The last three years, half my stuff has been in a locker. My mouth-blown glass collection. A couple pieces of furniture. My comics. My books. My art. My art supplies (probably dried out by now). My robots…

We currently share our apartment with a third, who has recently told us he’s moving out soon. While I’m sad to see him go (more rent!) (just kidding) (no more cat-sitting services) (just kidding) (the ability to walk around in my underwear) (…what?), I’m extremely excited to see my stuff again.

They say that if you haven’t used something within 6 months, you should throw it out. And I probably could survive without this stuff, taking most of it directly from the locker to a garage sale table, but I am attached to it. The $400 3ft Robby the Robot, imported from Japan, is going to see the light of my love again! Oooh look! Issue #1 of OMNI Magazine! Ah! My framed, one page original printing of Little Nemo comic with the racially unacceptable character, The Imp, throwing rocks at dinosaurs!

Saying that, I think the real test will be merging my stuff with SharkBoy’s (which I think will be a non-issue by now. He’s seen the robot collection and is accepting), and finding the room. Nature abhors a vacuum, and when the roomie leaves, I fear there will be a scramble to fill up the extra room-and-a-half we’ll be getting. Meh. I still dominate the kitchen!

First day with the contacts. I have to say, I kept on thinking:

Oh. I forgot my glasses somewhere.

Oh. I can’t see close.

I’ve sacrificed my bi-focal glasses for these middle-to-distance contacts (vanity, thy name is dead robot). Because the nature of my perscription, they’re made of plastic, which makes me aware that they’re in there after a couple hours. They dry out faster than silicone.

But I’m happy! While waiting for SharkBoy, an acquaintance walked by and did a double take, unsure that it was me without my glasses on.

A year ago:

I wondered why my brother was drawing the ire of Ouzounian.

Two years ago:

Some pictureless Pride impressions. Pretty standard stuff, really

Three years ago:

I thank my brother for all his hard work in the 70s-80s. Note my interesting take on marriages and revel in my swiftness of changing my opinion.

Four years ago (my whole month of June 2004 is trapped somewhere in my database, waiting to be mined, reorderd and republished):

I wonder about Dad and sharing the same doctor.

Sideburns:

The Shark:

Misguided Tin Tin:

Hair Cut 1000

The Donald:

It wouldn’t be Fathers Day if I didn’t hold dear ol’ Da’s pee bag.

Actually today was a great day. The white thrombosis socks came off, the shunt in his neck came out and the pesky nose tube was removed! Next step is some clear foods and PIC line removal. Baby steps!

Happy Fathers Day all!

Quick elaboration on my Da’s operation: The growth has been removed and is being inspected for cancer cells as I type this but a quick look under the microscope during the operation revealed nothing (whew!). It was thumb sized and mushroom shaped so they cut it off at the stem and sewed that up. After, they found more growth inside the duct and used a rusty ice cream scoop to dig that stuff out (also non-cancerous). So good news!

Yesterday he was groggy but awake, and the epidural wasn’t set high enough so in a bit of pain for an hour or two after. Got that resolved pretty quick. Right now he has more tubes coming out of him than that robot from Saturn 3.

I stopped in this morning and he insisted on a picture of his legs at his request. These lovely white leggings are anti-thrombrosis socks. Air is circulated through them to massage blood clot demons away. They also say “TED” so they remind him with every squeeze that I’m thinking of him! (cue audience: “Aaaaaaww!!!”)

I’m walking to the post-op ward on the way to see Da yesterday, riding a high on the news that the goop they scooped out of his gut wasn’t cancerous and the operation went smoothly. In a secluded corridor I pass a 60s something squat, sweaty man carrying 4 plastic bags. He puts them down and loudly asks me to help him locate a room, the number of which is scrawled across a scrap of paper. It’s one of those room numbers created by a desk jockey astro-navigator: “9N20020”

I pause and say “I think-“.

Before I can say anything else, three orderlies come around the corner and the gentleman cuts me off by saying “These boys look like they’re intelligent!” and enlists their help, wordlessly dismissing me.

I’m… not intelligent looking?

Prayers, thoughts, goat sacrifices, burnt incense, money offerings to your sky ghost, Anonymous video attack, tossing virgins into a volcano, eating only brown mushrooms, posting less to Slashdot, quiet reflection out the window of your living room, whatever you partake in for spiritual comfort, please include my Da in there too. He’s finally going into the operating room in about 30 minutes.

I fainted yesterday while the anesthesiologist was explaining to Da about an epidural pain management system. Yay!