Tuesday, August 22, 2006

 
No visitor last night. Our friend called Joey at some point during the day, and Joey figured that it would be easier to deliver the bad news over the phone than in person. So I didn't have to do the dirty work after all. And "dirty" is the right word for it, because we both feel pretty terrible about the whole situation. Our friend did mention something about starting in a rehab program (non-residential) in Long Beach. Best of luck to him.

Monday, August 21, 2006

 
Remember a couple of years ago when Joey and I were going out pretty consistently for "Poker Night" (which really meant dinner and drinks, usually ) with the DC Expatriates & Friends most Thursday nights? Well, that sort of fell by the wayside for various reasons...I was too poor to spend money at increasingly expensive restaurants, one of the DCE&Fs got annoyingly drunk every time, one of them stopped showing up, etc. One of the DCE&Fs developed a huge drug problem. He was no stranger to drugs when I met him, but he was at least functional at the time; he had a job, friends and a place to live. But he'd start coming to poker night with coke in his pocket. We'd hear about frequent crystal use. He entered a relationship with a partnered guy who was also a functional user, but it became a poisonous very dysfunctional relationship, and the DCE&F quickly became non-functional. His roommate told of nighttime hallucinations, where he was sure that there were people on the roof or in the backyard, trying to get in. His work attendance became very spotty; he lost his job. His roommate kicked him out. He disappeared from our lives over a year ago, homeless and unemployeed and an addict.

Well, he's back. Rock bottom or pretty darn close to it, since "rock bottom" always has a trap door. Presumably sleeping in his car, which is a rental, so it's probably considered stolen property, since I can't imagine he's making any payments on it. He doesn't even have enough money, he says, to buy drugs. I think he mentioned a couple of suicide attempts. And he looks like he's aged several years since I last saw him. He came by the house on Saturday to use the shower. He dropped by briefly on Sunday, mentioning that he had slept on a bed (on Saturday night) for the first time in a long time. Noting that our weekend houseguests were leaving today, he mentioned something about one set of guests leaving and another set coming in.

I know he's going to come by again tonight and ask to crash at our place. I want to do the right thing for him, but this simply cannot be: I'm not going to let a hardcore crystal addict loose in our house. And I feel terrible about it.

I would welcome any suggestions about where he can go and what he can do.

Monday, August 14, 2006

 



Thursday, August 10, 2006

 
Today, my little angel is flying to the east coast for the weekend. (Great timing, huh? Boy, was he pissed off this morning when he heard about the new security measures and long airport lines.) Whenever he leaves, I'm always happy to have a weekend all to myself, so I can do whatever I want or, even better, do absolutely nothing. Of course, the next day I miss him terribly and I'm always convinced I'll die, alone and unloved, and not be discovered for months and months. This time, I have plans for tonight and for Saturday, so I predict I'll manage to cling to life this time. At least until Sunday.

Update:
My little angel has reported that he breezed through security in less than five minutes, and that nobody actually checked inside his carry-on (other than the x-ray scan). Now he has three hours to kill at LAX.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

 
Okay, here's the deal. I have been in a huge funk for the last three weeks. Part of this was due to the hideous skin condition that I mentioned a few posts back. I had spent two consecutive weekend days at the beach, cleverly slathered in sunscreen all over, driving back to my unairconditioned house in my unairconditioned car. In the freakish heat wave we had. By the time I went to bed two nights later, I had broken out all over my back, shoulders and upper chest. I had never experienced anything remotely like it before. Three weeks on, after rigorously adopting Operation Annihilation, in which I slathered on benzoil peroxide in lavish amounts like there was no tomorrow two or three times a day, there had only been slight improvement. The Great Body Reclamation Project abruptly went on hold (I think I've lifted weights exactly twice since in three weeks), I was forced to stop wearing tank tops and to start wearing shirts at the beach and at pool parties during the peak of summer, I have had absolutely no sex drive whatsoever because I thought I looked so gruesome, and I was a very sad Weho Markie.

See what I'm talking about?

I know. Eeewww. And it looks even worse in person.

I went to see the Good Doctor today and even before I took my shirt off he had diagnosed pityrosporum folliculitis, a fungal infection of the hair follicles, brought on by the heat. (And here I was, thinking I was a total smoothie.) Good news: it's treatable with a prescription medication I'll take daily for 60 days. Bad news: it won't be gone before the fabulous pool party I'm going to on Saturday, and may not even be gone by the next circuit party on Labor Day weekend. And those who have it often get it again. Oh, and the medication doesn't mix well with alcohol.

So it looks like I'll keep my shirt on this Saturday, but at least there's a light at the end of the tunnel. And I think I'll try to get my ass back to the gym, since now I can explain it away if I get any locker room comments.

Friday, August 04, 2006

 


The guy's got charisma. You just gotta love Major Victory.

 


Anybody else watching "Who Wants to be a Superhero?" (I hope so because it's a fantastic show.) Recognize the dude on the far left of this photo? Woof. I love Major Victory (even before seeing him shirtless), have a serious crush on Feedback, and am deliriously proud of Monkey Woman after last night's episode.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

 
Yesterday I saw a man at a store, walking with a woman who was presumably his wife or girlfriend. Tattooed on the back of his shaved head, in perfectly legible cursive script, were three words:

"Bitches ain't shit"

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