Avengers Assemble, that means you, iPad

Despite what a favorite T-shirt says, everything I know I did not learn from comics. MASH, Springsteen lyrics, and D&D helped, too.

Nevertheless comics have been an important part of my life for 30-some years. Actually, one of the first comics I remember is a 1978 Thor that Mom bought for us to read on one of the long drives to vacation, so 40 years is more correct.

In that issue, Loki brings a news crew to Asgard to film the Ragnarok, which he attempts to start.

Lately, though, they have become harder to read, both holding them and turning the pages.

For the past several months, I have let stacks of comics sit in my room unread because it wasn't a lot of fun to read them.

Last weekend, I threw in the towel, deciding to give up comics.

My sister thought that was silly, and she told me so.

An iPad is the answer, she added. Turns out she was right!

I spent the afternoon reading Doctor Strange back issues on an awesome iPad. . It is so fast when I don't have to worry about pages. I went through eight in a few hours. Reading the paper version took half-an-hour each.

I'll miss the books themselves, but that's about it.

The other bad thing is new issues cost the same as the print version, which is dumb and makes no sense. Is Marvel, the company I read now, going to send me a print copy if one I digitally buy becomes valuable? This is moot because I won't be subscribing digitally because of that. I also won't be subscribing in print. Two losses. A big deal for the company? No, but a loss all the same.

Instead of new issues I'll read ones at least six months old with a subscription service.

I could write more, but there are comics to read.

'Dead in the water'

Before the wheelchair guy came, I told Mom I wanted him to test the charger.

He came, fixed the footplate and on-off switch. He then replaced alleged bad part on the motor. It seemed OK. He even had me get in, so he could adjust the motor.

Then we asked him to plug it in. It looked promising to start, then the charger showed an error. It was all over. It never came back on.

He fiddled with, removed the cover from the back, where the motor is, and said, "You're dead in the water."

Power had apparently been arcing around, burning things out.

It needs significant work, enough that the repair guy is recommending the company give me a loaner till it gets fixed. No word if or when I'll get the loaner.

Sorry

One of the problems with my depression is that I hurt some of my biggest fans (Yes, they will be annoyed at being referred to as fans).

It is not intentional, and I often don't even snap at them. They are just made sad by my sadness.

This weekend was bad.

My wheelchair has not charged and the power gauge has not moved since Wednesday. The parts are on order, but getting an ETA has been worse than pulling teeth.

I am in the last week of amiodarone, but I am not sure how much more of the constipation side effect I can take. I get constipated, take laxative, which works too well, and wind up with an upset stomach and more constipation.

It rained a lot.

I am falling more.

So it was and is bad.

Happy, but not sad

Not to brag, but I had an awesome theory, at least for a few days.

The world, I decided, is not black and white, so why does your emotional state need to be? Sure, I am unhappy a fair bit of the time, but that does not at all mean I am sad. That happens less frequently.

And, I further decided, maybe I just need to accept my unhappiness.

I hardly got the theory out of my mouth before my counselor threw water on it. She actually wants me to work to be happy.

For the lazy, like me, work is fundamentally bad, so becoming happy might mean making me sad.

'Dealing with a lot of shit'

In one of the funnier scenes in Bull Durham, Crash goes out to the mound to settle his pitcher down.

pretty soon, most of the players on the field come in to talk about something. The pitching coach  comes out to see what's going on.

Crash explains the issues, adding, "We're dealing with a lot of shit."

I am weaning of Amiodarone. Do I think my heart is going to explode or go off the rails? Not this week, but it is an issue (maybe not the exploding part).

My wheelchair is not charging properly or at least not seeming to.

My right hearing aid is irritating my ear.

I could go on forever just about.

But am I writing about those issues? No (well, yes, I did but just in passing).

Instead, here is what happened when we arrived at work.

We were following a landscaper. It went into the area wit the disabled parking spots. The spots were all blocked off with tape and cones, apparently just for the landscaper, because a worker moved enough cones for the truck to pull in parallel to the curb, across a bunch of spots.

We just stopped in another spot to let me off. No big deal.

But what the flying fuck? 

The landlord set this up, I was told, so apparently the owners of the building where I work believe that disabled spots aren't for disabled people but for the landlord to do with as they choose.

I was so annoyed I wrote out building manager and told him "This is a really poor use of parking spots people need."

Don't I sound pissed>

I take that drug!

I was watching a spy show -- Chuck, all right. Yes, it is silly, but it makes me laugh.

Anyhow, Chuck and his brother-in-law doctor were with another guy who bad guys were hunting. The bad guys were closing in, so the guy took a pill, gave Chuck a note, then shot himself in the chest.

The bad guys appeared, saw the guy was dead and left.

Chuck looked at the note, which said, the pill was amiodarone; there's a med kit in the desk; please save me.

The doctor says, amiodarone can stop your heart. He then injects him with adrenaline, and the guy is OK. Except for the gunshot.

Now, I am not going to get chased by baddies, but it is good to know I have a pill to fool them. Best thing about my heart drug.

She's tough

To a person, everyone I tell about my ER visit, including my doctor's nurse, applauds me and says better safe than sorry. Then there's my doctor.

I was seeing her to follow up on the visit. Her advice Take an ibuprofen.

Dumbfounded

About two months ago, the batteries in my wheelchair  started going.

It was nothing major. Just every so often, they wouldn't charge properly. But knowing the way insurance works, I asked my wheelchair provider to get me new batteries.

About a month ago, they failed to charge for three nights in a row. I was a bit worried so I emailed again and asked for an ETA. About a week later I heard back -- they were awaiting authorization. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I just said OK because it was more or less OK. The battery level could not be trusted, but it stayed charged.

I couldn't sleep last night, and while tossing or maybe turning, I noticed the light on my wheelchair charger was not green or orange but blood red. I fiddled with it and got it back to a friendly color, but   in the morning it was red again. It also didn't appear to have charged at all.

I teleworked.

Mom called them, and the problem isn't them but my doctor. They faxed her a letter of medical necessity that she needed to sign and fax back THREE times. I love my doctor, but this is probably the 10th time I have debated leaving her to find a doc with a better office staff.

I offered to pay out of pocket but not a chirp from the provider.

I am home for a while, I suspect.  

You had to go there, A.J Jacobs

Of all the authors I have read, A.J. Jacobs strikes me as the one I am most likely too be friends with.

He writes like I wish I could. He makes jokes that I find hilarious. He seems like a good guy. Plus, I have a crush on his wife, which might cause some friendship friction.

I'd love to be friends with Sarah Vowell, but I suspect she is too quirky cool for me.

In an interview with Reynolds Price (another writer I'd like to be friends with, but his death limits this), Mom mentioned something from Annie Dillard about how we'd wear hard hats when praying if we knew what was going on. I love Anne Lamott; she is insightful, funny, honest, etc. Birsut I'll be honest, I'd want a hard hat if I was going to be her friend.

That is mostly it for nonfiction on writers I read regularly.

I'd love to befriends with Lloyd Alexander or J.R.R. Tolkien, but they're dead. And while Neil Gaiman and Michael Chabon are my heroes, I am not sure I know enough about them to want to be friends. (Who am I kidding? They would be awesome.)

Anyhow, it all works out because in his latest book, It's All Relative, A.J. -- it's cool to call him by his first name, we're pals -- tells how we are all related, so of course we'd be friends. Everyone loves his relatives, right? (Note to Julie Jacobs: I am probably not as closely related as you and A.J.)

The book, as usual, is quite funny and fun. He decides to throw a family reunion, and I believe the only requirement is you be a person. I think he decided against inviting animals but am not postitive.

One of his reasons for throwing it is to balance out his karma. Weighing against him, he says, is something that, if we weren't related, would cause me to unfriend him. Weighing against him, he says, is his use of wheelchair bathrooms.

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOO!

This has been a thorn in my side ever since I been to use wheelchairs.

Whether it is largos people who want extra space, people changing clothes or tall people who like the fit of the raised toilet, if you can walk without aids, do not use the accessible stall.

My relative  and I are going to have words.

She talks

I have been working with Fame to speak on command.

When there is a treat involved, she is perfect. When I use hand signals, she is pretty good.

But one is not always able to make hand signals, so I need to get her to speak with voice commands. She is pretty good there, too, but what if I am commanding her while upside down?

I fell this morning, or would have if not for my awesome kung-fu grip. Instead, I ended up doubled over with one hand grabbing my super-pole and another on my chair.

I was about to let myself gently to the floor, so I could use my watch to call for help. Then I realized my watch was still charging and out of play.

Looking underneath one arm, I asked Fame to speak and she did.

Granted, it was right before breakfast, so there was food involved. And she has realized that when she speaks, someone comes to help me, which means someone to  play with or try to.

But she spoke. My sister came. All good.

Matty has another brother from his mother

When the ER registrar asked my sister who she was, she said, "I'm his brother."

Some folks might have brushed this off as a slip of the tongue, not this really kind registrar.

He went into a story about a niece "who wanted to be a guy."

I didn't hear much of this and was really confused why he was bringing up his transgender relative. Mom, though, explained.

Why was I at the ER?

If you ask my sisters, it was because I wanted attention.  One of my sisters-in-law i undergoing surgery at the Mayo Clinic, so the thinking was I felt forgotten. NOT true mostly. I mean at all!

Actually, I have a pain at the base of my throat, and when we called, the doctor's office sent me to the ER, concerned I might have a blood clot.

But the CAT scan was negative.

So I came home.

A few quick takes:

• I hate knowing people in the ER. My doctor this time was the one who admitted me for A-fib in March.
• I think my pathetic veins are going to haunt the young extern and send her into a truck-driving career. She struggled and struggled with no luck. I felt bad.
• Mondays are busy in the ER. We were there all day more or less.