious about the pot--it might work for some, but it certainly didn't work for me. Mostly, I felt that I got stoned and missed out on two weeks of my own life.

So there you go. Drugs, drugs, drugs--some are good, some are bad.