Well, nothing's happened yet. This is just some text for the new 'this year' tags to point to. I saw Sherlock Holmes. I guess that might count as news? It's not too bad. Quite a lot of fun. The only problem was that every time someone said his name, I thought for a brief moment they were sarcastically pointing out that something was obvious.
Friday 22nd January 2010
This was the view from the balcony of my third-floor apartment in Riverside, California two days ago. It's been raining like this all week, with brief respite to grab the children from the streets before the torrential downpour begins anew. This would count as SNAFU in Ireland, but over here, people go crazy. I remember a few years ago when they had the equivalent of three days of constant drizzle and some houses in Santa Clarita fell over. Granted, as you can see, it's a bit worse than drizzle, but it's still just rain. Nevertheless, a state of emergency has been declared in Los Angeles County, Orange County, San Bernardino County, Siskiyou County and my own Riverside County.
At least over here, weather means something. It's hot and dry for nine cloudless months and then - BAM! - torrential downpour for a week (so far). In Ireland, the five-day forecast for any month can look like variety, but all these phrases say essentially the same thing: 'sunny spells'; 'some showers'; 'partly cloudy'; 'changeable'; and my personal favourite, 'becoming milder'.
Tuesday 6th April 2010
I have a cold. Because I am a man, I've been acting like a little bitch about it. I'm in bed all day coughing like a lunatic, sneezing and complaining to the walls. Yesterday morning, my lungs started to hurt. I made an amateur judgement that I might have pneumonia and wanted a doctor to look at me. I put "doctor" and "riverside" into Google and rang the first telephone number that came up. Keep in mind during this exchange, that I'm dealing mainly with Mexicans who, guessing from their heavy accents, are recent immigrants to this fair land.
"Hey, is this a doctor's?"
"What?"
"A doctor's. Are you a doctor's place?"
"Yes."
"Can I just wander in or do I have to make an appointment?"
"Hang on."
(he gets someone else, equally accented)
"Yes, how may I help you?"
"Can I come in for treatment? I'm sick."
"How did you get this number?"
"How what? I- internet. It was on the internet."
"Hm. You can come in."
That exchange should really have been sent me running in the opposite direction, but I was filled with a mixture of curiosity and mucous, and I had to know more. I was expecting a dark underground clinic. The sort of place mafia hitmen get stitched up after botched jobs. The sort of place which has a table stained red from blood, and a bonesaw swinging from a nail carelessly jammed into the wall. The sort of place where the doctor chain-smokes and wears a rubber apron.
Sadly, none of this transpired. It was just a regular doctor's office. The underlings made me do a bunch of stupid and borderline humiliating tests. Eventually the doctor came in to see me.
"So why are you here?"
"I have a cold. But I think it might be something more. I have a cough and I'm sneezing a lot and my lungs hurt."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah I woke up this morning with an Irish accent."
"What?"
"Everything I say comes out sounding like I'm an Irish person. Can't you tell?"
"I'm not sure-"
"Dude. I'm kidding. I'm actually from Ireland."
"What?"
"I'm just kidding. It's just a joke."
"Are you really sick?"
"No, yes. I'm really sick. I have a cold and so on. The joke was just that a cold could change my accent."
"Do you have insurance?"
"Yeah, here's my card."
"Ah. I can't see you."
"I'm standing right here."
"I mean I can't deal with you."
"I know what you meant! Dude. Are you not allowed jokes? Is this a Mexican thing or a doctor thing?"
"I'm Guatemalan."
"Oh. So. How are things in Guatemala?"
"I wouldn't know. I can't see you. You have a HMO."
"Is that contagious?"
(he waits silently, looking at me; eventually I figure out what's going on)
"I'm not joking this time! I actually want to know what I have."
"It's an insurance plan. It means you can only be seen by this doctor."
"The only doctor in the whole world I can see is that one guy?"
"Yes. It's a HMO."
"So I've just wasted your time?"
"Yes, you have."
"Oh. I'm sorry. So I just go now."
"Yes. You go now."
And that is the sum total of my experience with the US healthcare system. I'm not sure why everyone's so keen to hang on to it.
Sunday 1st August 2010
And so I have moved from my mountain retreat of Castlerock to live with people again. Back into the city. The noise, the lights, the squalor, the dirt, all of humanity's worst failings compressed so tight you can feel it every time you inhale. I have returned to where black people amble down the street in an asymmetric fashion, Mexicans roll along the sidewalk on bicycles that are way too small, and white people sit in the back of pick-up trucks parked in front yards and make out.
I was already in a squitty mood, due to spending most of my day lifting boxes of my books down three flights of stairs in 95 degree heat. After my last trip back to Castlerock, I made the mistake of leaving the bathroom door ajar. This allowed Leonard (my stupid dog) access to the trash can, the contents of which he proceeded to sort into its constituent parts, mainly by chewability, but also roughly by size. The smaller parts were thrown around the living room floor in a lovely pattern reminiscent of a Buddhist mandala, whereas the larger items of trash were distributed evenly on each step of the stairs. Also, there was a little gift for me on the carpet, thoughtfully wrapped in dog shit. Thanks, Leonard.
That night, sleep came reluctantly.
1:30 am - Leonard making some sort of weird noise. The kind of noise that should not be coming from a dog. I'd probably investigate if I wasn't in the twilight zone and needed some serious sleep.
2:00 am - An almighty itch heralds the dawn of some new mosquito bites. Despite locking my windows tight (which made my room much hotter than it needed to be), and taking various other precautions, the dirty little bitches managed to get in and drink my sweet, delicious, iron-rich blood. Horses have salt licks right? Can't we get blood licks for these things and leave them outside? I don't mind donating to the cause, I just don't like being itchy as hell for three days afterwards.
4:00 am - I wake to sounds of a child screaming from one of the apartments behind us. Then the sound of some parents slapping the shit out of him, which seemed to make him worse. This definitely qualifies as the sort of abuse you should report to Child Protection Services, but as I said I was very sleepy, not thinking clearly, and I might have been hallucinating. In the morning, none of the four other people in the house reported anything untoward.
4:30 am - People having sex. Loud sex, across the walkway. Normally in this situation I'd take photos and sell them to some sleazy website, but this time I just don't care. I want some sleep!
6:00 am - Leonard whines his intention to be let out. He won't stop until someone lets him out.
Altogether, I got about two or three hours of actual sleep. This will not do!