In The Belly of the Beast

 I have written a letter to give to the hospital staff before my procedure later this week. This is the full, unedited (aside from a few personal details) letter, my last official post until I return or meet you at the Clearing Tavern at the end of the Path.

From the National Affairs Desk-

"Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise." -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"No beast so fierce but knows some truth of pity....

But I know none, and therefore am no beast." -Will Shakespeare, "King Richard the Third"

"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." -Dr. Samuel Johnson

     Well everyone, we have finally come to what some call "The Night Train" (think Twilight Zone instead of the liquor). I have never had such a complicated procedure which makes this both stressful and fun. I assume all involved are Professionals so I left "Scary" off of the adjective list. First off, there are some things I'd like to emphasize (all in my medical history files):

- I have minor heart palpitations that come on during changes in temperature, ie: hot to cold.

- I have a xxxxxx xxxxxxx near xxxxxxxx that flares up and can be painful to the touch.

- I have a dry skin disorder on my left nipple. It also can be painful to the touch.

All of these have been examined by multiple physicians and they all concluded that it is "something I'll have to live with". Although if you have a referral to a stand-up Urologist around here I'll take it.

     Also, I want you all to know that I will try everything in my power to be discharged today including: Acting, lying, manipulating my bodily functions such as heart rate, brain waves, blood pressure, and bowel movements in order to confuse the medical equipment. Imagine hearing, "Doctor, the patient in 1B's heart rate has spiked and now resembles that of a hyper wolverine!" I am also well-versed in talking politics and religion, and can con a naive intern into preparing my discharge papers due to the (fictional) senior citizen in the waiting room who keeps repeating, "Cold, so cold," who could use my room more than me.

     If all this fails and I am admitted overnight, I have a few requests:

- I would prefer a room to myself, one with a TV so I can watch the baseball playoffs followed by the Presidential Debate.

- One quart of Wild Turkey and a six-pack of beer, brewed locally, maybe an Oktoberfest or something by Atwater.

- If the alcohol falls through I would like a real Pro to knock me sideways with a custom blend of pain killers and mind altering drugs. I'm thinking Tom Cruise in "Cocktail" but in orderly scrubs.

- Finally, I would like a nurse of my choosing to come and read to me until I fall asleep/pass out. Let's look into something by Hemingway, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., or the Sports Section.

     I would be remiss if I didn't touch on the possibility of me croaking during/after the procedure. If this unlikely (right?) circumstance occurs I give you Full Permission to do everything in your power to resuscitate me. I also recommend filming it or streaming it Live on Facebook, Tik Tok, Cameo, etc. You have my full permission for this as well. After I make my comeback the hospital and staff will be Public Relations Heroes and I will be rich. We may even get Ellen or on "The Weakest Link" reboot. Dr. Schwartz will be all but guaranteed a book deal. If all of this is too much weirdness I can always slow my body signs and pretend that I'm croaked like they did in Da Nang or Saigon, and get moved to a different area of the hospital where I will then make my escape. Ho Ho Ho.

     In conclusion, let's all have a great day, smooth sailing with heaps of fun (They'll call us the "Too Much Fun Club" in the TV movie starring Anthony Anderson as me), a pinch of luck, and all be on our way. Not many can stomach this breed of lunacy on their hands for more than a day anyway. Once again, thank you for your amazing care throughout this process; a true bunch of Professionals. Now, let's kick out the Jams. Mahalo!

Res Ipsa Loquitur,

R.S. Jr.

Well that's my letter. I've just received a decent lead regarding amateur wrestling in cages after hours in a location that shouldn't be operating just yet that I would love to cover for you as the best local journalist in town. It would be much more dangerous and interesting than a Milo article waxing dreamily about a band from six years ago that nobody cared about then. Happy Trails!

From the Iceman Commeth,

Bryan Metro

Welcome To The Night Train. The Start of Football Season

From the National Affairs Desk-

     The whole suite is buzzing. The entire suite is silent. Lightning has just struck the JCMsTown Compound and all the animals inside and out are on edge. All access to the outside world is a pipe dream. Well, it has been for a few months now, but now it is for real. There is no phone, no internet (no loss), and no TV. The television feed cut out during a pre-dawn screening of "Lovelace" just as Amanda Seyfried as pornography icon/sometimes hypocrite Linda Lovelace was just about to remove (doff) her top. Because I am a professional I have seen Amanda Seyfried sans clothing both in public and private settings, but the TV getting zapped at just that moment, before a scene I had seen numerous times, is just another "Hi ho, fuck you," from a higher power in a year full of them, the Chinese Year of the Fuck You.

     The generator kicked on so at least I have a light to write by. It is still an hour or so before sunrise so I might as well get some writing done. I have that life or death purgatory of a medical procedure this week and I don't want my last post on record to be that downer from last week about Ginsberg and the potential of more rioting. Now that RBG is laid to rest and the chickenhead protestors fizzled I can get moving on to more pressing matters such as one of the cats trying to walk on the ceiling. My calendar says I have a mandatory Covid test this weekend before my cruel, invasive procedure. That should be fun. This no internet is starting to bug me. How am I supposed to track being tagged in late night, ill-advised, gibberish, ghoulish, posts by others who are also up way too late. It will be impossible to discover these things when the internet comes back on because all the posts dragging my valuable name through the mud in a hailstorm of misobservations will have been deleted in one of those, "Oh god, what did I write last night?" moments. That is fine, and I take solace that I was working while these bad flashbacks from ghosts are transmitted to the four people reading. Well five if you count my North Central Positronics staff making screencaps and sending them to me.

     Oh right, the Covid test. I had one earlier this year when in the ER and it came back negative. Wasn't too bad. I am not really worried about the one this weekend despite more opportunities for those micro-puffball monsters to grab my bloodstream, nuke my liver, sodomize my lungs, and blow bubbles into my brain. After all, this spring/summer I have been to around ten different doctors, covered the Dream Cruise, invaded an anti-ICE bikini car wash, gone to the grocery store around 85 times, and went to Twin Peaks Northville, MI USA (the only restaurant I've been to since the lockdown/soft re-opening). Speaking of soft re-openings, the staff at Twin Peaks was great, their seasoned bacon even better, probably because its had its shots, and I was able to grab the last non-alcoholic Heineken.

     Right on cue there is a furious pounding on the door. Realizing that I left the baseball bat outside and the unused 4th of July mortars in the basement, I grab the hand cannon and approach the door wondering who it could be. It can't be another lawyer/process server. The last post is only days old and this one hasn't even gone up yet despite the pontifications of a (futile) lawsuit hinted at in the screengrab above. I can't see any overturned cars either.

   "Who's there?" I shout while filling a bag full of clumped litter to throw in the intruder's face in case the firearm decides to jam. There is no reply which means it could be the police, ho ho ho.

   "I'll have you know that I am a white male journalist with multiple valid ID's, a clean record, and am a registered voter. Ummm, for the good guys," and I hear a deep sigh of relief from outside.

   "Open up neighbor. Its your neighbor." Thank god I think. He must at least have some...

   "I got a beer for ya, the non-drinker kind you fancy. I heard howling coming from your way so I figured you were out. You do know there ain't any alcohol in this?" Neighbor says through the door.

God's be saved! I open the door just as the power comes back on and invite Mark and Izzy in. The cats scatter and I take a seat with my fake beer. After next week I won't even be able to drink this swill anymore barring a miracle. Thankfully Jesus is a degenerate gambler and he has the smart money on me (with the points). Until then its a diet of water and bullshit.

   "Workin'?" Mark asks.

   "Freelance," my reply, not exactly a lie, but..., "hey, do you or Izzy want something to eat or drink. The Boston/Miami replay is on. How about some acid?" I notice that Izzy has already started to rummage through the kitchen looking for a steak or chicken.

   "Nah, me and Izzy are waiting for this week's shipment of China White. Gotta go. See you later. Luck at Doc's." After Mark and Izzy leave I bolt the door, smash the faux beer, and try to get some sleep to prep for my Covid test. The last thing I hear is the electric fence zapping off. Its the weekend.

     My Covid test is at 1pm so I had plenty of time to dig up the hazmat suit. I made it a personal goal to get as much use out of it as possible. I also contemplated eating that last hit of acid. I have never taken a Covid test with a head full of acid. However, I don't want to spend one of my last days of freedom thinking I have a giant eel crawling up my nose into my mouth. So I decided to just stick with the hazmat suit. The test itself went fine. I made a point to mimic/mirror every motion the intern administering the test (also in a hazmat suit) made. The test itself lasted five seconds and I sped off but not before asking if they had anything for my other nostril ha ha ha.

It was still early and I was bored with nothing to do so I decided to hit up a few party stores where I made sure to be "that asshole" who holds up the line while perusing the $2 scratch off's. I decided to go easy on the weekend warriors because I could have always played twenty 4-digit picks without using a bet slip.

Next up was grocery shopping at Kroger. By this time the hazmat suit had begun to stick to my body and the only way to correct that is to practice karate in the foyer. It was then I realized that there would be no shoplifting today due to my radical appearance.

One benefit of the hazmat suit is that I had my pick of the best steaks as nobody wanted to be within 12 feet of me. It felt like I was back at the Hamtramck Labor Day fest watching a set by Kimball or some other band that lasted for six months.

Those last two pics were from actual Hamtramck Labor Day fests that I have covered. What is truly scary is that it was cancelled this year due to the pandemic, but would it really make a difference if it wasn't? Oh well... When I got home I just relaxed, a fine plan, you should try it. I finally looked at my paperwork from the Covid test where it told me to isolate myself until I get the results. This part was actually highlighted. I may frame it and hang it above the National Affairs Desk if all goes well. If the results are ugly this is one post that will be taken down faster than you can say, "His writing on his blog made me so sad and infected with the Fear that I had to call off from work for a week."

     Since this may be my last post for a while here are my picks for the remainder of the sports seasons:

Hockey- Tampa Bay Stanley Cup champs. This may have already happened by the time this article goes up. *Update- It did not. My pick still stands.

Baseball- American League: Tampa Bay Rays, National League: LA Dodgers. World Series: Dodgers getting their first title since 1988 in a six game series.

National Propaganda/Basketball Association- Eastern Conference: Miami Heat, Western Conference: LA Lakers. Championship: LA over Miami in 5 games. Boooooo.

Football- AFC: Baltimore Ravens, NFC: Green Bay Packers. Super Bowl: Green Bay Packers 24-20. Number of kneels during anthem: 12 (if Trump wins), 0 (if Biden wins). No anthem if Biden has already stepped down by the big game and Harris is Pres. Ha ha just kidding.

March Madness- Kansas over Duke in the Champ Game.

Wrestlemania- Main event: Roman Reigns def. The Rock. Co-Main Event: Edge def. Randy Orton. Undertaker stays retired.

Well that's it for now, for a bit. If everything works out I'll be winterizing the Compound up north this fall, shooting some guns, scaring the neighbors, and pondering if I should buy the Majestic Complex. Bye bye.

From the Iceman Commeth,

Bryan Metro

A Lavender Eulogy For RBG and Louisville

 - From the National Affairs Desk

"Yes, well, when we're applauding my aptitude at making rescues, we should keep in mind who causes most of the accidents in the first place."  Res Ipsa Loquitur

Highchief, here's the brass taxes. I'm sitting in the re-opened National Affairs Suite at the National Affairs Desk. The past few weeks, fuck it, months, have been a real wild ride. But you, Constant Readers old and new, black and blue (ho ho ho), all know that because we have all been on the same ride together as consumers of the News and media. Life has never been more polarizing and interesting, for good or bad. Each new week seems to bring a new calamity that populates every form of media and, by proxy, our lives. I have made it very clear that I despise the media, and those few who run it. It seems like the memos have been going out every day, and getting through, from the Economy to Covid to BLM to protests to bang bang shoot 'em ups to riots, back to Covid to sports to the West Coast is burning and climate change. I had a feeling that this week's media memo was going to be about health coverage, but that went up in flames as well with the passing of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg along with the pall of violence hanging over Louisville, KY as the nation waits for a ruling regarding the murder of Breonna Taylor. I can see both candidates parlaying the death and impending destruction of Louisville into the election home stretch. We haven't even reached the debates yet. So, I have postponed my original post for this week until the future (it was about ghosts). This makeshift post is one of fear (mine), one of emotion (yours), and one of hope (??). Nobody knows what's real anymore and I find that energizing and, more importantly, fun. So let's get started.

I haven't worked for another person since 2017. In that time I started my own multimedia company called North Central Positronics. Ain't that a peach? Slowly, things are happening. Of course I've always had my freelance writing to fall back on so income is generated there. Isn't that crazy? Doesn't that make you hate and despise me even more? Actually, that was all bullshit. You would have to be a professional waterhead to believe any of that. However...

I still need funds. I still strongly feel that I could survive from income generated through the journalism I provide you. You ungrateful swine. If that freelance stuff doesn't work out Pay Me at paypal.me/. The hot shit, goddamn cheap fucks with disposable income, is y'all should be paying for local journalism and conversation. If I comment on your social media post, pay me. If I share your post, cash me. For example I got this public post from Lee G here stressing the severity of the Louisville situation.

With me reposting, it has now reached more people, raising awareness, than Lee could ever dream of. So Lee, Cash Me. If I screencap your public post and, as a bonus, offer a critique of it while expressing concern about the state of society (and mental illness), who knows, I may agree with you. But I may not. Either way, cash me at cash.me/#WetFanny. We should be able to live happily, however we like, doing the things that bring us peace and joy. Y'know, like writing this blog. Did you know that it took me 25 minutes to write that peace and joy nonsense? Good god, man. Peace isn't being someone's employee. Its me working for Me; being a fucking bum. If the Constant Readers respected the work local journalist(s) (?) do, the tireless efforts of Mr. Magoo, there wouldn't be a need for cashapp's and PayPal's but guess what? Me and my cult (of personalities) will still find a thing to bitch about every single, goddamn, hour of our lives. What I just wrote there about "respect"; toss it. The average Constant Reader doesn't even see us local journalists. How they going acknowledge or compensate us when the expectation is we just do it for free? If you've learned some things from this site like corrupt local music fests, or tasteful nudes, or how to take a joke... Pay me. After all, this is my job. Its what I'm here to do and I've been A-Number 1 for years. I've even had my assistant, Joan "the Moan", draft an all-inclusive presentation for the JCM Focus Group (unpaid interns):

I mean what other local journalist would cover, even a brief mention in passing, the mass deletion of tweets and rewritten rhetoric from a cornerstone like The New York Times? (See below). How exactly does one going from a Pulitzer Prize to self-censorship? They did it on there own. There wasn't even a lawsuit. This is the Cash Me Culture at its finest, so uhhhh, Pay Me.

Okay watersuckers, if it wasn't painfully obvious, that previous tirade was complete satire on my end, but be afraid, very afraid, that there are some out there who would type such gibberish. And do it while maintaining a straight face. They are out there. Alright, back to the National Affairs Desk in the present, the week before I undergo a very important and severe medical procedure with ominous implications regarding my future. Enough of that. The National Affairs Suite smells oddly like spoiled milk and there are unread books (Google it) stacked everywhere along with notecards scattered containing early dawn thoughts, some that make sense, most do not. While trying to clean up I find that last hit of acid that I didn't take at my MRI and wonder if I should take it while writing my RBG obit. I've never done anything like that before and even if it falls flat at least it won't be as flat as that Bahama show that pollutes my FB feed (Cash Me). Jesus Christ. Maybe I should save it for when the Docs put me under. "No need for that ventilator you vultures. I've been breathing through your noses for hours now." They would know that I'm not to be believed but would probably knock me sideways anyway. I've already taken the time to write my PayPal/GoFundMe info in Sharpie on top of the incision site. If I add to that the LSD-25 will I have fantastic, vivid, dreams and adventures or will it just be darkness followed by a cruel body buzz when/if I wake up? When I was a kiddo I convinced my pops to toss an explosive into our above-ground pool. I wanted to see if it just fizzled out or what ended up actually happening: blowing a giant hole in the pool. It was one high quality explosive. I am that explosive. Or am I the pool? That was the metaphor I initially thought of. What is in the future? Let's get to the meat of the matter. The fat is in the fire. The Terra has been stomped. There is a (very) mild chance that this will be my last post. If so, Cash Me. If not, then just Pay Me. I know some have wondered why I haven't written much lately. Now you do. So, let's hop on that road to the future, one where all the exit signs are visible and well-lit. It should be a fun ride and then you can cash me a drink at the Clearing Tavern.

Ah shit, I forgot about the eulogies. Let's start with Louisville, KY because it hasn't happened yet and I like to be ahead of the curve. In a Lavender exclusive I have obtained some photographs of the preparations going on in downtown Louisville in anticipation of the ruling of potential punishment for those involved in the Breonna Taylor shooting. As I said, interesting times indeed.

Very prudent to protect the gas lines and hopefully those who can drive and not have to be dropped off by their parents will be deterred.

Louisville September 2020 is a complete ghost town it seems. Very eerie.

I have included a pic of the local Louisville North Central Positronics HQ which has been fortified along with additional police support.

I try to look for the bright side in everything so even if massive property destruction and violence is avoided there will at least be ample canvas for the burgeoning mural trade.

As I said, this post is meant to be one of hope so lets hope violence and negativity will be avoided and we as a society can continue moving forward to a bright future; a future of equality, justice, and true freedom.

In conclusion I wanted to touch on the passing of Justice Ginsberg. I didn't know Ruth personally, but I knew of her. The 90's and 00's don't offer any favors in the memory department. Based on the reactions I've seen I'll go ahead and check off that she was a most important person in our Nation's history. She will be missed by many for a long time (or until the next media memo goes out). Her passing makes the next few months very intriguing and social media very insufferable. This is why I didn't want to go too over the top in this eulogy. Case in point, see below:

Good lord, what kind of fan fiction was that? Just when we're almost making progress on the black vs. white wormhole now they saddle us with men vs. women, and most concerning, Marvel vs. DC. I understand we all have our ways of expressing grief and/or looking for attention, but c'mon man. Those were so cloying and putrid and a breeding ground for mockery. Here is one of my favorite replies:

Here is one last one where the grief begins its familiar merging with extracurricular activities.

Yeah, the buffet line ho ho ho. Of course there is nothing wrong with writing/calling your politicians or even demonstrating/protesting, but you don't need me to tell you that. But if you did, CASH ME! Those things are our freedoms that RBG helped to shape and protect. *Previous sentence was genuine and not a ploy to get laid by the girl from Twin Peaks Northville, MI, U.S.A.

All joking aside, RBG obviously made a difference for a lot of people. I actually know some of them. They are real people with real feelings and opinions. It takes a transcendent soul to accomplish that. Trust me, I know. To balance the jokey screengrabs above, grab a book (Google it) or (gasp) Wikipedia her. Its a pretty good story, one not tampered with by journalists from the New York Times (yet). I just wish she would have smiled more. She always looked so severe. Then again there's not a lot to smile about. Fuck that, of course there is, taking the kids to the zoo or a Red Wings game for the first time, a rocking sunset (on or off LSD), feeding a bird, the unexpected nude leaks of Brie Larson. Sometimes you just have to look. Of course it helps if you are not a justice on the Supreme Court. And if you are having trouble finding that smile, well, that's my job, remember? A-#1. If that's the case then take that time to smile. And when you're done, all together now, CASH ME! Oh, and to call-back to my earlier satirical rant, RBG didn't work for RBG. RBG worked for her country. Her peace was not being somebody's employee. Her peace was a lifetime of service, and what she believed in. And she did it all without a fucking PayPal. I guess that last bit was me at my most profanely profound. Well, that'll do it for this one. Wish me luck on the Doc thing, or don't. I've pretty much accomplished everything I wanted to do in life already, so every day is sort of a bonus. Take care of your loved ones, try to weather the storm, enjoy what you can, and finally, Pay Me! Till next time, till the very end, I'll keep shutting down the lazy, hateful waterheads and investing in pain relief for the migraines caused by excessive rolling of the eyes. Until then, I've got a job to do, and do it well/half-assed, I will. Trust me this won't hurt.

From the Iceman Commeth,

The Thing Speaks For Itself

Bryan Metro