"search terms"

The other day Isa told us about watching a youtube video where a man is doing martial arts and "a mysterious brown bulge" begins to come out of his butt, or something gross like that. Isa knows she's only allowed to go to youtube for something specific, like a bird video, she's not allowed to randomly move from link to link. I immediately sprung into action. This is the sort of parenting situation where I'm a little quicker on the draw than Bernie. "What were your search terms," I demanded to know, "what were your search terms?!" Isa remained calm, she didn't seem particularly guilty. "Hatching eggs," she replied.

Poop!

Yesterday, as I was driving, I happily slowed down for a procession of about six horses, walking single file in an orderly line, as far to the side of the road as possible. I have never seen a line of cyclists do this. I've written here and here about my war with cyclists. But up until now, a shot has never been fired. That might be changing.

The puppy is generating a tremendous amount of poop. We don't wrap it up in store bought bags here in Topanga. We return it to the earth, like our antiquated septic systems. My way of disposing of it involves flinging it over the fence, towards Old Topanga Canyon Road. It's not a gentle slope, about a fifty foot drop, there's little margin for error. So far I have succeeded in hitting the sweet spot between the fence and the road, poop clinging precariously to cliff, but it's just a matter of time before I fling one too far. Hundreds of cyclists ride by each week. If anything ever happens, I'm going on record right now that it was an accident.

Diverticulitis

It's the diagnosis I got yesterday, but I've been having the same abdominal pain on and off for about seven years. When it first happened, I was living in Northern California and went to see a doctor who specialized in treating pilots and all things aviation related. He prescribed Prevacid, describing it as a miracle drug. I could only imagine it helped his pilots "hold it" on long flights. It did nothing for me.

Years later, I saw a highly recommended gastroenterologist at Cedar-Sinai. He raved about how, on certain islands, the natives crap five or six times a day, their bodies are loaded with bacteria but they're FINE. He gave me no tests and sent me on my way.

Every once in a while, I would go on antibiotics for some unrelated reason, and my stomach would clear up. Other than that, I was in some degree of pain. Smoking marijuana would alleviate a lot of the symptoms, but how long could I tolerate the side effects of enhanced creativity and a general sense of well being?

Last week I had what I now realize was an acute attack. Sunday, Bernie finally convinced me to get it checked out. So I drove on over to the Old Actors Home.

The Motion Picture & Television Fund Hospital in Woodland Hills is an amazing place. I can drop in with my Writers Guild card anytime and pay ten dollars to see a doctor (it's a generous plan and one reason I wasn't so exited about the recent strike).

My regular doctor wasn't there yesterday, but I got the guy on call in about ten minutes. He had an odd, somewhat ghoulish bedside manner and an intellectual curiosity I've found to be rare in doctors. He asked all the right questions, then shared his suspicions. He said one of the causes of diverticulitis is a childhood diet high on processed foods and low on fiber. Here was my childhood diet:

Cheerios (Rice Krinkles came later)

Hamburgers (cheese came later)

Macaroni and Cheese (preceding the cheese on hamburgers by a good few years)

The doctor said the short term treatment is antibiotics. When I told him how antibiotics have helped me in the past, he practically jumped out of his chair with excitement. "Fascinating!" he boomed. He ordered up some tests right away. But then his mood darkened.

In rare cases, surgery is required, he warned, when there's an abscess that won't go away. He leaned forward, fully engaged, as if ready to spring--the same position he would soon take to check my prostate. "It's a messy surgery," the doctor began eagerly, "as is any operation involving the bowels..."

Down the hall, in radiology, I was completely unprepared for what happened next. It was a CAT scan, preceded by a barium enema, administered by a man who was terrified I was going to shit on the table.

"You're going to feel like you have to go to the bathroom," he said, as he blew up a balloon in my ass. "You can't do it."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I said, panicked. "I'm here for my stomach, it's not good, it's bad, this is crazy. I can't make any promises."

"You can't do it."

"Does it happen sometimes? Here on the table?"

"It happens."

Well, I held it like a pilot on Prevacid. The doctor got the results, and it confirmed his hypothesis. I have diverticulitis (but not the dreaded abscesses). I got the meds from the pharmacy on site, and I was out of the hospital within a couple hours of my arrival. The fact that all this happened on the same day is amazing to me.

A final note: While I was getting my blood taken, I asked the technician about the big new building. Bernie and I had been wondering what it was while it was being built. He said it's a gym with an indoor pool, for the residents and employees. And it was paid for by Jodie Foster. Has anyone heard anything about this? As far as I know, she hasn't sought a bit of publicity.

Not Picking Up Your Dog's Poop

It's 2008, right? I mean, I know that's not what it is according to certain other calendars (5768 according to the Jewish calendar) but generally we would all agree that we are in the 21st century. So why is it in this modern time that some of my neighbors haven't gotten the memo that leaving your dog's business on another person's lawn is not just an infraction of city municipal codes, it's just plain rude?

Amanda and I have tried to understand what type of person does this, and it still hasn't quite come into focus yet. I wouldn't put them in the same category as serial killers, yet they do -on some level- display similar sociopathic tendencies. The complete lack of regard for their fellow man and the absence of empathy or any notion of responsibility or guilt would seem to indicate that these people are fucked up. I mean, when you really think about it, how different is it from the offending neighbor himself just coming up and leaving a human "gift" on your lawn?

So after months of waking up and taking our own dog out to do his morning ritual only to find another dog's presents gracing our lawn, I finally decided to put up a sign. An admittedly cliched act, BUT I did go out of my way to be positive and encouraging rather than blowing a gasket. In fact, I even included Eco-friendly poop bags on the sign and encouraged passersby to use one if they needed to. Guess what was awaiting me the next morning only five feet from the sign? Yep. Another pile of crap. I'm equal parts pissed off and intrigued by whoever is doing this, and I've considered pointing a hidden video camera out my window at night to catch them in the act. But then what would I do? Confront them like the "Dateline: To Catch A Predator" host does? Greeting them with a DVD of their offense in my hand and a stern lecture? Hardly.

Any suggestions?