HOPELESS ROMANTIC

Entry from the “Modern Translation Guide To Singles Pages Language”

HOPELESS ROMANTIC – has both herpes and aids.

No, no – its not that for me, and, no, ModemDavid remains a faithful married guy, not out there amongst the mingling singles who stare blankly from Ray Bans, thin rays of mingled hope & desire eminating from tired eyes foggy with cheap wine and cheese breath, still seeking that first miraculous locking of eyes with‘the one’ who at any moment may sashay through the doorway if I can only continue to look cool and detatched for maybe one drink more (yeah…right) And, no thank you, I have not gotten any social diseases, unless that mildly inflamed hickey I got from Holly Weiner at 17 counts.

Yet how now at the relatively not ancient age of 50 do I euphemistically describe myself as anthing better, more elevated than simply the cumulative sum of my diseases? Another round of medical visits, more probing, imaging studies (endoscopy, to be precise – which as Los Angeles is a union town involves lowering not only a camera but, apparently, a 3 man IATSE film crew down your neck – or so it felt in recovery) – all of this to reveal the happy arrival of a brand new baby diagnosis – little Moderate to Severe Reflux Disease to add to the list that have truly made 50 the new 70.

So whats on my list now:

Idiopathic Parkinsons

Peridontal Disease,

Myopia

Frozen Sholder,\

Mild to Moderate Spinal Stenosis

Chronic Inflammation of Juvinile Hickey Syndrome ( CIJHS)

I’m one fucked up dude, dude…….and yet

If I am not my name, what am I? If the essential ‘I’ remains more than the sum of my diagnosis, than how do I operate, how do I access the premordial ‘ I’ that animates me from the motionless steady state deeper reality in which the slow but insistant ravages of my multiplicity of disease processes are neutered, rendered harmless, baying perhaps like wolves or hyenas locked safely outside, but firmly enjoined to back off, not interfere or do anthing more than minamaly disrupt the trajectory of my days across the span of a lifetime. Answer me this, o wise one, and I will gladly buy you a beer.

So, like the ‘hopeless romatic’ I still seek retain a link to something optomistic, planning and hopeful looking across the Great Plains of my 50s and beyond hoping to lock eyes with a future that holds something more bearable, duralble and fulfilling than the cold and clear trajectory of multiple diagnosis.

Go figure,

Modemdavid

Dumpster Satori

Power sander hums

Perplexing flies in dumpster

“Hey… what’s this buzz?”

Well, after the final indignation with my sweetie of having a valet from a fancy restaurant outright refuse to park my monkeyshit brown Mitsubishi on purely aesthetic grounds, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands – literally – and, armed only with a small power sander, a bit of moxie and elbow grease, head out into the ally behind our l.A. townhome with a facemask, sanding pads and a little A.M. radio tuned to the local Cumbia station. This is what Labor day is all about, I think to myself as I settle into the rhythmic grind of stripping the defective withering clearcoat.

Though I’ve lived here for almost a decade, till today my relation with the ally has been only a transient, passing thing – pass through to drop off a big bag of poo and diapers from the little ones, an occasional quick stroll to the main street to save a few steps….this and nothing more.

Yet, spend a full day in the ally and it reveals a life of its own, patterns repeating yet always theme and variations. Bottle People living on a recycled economy, the occasional cholo wandering through his turf, wondering, ‘so, is this all there is?’ Unlike when passing through as a homeowner, where eye contact is rarely made here, a quick look, an acknowledging glance

Indicating either peaceful coexistence or mutually assured destruction

(‘hey—you fuck with me and I’ll kill you’ and

“hey-you fuck with ME and I’ll kill YOU! Ok good…we’re friends!!!) –

imagine, a working microcosm of cold war US/Soviet relations just outside your doorstep.

Most surprising, though, was my interaction with the natural world. The prolonged low buzzing drone of the power sander was enough to draw many curious onlookers, the type with compound eyes – flies, disturbed from their reveries and bacchanalian refuse orgies, disturbed and – I know, I flatter myself – just maybe attracted by the powerful manly drone of my black and decker ‘MiniMouse’ sander – flies come by to check me out and do the hang where the action is. Not to be outdone, a mammoth bumble bee or two join. Everyone is having a blast as I cut deeper into the evaporating color of the Mitsubishi only to find that -- hey, waddyaknow -- the base metal you would expect to see at the end of the road was only masonite with a thin veneer of aluminum foil…..now I know why it was cheaper than the camry!

So, its now quite a scene, the sander sings sweetly while the flies and bumblebees sway gently to the distorted Cumbias and Cha-Cha-Chas blaring from my radio. All good until LAPD show up, no doubt summoned by some pesky neighbor no doubt wondering why an unlicenced Auto repainting shop was operating within earshot.

And so the day ends, an order to appear in court to answer charges of illegal operation of an environmentally impacting business and disturbing the piece my only souvenier - and, just before I sink into the enuie of legal worries to add to the myriad of others that have found me in my 5oth year a trio of dumpster flies, having followed my back from the ally no doubt, zip by me, back and again in perfect time to the last cumbia of the day still blaring from the radio.

Go figure......

Freaky Teethy Things....

The Tooth, The Whole Tooth & Nothing but the Tooth….

So, I achieved a long-term life goal – made it to the ripe age of 50 with every one of my teeth still in my head. It’s no secret that Modem is a man with deep pockets…..deep pockets not of the sought-after financial type but rather of the periodontal persuasion. So, here I am, ripe with deep pockets…..sheesh.

And, after many years of near-heroic effort to save one of my more affected teeth, the day of reckoning came and the hour came near when molar number 29 had to go.

The thought of losing a tooth was disturbing to me – to see a fixed and seemingly permanent part of your physical self as impermanent, transient and fleeting thing gives a good elbow to the gut of that largely sleeping part of yourself that, despite all it sees in the world without and the world within – in spite of it all – persists in the dream of personal exceptionality to mortality. If you ever really want to bug that bastard, go ahead, pull a few teeth –

The tooth itself was quite a piece of work – according to the good doctor it was a dental freak of nature, a molar-on-the-edge with a rarely seen extra root shaped roughly in the shape of a male phallus (you can call me ‘dick-head’), a genetic freak apparently at this moment winging its way to a hallowed acrylic display case in the Museum of Dental Oddities. I wish it only the best of happiness in its new life. Apparently, its doing quite well without me, haven taken up with some busty dental hygienist with a thing for freaky teethy things, or so I read on its twitter posting. ‘That’s my boy…J

So its almost a week after losing the little bastard….and, frankly, good riddance. According to the doctor, the permanent state of infection was starting to impact the jaw bone and left untreated could have been much, much worse, more loss of bone, etc. The only available option might then have been the much ballyhooed but untested full “mouth transplant” – and that I’m not ready for, unless maybe I can get myself the strong lower jaw of a CharlesBronson, a George C. Scott, or a Tosiro Mifune. On my budget lucky if I could afford a used Alfred E. Newman, fucked up gapped teeth and all.

Well, that’ll be about all for now. Damn, I’m hungry….’gotta go and gum a donut.

Go figure,

ModemDavid