In Bed With The Devil.

Posted by admin on September 3, 2018 in Randomalities |

No, this isn’t about my Florida days. No dishing dirt on that chapter on my life, though the headline, I must admit, would have been a good one for that. Rather, I am dealing with the harsh reality that I don’t think I am invincible any longer. Now, this invincibility thing has been central to my life, allowing me to make famously bad decisions with no fear of repercussions or lasting damage, either emotionally or physically.

But lately, it’s been failing me. Well, lots of things have been failing me as of late, and that’s part of the problem.

The times when I have been exposed to kryptonite and robbed of my superpower have been few and far between. Famously there was that time in high school that I wanted to see a pair of breasts and almost died. I did a week in the hospital, had to learn to walk all over again and missed the start of my freshman year in college. If I had only known how many breasts I would eventually see in my life, I never would have kissed the girl with mononucleosis.

But I digress. Fast forward to my golden years of invincibility, my 20s, 30s and 40s. I could not be harmed. I could stay out all night, drink way too much and toddle right off to work in the morning, still in the same clothes I was wearing when I left the afternoon before. Over the years I managed to avoid all venereal diseases and never answered the door only to hear that frightening word, “Daddy?”

I really took those years for granted. Looking at my current state, I wished I had enjoyed them even more. I may have even taken a few more sloppy slaloms down the slope or went skydiving again. And then there were the things I passed up because I thought I had all the time in the world. Things like flying off to Cayman Brac with a fairly inebriated Cayman Air captain who convinced us all she was sober enough to get us there. On second thought I’m glad I passed on that one.

Lately, however, it seems that I am finally getting old. And it’s really been pissing me off. I am, after all, only 60. True, some people don’t even make it this far. Others are like the Six Million Dollar Man, rebuilt to the point where every time they get out of a chair I think I should hear that jing-jing-jing-jing-jing sound effect.

I can brag a bit. I do have all my body parts intact. At this moment. I haven’t ever had major surgery. The only thing I am missing is the rain hat that my parents had removed a couple days after I was born.

But not all of these parts are in the best of shape these days. And so far, the ones that are betraying my invincibility are not something you can easily change out, unless you are a GI Joe doll.

Oh, how I wish I were. Then I could just unplug my left foot or change out my right hand and be done with it. Good as new!

But no, instead these parts are on the fritz alternately these days and my invincibility seems to be fading by the hour.

For example, I used to think that gout was something old grandpas get. True, I am a grandpa, but I’m thinking a way-old grandpa-man, like 70. But it turns out that it’s fairly common. Something about a combination of barbecue (lots of red meat) and absence of water (dehydration) are the perfect storm for this malady. True, it sounds very piratey, but it still hurts like the devil.


Thankfully, they make pills for this. A couple days later, everything was almost back to normal. I still have trouble looking at beef, turkey, beer or any other potential demonic force that can set it off again.

That could have been the end of it all. But then I stayed at a Motel 6. Believe me, it was not by choice. There were no other rooms at any other inns. It appears that 10,000 crazed runners were also in Seaside, Oregon that weekend. Even the manger in town was full for the night.

Things were predictably Motel 6. The bed had obviously just arrived from the Oregon State Penitentiary. When I first sat down on it, it made the sound of celery when you crush it in your hands.

By Saturday morning, after a torturous night of unrest, my right hand was numb. Somewhere in the night, the one-ply sheeted board they called a bed had screwed up my arm, or my sciatica, or some strange little angry nerve in my arm. You know how your arm feels when it falls asleep? You touch it and it gives no tactile response? That was and is my hand as I write this. It’s tingly and fuzzy.

That morning, after reassuring myself that I hadn’t stroked out in the night, I began to deal with the issue. For mere mortals, having a tingly right hand isn’t a huge deal. But for a guy who writes, having a sleepy right is a bloody nightmare.

I thought that a prompt return to my own bed would solve the problem. But so far it hasn’t. Of course, it doesn’t help that I still must write for a living and in some twisted world, I am suddenly drawn to wanting to play my guitar more than usual. It’s as if I am cosmically drawn to those things that are the worst for me. Wait, that sounds like Florida again.

And so the saga continues. I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I am no longer invincible. Motel 6, that evil villain, has robbed me of my superpower. I have become… become… oh, my god, I can’t even say it – mortal!

A new age has dawned. I am now vincible. Is that even a word? If not, I will make it one, if I can ever type it left handed.

In the Emerald City, in bed with the devil and his evil wrath,

  • Robb

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