Only by glancing at my gmail list the other day did I discover that my Bellevue WTC appointment was supposed to be on Monday the 21st, not Thursday the 24th. In all this time I hadn’t made it to the gym or lost any weight. So I packed up, with the dryer brush, and set off for TMPL. Around 54th and Broadway I realized I was too fatigued to do anything, and went home. Exactly a one-mile walk.
I slept much of the afternoon and evening, fitfully, waking in the wee hours in the midst of listening to Toland’s The Last 100 days, which is surprisingly good. Little gossipy asides about, eg, Patton sending men on a suicide mission to rescue his son-in-law.
At 7am I took impedimenta out of the bathtub, and showered and shampooed. Good thorough cleaning here, with conditioning from the L’Oreal dye box. Dried hair with towel, gun dryer, and brush dryer. Dressed and set out for the doctor’s at 8am or so, heading across 56th to Fifth, down a few blocks, over to Mad and Park, through GCT and down Lex. 145 E 32nd is on the east side of Lex. The office was nearly empty when I got there. A large fat negro at reception gave me a clipboard of paperwork, then made me fill it in again because I’d filled in spaces he hadn’t marked. Dr. Schiffman turned out to be a squat, kinky-haired woman of 55. Not a trained gerontologist but a pulmonary expert. I didn’t take clothes off or discuss my last period or pregnancy. Very cursory. I did have to give blood later, but that was no nuisance.
Then, up Lexington again to GCT, where I wandered about, looking for improvements. They have a red-and-white brasserie in the old waiting rooms on the 42nd St side. I bought jalapeño jack and gourmet crackers at the cheese shop in Grand Central Market.
Temptation overtook me when I got to 48th St and so I went to Sean’s. Spent over $40 on a huge burger and fries, and a double vodka on the rocks. Because the old guy who came in ordered a double vodka and that sounded like a good idea. I wrote a couple hundred words in the Muji diary (88). Will type them in at bottom.
When I got home and stripped down for a nap, I recalled that I’d stopped at The Travel Agency, a cannabis store, on Fifth, somewhere near the Scribner’s building. I’d bought a tiny bag of chocolate edibles. Opening it now, I found there was only one piece there, shaped like a dark-chocolate mustache. I was disappointed, and gobbled the whole thing down without reflecting that the 10 THC listed was what was contained in a much larger candy bar I bought out in Seattle in 2017.
So in a half-hour or so it hit me. Like a bad trip. Hallucinating with my eyes shut. All the horrible thoughts I’d had on acid or strong hash when I was 18. Cruel caricatures of me before my eyes, mocking me for the pathetic freak I am. Unstoned, little of any of this bothers me now, just as it did not when I was 18.
Cottonmouth. I kept staggering to my feet and filling a cup with water. After doing this two or three times, the dreadful, self-persecuting thoughts began to fade. Yet it must have been a 4-to-6-hour high in all, mostly unpleasant. A relief when early morning came, after some genuine, undisturbed sleep, and I knew the bad trip was now out of my system. I still staggered a bit when getting up. In the course of the next few hours I ate all the cheese and half the crackers I bought yesterday.
I remember going home after first couple months in college, for Thanksgiving, and smoking a little joint in the bedroom with the window open. At that point similar thoughts had flashed upon me, but they were happy and welcome. There was the sudden realization, not for the first time, that the sc was a-comin’, and inevitable.
My blood report from Bellevue shows that my LDL cholesterol is high, but my HDL cholesterol is in the good range. I thought Michael had some anti-cholesterol pills among his stashes, but I’m not seeing them around now. Perhaps I tossed them.
I’m thinking of going down to The Travel Agency and complaining. Bring the pack. I don’t really want more of this stuff. Maybe something indica.
Now I feel free, terribly free and reprieved. It’s Tuesday, and I don’t have to go see Schiffman in two days. Nothing on the books in fact until early Saturday morning, when I work Ferry and Amenities for Gov Is.
From Diary 88, yesterday:
21 OCT 2024
Sean’s Bar for the first time in maybe 6-7 years. Double shot of vodka because I haven’t had booze in a week and this looks like a half-pint in the big double-old-fashioned glass (more like triple-old-fashioned).
Fatigue from yesterday, when I went off to TMPL but turned home again halfway out. Slept pretty well, listening to J Toland’s Last 100 Days. Never listened before. Awful lot of tiring detail about crossing the Rhine. Lately it’s Operation Sunrise and the ineffably incompetent Reischsführer Himmler.
To my complete surprise, my WTC in-person appt at Bellevue was this morning, not the 24th. And I was all prepared to talk about my pregnancies, my chillun, but the subject never came up. I didn’t take my clothes off. Short, fat, rather jolly Dr. Leah Schiffman. They did take blood afterwards.
