Flaming Pablum

Nerves, Needles & Numbness

So, today was the day I was scheduled to have my Nerve Conduction Velocity test on my feet. As you may remember from this recent series of weepy posts, I’ve been having escalating problems, punctuated by stiffness and numbness. Should you care, you can go back and read those posts, but in a nutshell, my podiatrist – Dr. Doolittle (not his actual name) – was having a hard time determining whether my problem was Morton’s Neuroma (basically an inflamed tumor on a nerve) or whether it was peripheral neuropathy (an irreversible condition that basically can only get worse and spread). Obviously, I’m hoping for the former and not the latter. I was told that an NCV test should clear up that mystery, so he went ahead and gave me an order for one.

The new problem, however, is that NCV tests come conjoined with EMG tests, which are electromyography examinations that measure electrical activity in a muscle’s response to a nerve’s stimulation. This is achieved via sticking big, fuckoff needles directly into those muscles which, Doolittle informed me, is usually “quite painful.” With that in mind, he wrote directly on the order to “only perform the NCV test,” sparing me the big, fuckoff needle portion. I appreciated that.

So, after Doolittle gave me that order, I wasn’t able to schedule an appointment for my NCV/EMG (without the EMG) for about three weeks. Over the course of those three weeks, meanwhile, my feet continued to be stiff, sore and numb. It’s usually worse in the mornings, for some reason, but the problem does not seem to follow a discernible pattern. The worrying numbness persists, in any case, so I was greatly looking forward to making some progress and determining what, exactly the problem was.

Today, after carving out some time from my workday (already not ideal), I limped across town to the podiatry building (same spot as Doolittle’s office) to have the velocity of my nerves conducted. I walked in, however, and the specialist assigned with handling the task brusquely said it couldn’t be done. Having only the NCV part of it wasn’t an option. It's a package deal. Special orders do upset us. If he were to even try doing only half, there was somehow a chance my insurance wouldn’t cover it and, if I understood him right, he might not get paid for it. That sounded a little farfetched, but I just reiterated that I was simply following the directive from Dr. Doolittle who – oh so conveniently – was not in the office. The specialist was getting all attitudinal about it, so I just said, “Look, I have another appointment with Doolittle in two weeks, so let’s just hold off until then, and we’ll take it from there.”

I made sure I wasn’t charged for these shenanigans, and then went back to my office, where I was sadly able to attend a meeting that I’d been looking forward to missing.

That is the very frustrating latest.

Nerve Quake: An Update on the Foot Issue

While I said I was going to stop complaining about this issue, I did say I’d relay any new developments, so here goes.

First up, I’d like to thank all the folks who’ve written in, both here and offline, expressing support and sharing their own comparable experiences. I never thought this quandary was unique to me, but it’s been heartening to hear what other people have done to combat this sort of thing, although one or two of the missives I fielded did kinda scare the crap out of me.

In any case, since my last post on this subject, I’d been following my new rules, for the most part, and trying to do the right thing. I started drinking more water, and I added a host of different supplements to my daily intake, specifically vitamins B, D and magnesium. In observance of things I’d read online (not always the best plan, admittedly), I started to steer clear of stuff like soft drinks, trans fats and carbs. I also paired down my consumption of both coffee and beer, basically cutting in half my ritualistic intake of the former and almost completely swearing off the latter, apart from a couple of pops on the weekends (which, of course, I immediately felt guilty about). Additionally, I tried wearing some compression socks (Bombas) and started doing certain exercises I’d spotted on some YouTube clips. At the same time, I still didn’t really have much to go on.

The last time I’d seen my podiatrist, Dr. Doolittle (again, not his actual name), he’d given me some mild injections and put me on an anti-inflammatory pill for two weeks. As I’d previously mentioned, I wasn’t sure if either of them — combined with all the other stuff I was doing — had any measurable benefit. In the interim, I’d started amassing a long list of questions to run by him to ideally get some clarity on the big question, that being whether I was dealing with a neuroma (ostensibly an isolated tumor on a nerve) or neuropathy (an irreversible, body-wide condition). I was obviously hoping for the former and dreading a formal diagnosis of the latter.

Earlier this week, I walked back over to his office for a follow-up. I relayed all the bullshit I just mentioned, and he listened patiently. In terms of my questions, he assured me that there are a couple of tests — notably a “nerve conduction velocity” test and a electromyography test, the latter of which is allegedly “quite painful” — to make the sort of determinations I’m after, but he didn’t see the need for either, just yet. At this stage, Doolittle is, in his own words, “confident” that my problem is a neuroma and not, in fact, the dread neuropathy. In a nutshell, he assured me that while these symptoms — specifically the numbness — I’m experiencing are giving me pause, he doesn’t see a need to worry about it — and nor should I. He recommended a new supplement — a combo of Lipoid Acid and the difficult-to-pronounce benfortiamine. We skipped any more injections, for now, and he said I could drop that anti-inflammatory and come back in six weeks.

As far as my other questions, he told me to stop wearing compression socks, as they can actually exacerbate a neuroma. Likewise, I should knock off those exercises I’d started doing, as they, too, can worsen a neuroma. He completely ruled out gout and diabetes, as those would have turned up on the blood tests. He said acupuncture is fine, as is continuing to consume water, bananas and, were I up to it, “mushroom coffee.” I asked him bluntly if dietary habits and/or intake of caffeine or alcohol had any effect on a neuroma, … and he said “not at all.” That evening, I celebrated unreservedly with a couple of pints of Guinness.

So, that’s where I’m at. I ordered up a bottle of the Lipoid Acid/Benfortiamine pills and am curious if they’ll make any noticeable difference. While I’m still without a concrete diagnosis, Doolittle’s convincing assurance that I “shouldn’t be worried” did indeed ease my mind. That all said, I’m going to try to continue to adhere to my not-as-many drinks during the course of the week regime, as cutting back is still a good idea.

Watch this space.

Still Here

I came to the realization, recently, that until I have something decisive to relay regarding my health issues (see these two posts for details), it’s probably best that I don’t discuss them further here, lest I lapse into a whingy spiral of complaint and self-pity. As mentioned on those previous two posts, I’m more than a little concerned, at the moment, but I’ve pretty much said all I can say, based on what little I know. I’m sincerely hoping that impending visits with my podiatrist and my primary care physician will shed a bit more light and provide a definitive, actionable diagnosis, but we’re not there yet.

I was also struck by the fact that while I am indeed grappling with this issue, it remains a significantly less serious grievance, thus far, than what some other folks are forced to contend with, so I should really shut the fuck up about it. I’ll share whatever results I learn, but there’s no point on blathering on about it here. At the same time, I can’t say that I have too much else to express, otherwise, as I remain pretty preoccupied with all this.

But just in case you think I’m now just resigned to sitting at home in a hair shirt, chastising myself, do rest assured that I’m continuing to do the stupid shit I'm normally found doing (although now without nearly as much beer). Last week, as invoked here, I trekked out to Bushwick to see The Art Gray Noizz Quintet with Lydia Lunch, Knife Thrower and the Skull Practitioners and the surprisingly lovely Sultan Room. It was an amazing show. A gent named Mitch from a Virginia Record store called Mitch’s Music Grapevine snapped my pic (below), flying the colors, so to speak. Life is continuing.

Anyway, thanks for reading. Watch this space.

Footnotes

Hi again, all. You might all be asking yourselves, “where’s Alex’s spittle-flecked rant about the latest DOGE misdeeds?” or “why nothing in commemoration of Jaz Coleman’s birthday?” or “How come we haven’t seen in any new posts about forgotten record shops?” Well, the simple answer is that I’ve basically been preoccupied grappling with the situation detailed in that last post.

I’m basically in limbo, I guess. I’m waiting to go back to my podiatrist (which happens two weeks from tomorrow) to get more of a handle on proceedings. I have a long list of questions to run by him – this being the guy I referred to as Doolittle -- regarding the do’s and don’ts of my current status. Now a couple of weeks in, the potential combination of the last pair of “mild steroid” injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and now a twice-daily pill of magnesium (400mg – allegedly effective against tingling, numbness, cramping in the feet) has conceivably relaxed my feet a little bit, but the numbness is still very persistent, especially in the mornings. I can’t say if there’s really been any progress or movement in the right direction or not.

Meanwhile, I’m basically overthinking everything and doing myself no favors by researching shit on the internet. In some instances, it seems I’m doomed to live the rest of my life with a limited menu of water, fish and bananas. The list of problematic things for a (possible) case of neuropathy strangely mirrors the things that allegedly make tinnitus (which I also suffer from) worse. These are the predictable biggies like, once again, alcohol, sugar, caffeine, salt, etc. The neuropathy no-no’s also include gluten, carbs, refined grains, and saturated fats. So, basically, I should swear off all beer, wine, coffee, red meat, desserts of all kinds, anything salty, all chips, white bread, wheat bread, rye bread, pasta, pizza, white rice, brown rice, cold cuts, popcorn, candy, donuts, baked goods, cheese, ice cream and all fast food. I figure, why not add oxygen, music and sex to that list and really seal the deal, eh?

As you might imagine, given that list, I’m currently caught perpetually bouncing between being scared, being angry and being very, very depressed.

Now, obviously, I can go without a lot of that stuff. Even the beer, which I truly love dearly, can be drastically reduced (I’ve already started doing this,… albeit begrudgingly). I’m not at all excited about making these …well … subtractions from my regular intake, but needs must, once again.

No, the stuff I’m most upset about is the looming possibility that my future mobility might be significantly hampered by this … and the pervasive realization that, much like with my tinnitus, this is a condition that, though my own blithe disregard, I brought upon myself. Now, while that might sound like the Catholic guilt talking (when in doubt … it’s YOUR OWN FAULT), it’s truly hard not to assign blame to my own irresponsible habits as the flashpoint of this problem.

Of course, there remains the (unlikely?) possibility that what I’m experiencing is a neuroma and not peripheral neuropathy, but I’m not the guy who can make that determination.

So, that’s where I am, right now.

Last Call for Alcohol?

I’m trying to put an exact date on it, but it strikes me that the first time I started complaining about my feet, here, was back in 2022. Out of the proverbial blue, I’d started experiencing weird sensations in my left foot. It wasn’t painful, but for some reason, my foot just wasn’t falling quite the same way. Something was off, although I was hard-pressed to find a clear way to describe it. A chiropractor I was consulting, at the time, prescribed some ineffective (but very expensive) insoles that did nothing to alleviate the issue.

Shortly after that, as detailed in this post, I stated experiencing regular sensations of blood rushing in my feet. It wasn’t tingling or soreness or stiffness (not yet at least), and – again – it wasn’t painful, but it was different and weird. A vascular doctor took a look and deduced that I had the “veins of a teenager,” so I should probably seek the counsel of a podiatrist.

By this point, I’d been feeling palpable discomfort in my feet, and my then-new podiatrist’s recommendation of using another pair of insoles also came with no positive results. I was then diagnosed with “avascular necrosis,” replete with the assertion that I had evidently broken a small bone in my foot without knowing it. This was followed by the directive to wear a heavy “Lo Cam” boot for five weeks, two summers back. That, too, did nothing to really alleviate any issues.

I ended up ditching that first podiatrist, as I never felt like he was taking me very seriously. In the interim, to combat the discomfort, I started wearing cushioned Hokas, which I, of course, bitched and moaned about here. Regardless, I continue to wear them pretty much exclusively.

After several months of wearing the Hokas, the discomfort I’d been regularly feeling in the arch of my left foot seemed to stop, but now my feet were stiff and … well … numb. And not just the left one (i.e the “problem foot”), but the right one as well.

I spoke with my primary care physician about it, and he had some vague theories, but sent me to a different podiatrist.

I liked this second podiatrist – let’s call him Dr. Doolittle -- much better. He put aside the notion of “avascular necrosis,” suggesting that while that did indeed show up on few of those earlier tests, it had likely dissipated on its own. What I was experiencing now was something different.

His idea was that it’s a neuroma, which is basically a tumor caused by an inflamed nerve. He gave my left foot an injection (some kind of mild steroid) and told me to add a vitamin B complex to my daily regimen. I did as I was instructed.

I honestly can’t say if that injection made a difference. Time went on, and my feet – both of them – continued to feel regularly stiff and numb, especially in the mornings. More months went by, and I went back to my primary care physician.

Dr. K finally spoke definitively on the subject, suggesting that what I had was “peripheral neuropathy.” Lots of things can cause and/or exacerbate this condition, and one of the biggest of these is – yes, wait for it – alcohol.

Now, Dr. K has long been a proponent of me cutting down on the beer, and while we humor each other about it, this particular exchange seemed pretty serious. On this, I decided to schedule another appointment with podiatrist Doolittle.

Doolittle wasn’t immediately sold on the neuropathy assertion, suggesting that neuromas can sometimes present as neuropathy, although the fact that I’m experiencing it in both feet does seem pretty damning. Doolittle gave me another pair of injections – one in each, and added a anti-inflammatory pill to my regular regimen, for two weeks, and also told me to start taking Vitamin E, as well. I said I’d comply and that I’d swing on back to see him the second week of March.

Since then, I’m very sad to say that the injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and the added dosages of vitamins B and E (to say nothing about the regular consumption of water and bananas) haven’t really made any discernible difference. I’ve drastically cut down on my beer intake (but not fully … just yet). I’m exploring the universe of disappointment that is non-alcoholic beer, wearing compression socks and doing my damned best to be a good boy, but I’m not feeling any relief. But then, if I’m correct, the nerve damage wrought by neuropathy – if that’s what this is – is likely permanent.

I’m going to stay the course, for now, as all signs seem to point to peripheral neuropathy, which means adjusting my diet, my habits and, of course, removing any and all alcohol. Goodbye beer forever?

If I don’t, neuropathy is evidently a progressive condition, so I’d be running the very real risk of it spreading, and I really don’t want to entertain that notion.

I go back and see Dr. Doolittle in about three and a half weeks. We shall see.

The Last Day of the Year

Try as I might, I really don’t have anything especially deep or profound to say about the final day of 2024. Whatever grievances you might still be harboring about proceedings during the past twelve months, I’d suggest it’s safe to say that, given the circumstances, what lies ahead probably stands a very great chance of being considerably worse. But, y’know, we’ll see.

For my part, it was a somewhat tempestuous holiday season, so I’m more or less glad we’re at the tail end of it. I ended up catching the Christmas fumes, so to speak, and overcompensated in the gift-giving department, if only to stave off a few other pervasive narratives that were threatening to overtake and sour the holiday. But, everyone got through it without any major tumult.

Speaking of overdoing it, I also feel that the time is nigh to give the ol’ “Dry January” another whirl. Yes, I know — laugh it up. Peruse through the December posts here going back several years, and you’ll doubtlessly discover myriad posts wherein I vowed to scale back and get through the entirety of the month without deviating, only to abandon the program only a scant couple of weeks — or in some instances only a few days — into it.

This year is different in that, given that my feet are still giving me a lot of problems (in a nutshell, my left foot is in a perpetual state of numbness, while my right foot is starting to replicate its counterpart). My primary care physician and my podiatrist only speculate vaguely about it, but assure me that, at the very least, it’s not gout. Gout, as I understand it, is comparatively very pronounced (i.e. really painful). This could be any number of things … a spinal issue, nerve damage, peripheral neuropathy and, if you Google it, several other dispiriting warning signs of potential problems. In any case, as I understand it, there’s a longstanding correlation between foot issues and alcohol consumption, so I’m curious to see if swearing off the stuff makes any difference. Watch this space.

But we’re not there, just yet. As the Specials used to sing, although they certainly didn’t write it, enjoy yourself … it’s later than you think.

See you of the other side.

Day of The Dad Shoes

In the wake of my summer of avascular necrosis, allegedly brought on by obliviously breaking a small bone – I honestly forget the name of it – on the underside of my foot, somehow, I started experimenting with some ideally more accommodating footwear to help acclimate and/or ease the discomfort brought on by the persistent ache in my arch and the disconcerting numbness in my toes – two conditions, I was told, that were basically here to stay.

At the suggestion of several folks, I started investigating this new (or new to me, anyway) brand of running shoe called Hokas. Whenever I spotted a pair on the street or in the elevator or wherever – which is easy to do, given the company’s dogged insistence on slapping their name in big block-capital letters across all their products – I’d frequently ask the wearer what they thought of them. To the last, every person in Hokas I asked spoke of them with a fervor that bordered on the rapturous.

I finally relented and limped over to the Hoka outlet on Fifth Avenue (which, incidentally, has since moved to a roomier location three or four blocks to the north). I was immediately skeptical. Regardless of the alleged podiatric benefits the shoes seamlessly provide, they looked like garishly colored clown shoes. But the store was positively hoppin’ with enthusiastic patrons. A salesperson working the floor engaged me and I dutifully unspooled my needlessly detailed tale of podalic woe, prompting her to recommend a “Bondi 8” model. I started perusing those and asked to try on a pair.

After all the street-side testimonials I’d fielded, it was kind of inevitable that the miraculuosly velvety caress I’d been expecting didn’t really materialize. I felt significantly taller in them than my already lofty six feet. But, in that fleeting instance, the problem foot felt newly cushioned … they didn’t feel bad, so I picked out a comparatively simple black pair (as opposed to their normal, retina-burning options like circus-in-town-style turquoise-&-orange, hot chartreuse, vomit rainbow and/or radioacitve-urine yellow), brought them to the counter and officially became a Hokalyte.

After a day or so of wearing them, I was moved to start writing a deeply ridiculous post for this here blog, weepily recounting my former habits of adjusting my sartorial choices based almost exclusively on my musical tastes. To that end, in my distant younger days, I’d started wearing black, hi-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars given that the Ramones wore them. Similarly, after hearing Jaz Coleman of Killing Joke extol their merits in an interview in the mid-`80s, I’d dutifully started wearing clunky black Doc Martens. In typical fashion, I floridly detailed my gradual embrace of other styles of footwear based on equally idiotic criteria (my stubborn fondness for Nike’s contraband Black N’ Tan dunk-lows, as detailed here). My intended takeaway, I suppose, was that I’d crossed a rubicon, of sorts, and was now forced to wear what essentially amounts to the dread “dad shoes,” and how – woe unto me – there is nothing cool about Hokas. You don’t, after all, see any sneery, post-punk iconoclasts wearing them, now do you?

In a fleeting moment of clear-headedness, however, I came to my senses and abanoned that waste-of-time entry. In walking around Manhattan, I now see Hokas on pretty much everybody -- jogging yuppies, irritating tech bros, balding dog-walkers, pony-tailed woo girls, disgruntled high schoolers, non-binary NYU students, grumpy octogenarians, nuns, everybody. I even bought myself a second pair (albeit not quite as cushiony). I’ve made my peace with them.

Or so I thought.

This morning, a reel popped up in my social media feeds of Michael McDonald – the high-piped fleet admiral of all things Yacht Rock – discussing the challenges of his keyboard parts on the title track of the Doobie Brothers’ Minute by Minute. And what was he wearing in this video? THE VERY SAME PAIR OF BLACK BONDI 8 HOKAS THAT I FIRST BOUGHT. Not Colin Newman of Wire. Not Cronos from Venom. Not East Bay Ray of the Dead Kennedsys. Not Daniel Ash from Bauhaus and Love & Rockets, but fuckin’ Michael McDonald of the friggin’ Doobie Brothers.

ARRGH!

On The Last Day: The 2023 Summer Survey

I wasn’t originally going to do another one of these, because … honestly … why would anyone care? But, then again, that same argument could be applied to pretty much every entry I post here, so, fuck it…here goes.

Defining Moment of Summer 2023
At the risk of drudging it all back up, I’d suggest the defining element of my summer involved my stupid, broken foot and having to wear that goddamn boot (see above) for four weeks. The worst of it is that here on the precipice of Autumn, it still doesn’t feel much better. I’m going back to see my quacky podiatrist in two weeks to discuss other courses of action, but it may be high time to find another doctor. Watch this space, if you care.

Best Purchase of Summer 2023
Back in June, we were invited to my nephew’s wedding, which was to be held in late August in Northern California. It was a “black-tie optional” event, so I used that as an excuse to go buy myself a proper black suit, hoping it would help me feel like more of a functioning adult. In it, I kid myself that I look like a reservoir dog, when the truth of the matter is probably closer to a middle-aged head waiter.

Best Meal of Summer 2023
Never mind just the summer, the best meal of my entire life took place in late June at a tiny eatery in Rome called Collene Emiliane. My main course was a dish simply called "Roast-Beef con purea,” which is basically just roast beef with mashed potatoes. I realize how banal that sounds, but it genuinely was the most lovingly prepared, succulent and immeasurably tasty meal I’ve ever consumed.

Best Concert of Summer 2023
Oliver and I saw some great shows, in the late Spring and earlier Summer, notably Depeche Mode back in April and then the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn in June. Both of those were great fun, but I’d have to say the best evening of live music I experienced this summer was only a few weeks back, seeing Calexico perform the entirety of their 2003 album, Feast of Wire at (le) Poisson Rouge over on Bleecker Street. They’re an amazing band, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Book You Read During Summer 2023
I read some fun stuff this summer, including “Heady Daze,” the second installment in the sprawling autobiographical series by Wayne Hussey of The Mission. I also enjoyed "World Travel," a collection of essays from the late Anthony Bourdain, “I Die Every Time I Hear the Sound” by Mike Doughty, “Nothin’ But a Good Time” by Tom Beaujour & Richard Bienstock,” as well as “Sweet Dreams: The Story of the New Romantics” by Dylan Jones. But, far and away, the best book I paged through this summer was “This Must Be the Place: Music, Community and Vanished Spaces in New York City” by Jesse Rifkin. I honestly cannot recommend it highly enough. Rifkin’s attention to chronological detail, musical minutia and geographical accuracy across multiple genres and local music scenes - from bongo-bangin’ folkies through Brooklynite hipster kids and the myriad musical tribes between them — is genuinely astonishing, and handled with a reverence that is inherently readable and illuminating. Even if you’re not familiar with the particulars in question, it’s an endlessly engaging journey. A MUST-READ book, full stop.

Best Movie of Summer 2023
I saw neither “Barbie” nor “Oppenheimer,” and feel not a jot of regret. I can’t actually think of a film I went to (as in, in a movie theatre) this summer, but I did quite enjoy “Squaring the Circle,” the new documentary about the album-cover design team of Hipgnosis. I also quite enjoyed “Living” with Bill Nighy, which was lovely.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2023
For father’s day, my son gave me a fetching Love & Rockets t-shirt (his latest favorite band).

Biggest Loss of Summer 2023
On a personal level, I actually went to three funerals, this summer, which seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Mercifully, no one in my immediate circle passed away, but these were extended family members (the siblings, fathers and godparents of in-laws, etc.), and I attended to show my support for those loved ones who suffered those losses. Beyond that, I have to say that the losses of both Pee Wee Herman and Sinead O’Connor were both painfully palpable.

Song That Sums Up the Summer of Summer 2023
I don’t know if there’s truly a single song that wraps it all up, for me, but if pressed, I’d say my favorite album of Summer 2023 would be Negative Stars by local noise-rock trio, Skull Practitioners. Their vocals need a bit of work, but they mine a compelling terrain that is reminiscent of several so-called “pigfuck” bands while also somehow calling to mind the noodley prog nuttsness of early King Crimson. On a song-level, though, being that our fleeting time out in Quogue, this summer, was largely scored by the strikingly limited playlist of Sirius XM’s “Yacht Rock Radio,” I’d probably have to cite “Diamond Girl” by Seals & Crofts as the tune that might continue to remind me of this summer. I also listened to the title track of Robyn Hitchcock's Shufflemania quite a bit. 

Happiest Memory of Summer 2023
While we bicker inanely like every other family, the fact that my wife and I had the pleasure of spending so much time with both of our kids, this summer, brought me much joy. We only packed our daughter back off to Scotland this past Friday. Summer is thus officially done and dusted, as far as I’m concerned.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2023
Learning of the sudden and awful fate of Jesse Malin after suffering a spinal stroke really took the wind out of my sails. During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses. At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys. May he swiftly recover from this latest setback.

Scariest Moment of Summer 2023
Apart from some testy moments when looking at my dwindling bank account, I’m relieved to say that Summer 2023 didn’t come with a great deal of sudden scares.

Word That Best Describes of Summer 2023
Over.

Puttin' The Boot In

I wasn’t going to post anything further about my stupid foot, but events took an unexpected turn, this week. Originally, you might remember, I was tasked with only having to wear the thing for three weeks. At the start of this ostensibly final week, however, I got in touch with my podiatrist to check in and he suggested that I should “stick with it for another week.” I was initially going to respond as to where he could stick it, but calmed down and thought better of it. I mean, after wearing it for 21 days, what’s another seven, right? It’s not that big of a deal.

Since last addressing the subject here, I’ve also started the “bone stimulation” treatments, which are in no manner as exciting as they might sound. It’s basically a little electronic device that I hook up to a strap around the “problem area” on my foot. I smear a little of this translucent jelly on its accompanying “transducer,” clip that into the strap and then sit with it for twenty minutes, ideally once a day. The device counts down the minutes, but I’ll be damned if I can feel it actually doing anything. I’m supposed to do that for about a month. We’ll see what happens.

Beyond all that bullshit, it’s pretty much business as usual. I’m not walking to work, during this phase, rather I’m taking the subway. While this is arguably less strain on the foot, it does mean humping it up and down a few flights of stairs, every morning, which is no fucking picnic. But, y’know, needs must.

I’m just really focussed on wrapping this up and moving forward, but the novelty has truly warn off. In terms of this blog, being that I’m not spending nearly as much time as I normally do walking these New York City streets, I’m not fielding the usual daily onslaught of random stimuli that regularly prompt any number of stupid entries I’d be posting here. Riding the R train four stops downtown and four stops back uptown just doesn’t inspire me in the same way. As such, I don’t have too much to share, at the moment, beyond frustrated banalities.

Watch this space.

"It Looks Worse Than It Is..."

Hey again, all. Once again, let me apologize for the slowdown in regular posting. Put simply, my life has been pretty much consumed by the otherwise dumb, workaday injury I’m vainly trying to get through. I’m almost a week into my boot sentence, and, ultimately, it’s all fine. I only have to wear it for three weeks, but it slows me down considerably and is completely clunky. But it is by no means a big deal. It does make me somewhat uncontrollably cranky, but c'est la guerre.

I am continually asked what happened, and I simply do not have a short, pithy response (and it’s assuredly nothing cool or sexy like a motorcycle accident or a shark attack), so I usually try to brush off the topic by saying that it looks worse than it is. If truth be told, I don’t even know if the boot is making a difference – I certainly don’t feel a pronounced improvement as yet, but I’m still waiting to start the “bone stimulation” treatments and still have two more weeks in the boot. It’s still early days, I guess.

This all said, wearing the boot curtails my walking time and eats up a lot of my energy, patience and attention, so my time ruminating about the usual subjects here has been a bit compromised. I’m also in a foul mood, a lot of the time, so it’s probably just as well that I’m not sitting here typing hostilities into the void.

But, again, in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that big of a deal. There are people with significantly greater problems in the world, so I should shut right the fuck up.

Have a happy Fourth!