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Oliver!
By Johnny Green, Onna White, Carol Reed, Ron Moody, Shani Wallis
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Consider Yourself . . . Caught Off-GuardOPEN: JANUS FILE #0260
You can put the blame for this particular entry on iamangelachase, a LiveJournal user whose site I regularly read. In one of her recent entries, she talked about seeing a production of the musical Oliver! That triggered a bit of a memory flashback.
A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, when I was a student at Murray State University, the MSU Theatre opened one season with a production of Oliver! One of my majors was theatre arts, and I was working on the production. Backstage -- I was a techie.
One of the courses I was taking that semester was a requirement for my theatre arts major, "The Theatrical Experience." This was the theatre department's equivalent of Art Appreciation or Music Appreciation. As James I., the professor who taught the course, explained during the first class, they called the class "The Theatrical Experience" to make it sound more intriguing to nonmajors looking for a fine arts credit in their general education requirements. (It seemed to work -- It was one of those big lecture courses.)
One of the course requirements was that you had to attend all of that semester's productions, because James I. used them as examples in his lectures. Not a problem for me, of course; I was always working the productions, so I saw them several times.
(Yes, there is a connection between the class and the production. This is called setup.)
One of the songs in Oliver! is called "Who Will Buy?" This particular song is set on the streets of London, and before the title character starts singing, you hear four street vendors hawking their products. You also hear them in the background during the song.
First, there is a girl selling flowers, singing, "Who will buy my sweet red roses? Two blooms for one penny. Who will buy my sweet red roses? Two blooms for one penny."
Next comes a milkmaid, who sings, "Will you have any milk today, Mistress? Any milk today, Mistress?"
She is followed by a strawberry seller, who sings, "Ripe! Strawberries, ripe! Ripe! Strawberries, ripe!"
Finally, there is a knife grinder, singing, "Knives, knives to grind! Any knives to grind?"
In the MSU production, the strawberry seller was played by a music major named Jere. He had aspirations of being an opera singer, and I really hope that he has been successful. He had this amazingly beautiful tenor voice. He would make any finalist on American Idol sound like William Hung by comparison. But, I digress . . .
The week or so before the run of Oliver!, James I. was talking about it in class. Part of it, I suspect, was to remind everyone that they had to see the production. There were about a dozen of us in the class involved in the production, and obviously, this was not a concern for us. Included in that number were both myself and Jere, the strawberry seller.
The class before opening night, James I. played several musical selections from Oliver! in class, although I don't remember if it was the original Broadway cast album or the movie soundtrack. And as you probably have already guessed, one of the songs he played was "Who Will Buy?"
It was interesting to note the differences and similarities between the record and our production. In both cases, the knife grinder was a deep baritone. On the other hand, our milkmaid hadn't attempted to sing in the Cockney accent that we heard on the record.
Then we heard, "Ripe! Strawberries, ripe! Ripe! Strawberries, ripe!" The voice singing it was crisp, clear as a bell -- and most definitely soprano.
The dozen or so of us involved in the production immediately began laughing our heads off. Much to the confusion of the rest of the 100 some-odd (and some of us were rather odd) people in the class, who had to be wondering why we were all suddenly howling like a pack of hyenas. I don't think any of us tried to explain; they would learn soon enough.
And as I was trying to regain my composure, I'm almost certain I saw a grin peeking out from James I.'s bushy beard.
CLOSE: JANUS FILE #0260 | | |
| Buddy System?OPEN: JANUS FILE #0259
It started yesterday, with me furiously pedaling down Bardstown Road. I was trying to catch the #62 TARC, and I had only the vaguest idea of how much time remained before the bus would pass the section of Bardstown Road that was part of its route.
I was a little relieved when I reached this one particular stop. I knew that it was on the route for 62, and since I had not seen any sign of the bus, I was quite confident that I had not missed the bus. The reason I chose this stop was that there was a shelter with a bench, and I could take a few moments to sit and catch my breath.
There was also someone else waiting at the stop -- a young lady whom I will call Elissa, because that was the name printed on her name tag. As I dismounted from my bike, she asked me, "Do you know how much longer before the bus gets here?"
"Are you talking about the 62?"
"No, the 17," she replied, referring to the other route that covered that part of Bardstown Road. (Actually, the 17 covers all of Bardstown Road, but I digress.)
"Unfortunately, you just missed it," I said, because we had passed each other a few minutes earlier, during my mad rush to the bus stop.
To put it bluntly, Elissa was not happy over this revelation. She had to be at her job at Taco Bell within about 20 minutes, and it looked as though she was going to have to find another way to get there.
As she was calling her mother (at least, that's who I think she was calling), I opened my backpack, pulled out the collection of TARC schedules I carry with me, and started looking at the schedule for the #17. I checked my watch, then told Elissa, "You're in luck. There's another 17 that should be here within about seven or eight minutes -- assuming that the bus is on time, of course." (Never a safe thing to assume with TARC, unfortunately.) I consulted the schedule again, then continued, "And you should be only a minute or two late getting to work."
My own bus was reaching the stop at this point. As I put my bike on the rack and boarded the bus, I said, "I hope you make it to work on time." She thanked me for my help, and I went on my merry way.
A few hours later, I had completed the various errands that I had been running, and I decided to make a run for the border for dinner. I don't think I had made a conscious decision to do so, but I picked the Taco Bell where Elissa worked. (I will point out that it is also the Taco Bell closest to where I live.)
Elissa saw me as soon as I walked in, and she remembered me. (Well, I guess this ugly face of mine is somewhat memorable.) She said, "Hey, TARC buddy!" I had to chuckle at that one. I've been called a lot of things (some of them even true), but this was a new one.
I asked her, "Did you make it here on time?"
"I was a minute or two late." She appeared to be in a good mood, so I'm guessing that she didn't get into trouble over it. And it was nice to know that I had done something right yesterday.
CLOSE: JANUS FILE #0259 | | |
| A Few Words On George CarlinOPEN: JANUS FILE #0258
I have seen a number of tributes to George Carlin since he died last week. I think the best tribute, however, came last night.
As you have undoubtedly heard at least once during the past week, when Saturday Night Live premiered on October 11, 1975, Carlin was the guest host for that first episode. As a tribute to him, NBC aired that episode last night.
Now, the show wasn't called Saturday Night Live when it premiered. There was another show with that title on ABC -- a variety show called Saturday Night Live With Howard Cosell, which had made its debut a few weeks earlier. I think it may have lasted all of a half season. But for its first season, the series now know as SNL was called NBC's Saturday Night.
I was a little surprised by the opening sketch of the episode. I was expecting one of the spectacular falls that Chevy Chase performed while he was a member of the cast (the "Not Ready For Prime Time Players"). Instead, Chase walked out at the end of the sketch (which featured Dan Ackroyd and John Belushi) to utter for the first time, "Live! From New York! It's Saturday Night!"
The opening credits ran a little differently than they do now. Carlin, as host, was mentioned first, followed by the other acts appearing that week. The Not Ready For Prime Time Players were mentioned last, and it sounded as though announcer Don Pardo fumbled that part of the opening. If I'm not mistaken, I think he tried to call them "The Not Quite Ready For Prime Time Players."
The show began in earnest with Carlin performing a monologue on football versus baseball. The producers didn't incorporate Carlin into any of the sketches; instead, he performed four different monologues during the course of the program.
The musical guests for the episode were Billy Preston and Janis Ian. Each performed twice. The first songs were recognizable hits for each; "Nothing From Nothing" for Preston and "At 17" for Ian. I was not familiar with the second songs that either performed, although I am guessing that they were probably included on albums that both had released at the time.
The musical guests provided a contrast of moods. Billy Preston's music has an infectious bounce to it; something that could make even the dreariest and rainiest of days seem sunny. On the other hand, there is something about Janis Ian's music that can bring gloom, despair, and agony to a bright sunny day that doesn't have a hint of clouds in the sky. (Okay, so her music is a downer, or at least the songs that I've heard are. She's a science fiction fan, so there's at least something good about her. But I digress . . . )
George Carlin wasn’t the only comic to appear on SNL's first program. There was one female comic whose name I didn't recognize. She might have been an up-and-coming comic back in 1975, but as far as I know, she has faded into obscurity. (Remember, I said I didn't recognize her name, and I honestly can't remember seeing her any other time.) She did a decent job. I chuckled several times during her set, but she paled in comparison to Carlin. (Then again, the vast majority of comics pale in comparison to Carlin, so there's no shame in that.)
The other comic to appear on that first SNL was Andy Kaufman, and my only reaction to his performance is to wonder why people found him funny. His performance, such as it was, consisted of him turning on a record player. (A vinyl LP -- CDs wouldn't be around for another eight years.) The record was the theme from "Mighty Mouse," and once it started playing, Kaufman just stood there doing nothing. Until the point in the song where Mighty Mouse sang, "Here I come to save the day," that is. Then, Kaufman lip-synched those words, and those words only, while making a half-assed attempt to act out the line. Once that line was over, he went back to just standing on stage doing nothing until the line came again (the line appeared three times during the song). Once the song was over, he turned off the record player.
As I said, this was supposed to be funny? Even in 1975, this couldn't have been funny. If Kaufman had tried to lip-synch or pantomime the entire song, it might have been somewhat entertaining. But if anyone attempted this piece of crap on America's Got Talent, all three judges would hit their buzzers before Jerry Springer even made it offstage.
What I did find funny was a sketch featuring Jim Henson's Muppets. About the only way I can describe it is to say that it would not have been out of place on The Muppet Show a couple of years later. It's a shame that the Muppets only lasted a couple of months.
Films by Albert Brooks were a regular feature of SNL's early years, and this began with the first program. The first film shown was called "The Impossible Truth." It was made in the style of newsreels of the 1930s and 1940s, and presented several subjects (all quite fictional) in much the same way that the Ripley's Believe It Or Not TV series would several years later. I was never a fan of Brooks's films, but they were at least decently produced. Albert Brooks is at least a competent filmmaker, but he's no Albert Einstein. (Oh, wait a minute, he is. I forgot.)
One segment that has been part of SNL from the beginning is "Weekend Update." Chevy Chase was the original anchor, and he opened the segment with, "Good evening, I'm Chevy Chase." It would be at least another week before he started using his signature opening of "Good evening, I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not." Chase concluded the segment with, "Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow."
The initial Weekend Update did one thing that has not (to my knowledge) been repeated. One of the news stories concerned a murder at a place called The Blaine Hotel. (Presumably, this was a fictional New York hotel.) As the story went, this was the 38th rather gruesome murder that had occurred at the Blaine. Right after that, there was a short "promo" that announced, "While in New York, guests of Saturday Night stay at The Blaine Hotel."
There were a couple of other fake commercials in the first SNL. These were taped, and were repeated a number of times during the first year or two. The first was "New Dad," an insurance policy that went beyond taking care of a family"s financial needs. If you died, you could rest assured that New Dad would be there to take care of your family"s emotional (and other) needs.
The other fake commercial was for the "Triple Trac" razor -- a three-bladed shaving system. If this doesn't sound particularly funny, keep in mind that twin-blade razors had only been around for about a year. My friend Paul put it this way, while making an observation on Schick's four-bladed Quattro razor: "I can remember when three blades was the subject of a Saturday Night Live joke."
When the end credits rolled, for some reason, everyone was given the middle name "Bud." Lorne "Bud" Michaels, Chevy "Bud" Chase, et "Bud" cetera. This must have been an inside joke among the staff. And it was a little startling to see the old NBC logo at the end, probably because I had not seen it in so long.
It was interesting to watch that first episode of NBC's Saturday Night. I couldn't think of a better tribute to George Carlin.
And now, I would like to say a few words in memory of George Carlin:
Shit
Piss
Fuck
Cunt
Cocksucker
Motherfucker
Tits
CLOSE: JANUS FILE #0258 | | |
| Actually, I Don't Think I WAS ThinkingOPEN: JANUS FILE #0257
This particular entry goes out to Debra, the eponymous Barmaid of LiveJournal's barmaidblog. For one thing, this entry deals with her area of expertise. And she posted an entry yesterday after a few weeks of silence, which started this particular entry percolating in my mind. (Or at least dragged it out of my subconscious.)
As I have mentioned at least once or twice, I am a science fiction fan. And at most of the SF conventions I have attended, alcohol has usually been pretty easy to find. Mostly, this has been in the room parties during the evening.
Sometimes, the theme of the party will revolve around a particular drink. For instance, when Intersection, the 1995 World Science Fiction Convention, was bidding, their room parties featured shots of various single malt Scotches. (And it was at those parties where I developed an appreciation for single malt Scotch.) And when Bucconeer, the 1998 Worldcon, was bidding, their parties (and later the convention itself) had a pirate theme. All of the drinks they served were made with Captain Morgan rum. Which was actually quite appropriate, considering that the label art for Captain Morgan was done by SF artist Don Maitz. (I even have a label that was signed by Maitz.)
But the particular memory Debra's entry jogged loose from my memory goes back to 1998, to that year's Windycon. Friday night, I was making the rounds of the room parties, and I stopped by one rather low-key party. Their special libation was a shot that they called a "WITNOGWIT."
Curious as ever, I inquired as to the meaning behind the drink's name. One of the hosts handed me a shot, and invited me to discover the meaning for myself. Feeling as adventurous as I was curious, I took the shot, and I downed it.
As you have probably already deduced, WITNOGWIT is an acronym. Immediately after downing the shot, I uttered the phrase for which those letters stand:
"What In The Name Of God Was I Thinking?"
That drink burned. I mean, it burned. I think it may have missed most of my tongue, but it did a amazing job of scorching my esophagus. This was worse than Chinese hot mustard hot. I usually stop at the medium salsas, and this was many more times hotter than any medium salsa I had ever eaten.
Once I had downed the shot, the hosts handed me a sticker to wear on my shirt. It said, "On your knees, mortal -- I had a WITNOGWIT."
As I was blinking away the tears, I watched the host prepare another batch of shots. Now, they made WITNOGWITs in small batches -- two or three shots per batch. The recipe was burned into my mind (much like the drink itself had burned its way into my tongue and esophagus): One ounce of pepper vodka, one ounce of Hot Damn! cinnamon schnapps -- and three drops of Dave's Insanity Sauce. All right, now I understood why everything was burning so much. Dave's Insanity Sauce claims to be the hottest hot sauce on the planet -- probably in the entire solar system. The label cautions users to use only one drop at a time. (Well, I suppose I probably did get just one drop worth of that stuff in my shot.) The label also makes the claim that the sauce can strip floor wax and remove grease stains from concrete. And I had just slammed some of that stuff down my throat.
As I remember, from there, I went to the party thrown by The Millennium Philcon, the 2001 Worldcon. They had just won the site selection vote a couple of months earlier, and the main purpose of their party was to sell conversions for people who had voted, and get some new memberships as well. They were also serving ice cream at their party. Both the coldness of the ice cream and the milk content were a welcome relief when the ice cream hit my tongue. (And thankfully, most of my tastebuds were not whimpering in pain, so I could also appreciate the ice cream that way as well.)
Yes, I wore that sticker with a certain perverse pride the rest of the night. I do seem to remember cautioning at least one or two others to think twice before trying the shot.
There was one other rather unpleasant side-effect of the drink, which I discovered the following morning. It burned coming out as well. (I'll leave the details to your imagination.) Yes, I was on the verge of tears again, and I found myself felling very happy that I had not had to vomit that night.
The same group was throwing a party at Windycon the following year. I went by the party, but this time I declined a WITNOGWIT. I told the host that I had tried it the previous year, and that one time was more than enough for me.
CLOSE: JANUS FILE #0257 | | |
| The Story Of Marvin, Part 2OPEN: JANUS FILE #0256
NOTE: I have been meaning to write this entry for some time. Ever since I posted part 1 of "The Story Of Marvin" (Janus File #0101, posted June 7, 2005). I should thank one of my Xanga readers, KNEESOXROCK, for reminding that I had left this entry on a cliffhanger when she left a comment a few weeks ago. (And by the way, she's right -- knee socks do rock.)
If I were doing this similar to a two-part episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, this entry would open with Majel Barrett giving the opening narration. If it were Buffy The Vampire Slayer, the voice would be that of Anthony Stewart Head. With Criminal Minds, it would probably be Thomas Gibson. But since this has no audio, imagine your favorite actor or actress narrating the following paragraph or two. (And let me know who you imagined; I’m a little curious.)
Previously, in The Janus Files . . .
I was recounting my incident with a kidney stone in 1995. After enduring two rather remarkable bouts of pain, I had a sudden insight as to the cause during a third (and even more intense) pain attack. My parents drove me to the emergency room at Clark Memorial Hospital (at 3:00 on a Sunday morning), where a few tests confirmed what I suspected -- I had a kidney stone. As soon as the admissions desk was open, I was admitted, with the idea that they would be able to flush out the stone. And that's where I stopped the entry, with those three dreaded words:
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
And now, the conclusion . . .
I was admitted just as breakfast was being served. I was given a menu, and I marked my meal selections for the day. No, I don't remember what I chose; this was more than a few years ago, remember? While my memory is pretty good, it's not that good.
After I was settled in, my parents said that they were going home. They said that they needed to get some sleep -- something about someone waking them up at 3:00 in the morning.
Sometime in the middle of the morning, I made a few phone calls. The first was to the editor of the fanzine whose deadline was that weekend. When he answered, I said, "Hey, guess what? I'm in Clark Memorial! I have a kidney stone!" I told him what had happened, and said that the material I was working on would be a day or so late. He said that they could wait a couple of days, but said to get it in as quickly as possible.
What probably surprised my editor was the amazingly cheerful and perky tone I used to deliver the message. Part of it was due to my admittedly twisted sense of humor, and part of it was my ability to fake perkiness, and even amp it up several notches. A good chunk of it, though, had to be the painkillers they had given me. I don't know what they gave me, but possibly for the first time ever, I really, truly understood the phrase "feeling no pain."
(To be completely honest, though, after the initial dose in the ER, I was given only one more painkiller shot. Not long after I was wheeled up into the hospital room, that first painkiller wore off, and the pain returned with a vengeance As I have said before, I have a high tolerance for pain, but this was pushing the limit of my ability to handle pain. They put another dose into my IV, and within seconds, the pain was dissipating. I didn't need anything after that episode. I don't know what they gave me, but now I can understand how some people can become addicted to painkillers.)
Another call went to my supervisor. This call was more along the lines of, "I finally figured out why I was feeling so lousy a few days ago." And yet another call went to my friend Michael, whose kidney stone encounter about a year earlier had given me the insight as to what was happening to me. Although as I recall, I think I talked to his wife, Susan. Both of those calls also started with an overly perky, "Hey, guess what? I'm in Clark Memorial! I have a kidney stone!" Teresa and Susan were used to my sense of humor by that point, but even then, I suspect I may have set new levels of twistedness.
After breakfast, I discovered a few interesting drawbacks to the situation. First, since they were attempting to flush out the kidney stone, the nurses were continually hooking new bags of saline solution to my IV. (Well, I think one bag lasted between two and three hours before it needed to be replaced.) And they were encouraging me to drink plenty of water. Eventually, of course, all that fluid had to come out. There was just one problem with going to the bathroom. The bathroom was only large enough for one person. There just wasn't room for the two of us -- and by "us," I mean me and the IV stand. I had to leave the IV stand just outside the door, and managed to close the door just enough to give myself at least some semblance of privacy.
And since the nurses needed to see if I had passed the stone, I had to pee into a plastic jug. Once I was finished, I let them know, and they poured everything through a strainer. (Slightly interesting fact: I learned that the maximum capacity of my bladder -- the one-more-drop-and-the-dam-bursts, waited-too-long limit -- is 500 milliliters.) During the day I was in the hospital, I didn't pass the stone. One nurse found what might have been the tiniest fragment of the stone in the strainer, but the stone itself decided to stay inside me.
There was one other problem with the IV. When they put the IV in my arm in the ER, they put in the inside of my left arm, right at the bend of the elbow. Judging from a few comments my nurses made, this was something that the people in the ER did on a regular basis, and was a constant source of irritation for them. I soon learned why. If I bent my elbow more than about 15 degrees, it would interrupt the flow of the IV, and an alarm on the IV stand would sound. One of the nurses would then have to come into my room and hit the reset button. After about the third or fourth time, I asked the nurse, "Why don't you show me how to do this?" She did, and it seemed to make things a little easier for all involved.
I seemed to recall getting a little bit of sleep during the morning. That afternoon, during visiting hours, my parents came back, looking a little better after getting some sleep. I was surprised by two other visitors -- Michael and Susan also decided to pay me a visit. As I remember, it was a fairly pleasant afternoon, other than the fact that I was in the hospital.
I think it was during that visit that I decided to give my kidney stone a name. Michael said that he had been told that for men, dealing with a kidney stone was the closest thing that comes to what women go through during childbirth. When Michael passed his kidney stone, he decided to name it "George." In a similar vein, I decided that I was going to name my kidney stone "Marvin." Isn't that delightful?
Late Monday morning, I received a visit from the urologist who had been referred to my case (whose name I no longer remember). He told me what would happen if I wasn't able to pass Marvin on my own. As the doctor told me, the procedure no longer involves any slicing or dicing, but I would be under general anesthesia. What they would be using is a very small fiber optic cable and a laser to vaporize the stone, which would then be flushed out of my body.
Now, I want you to think about something for a moment. They wouldn't be doing any cutting, so take a good guess as to how they would be getting that fiber optic cable to the stone. You will probably realize that I was less than eager to have this procedure performed, even if it would get rid of the stone.
I was finally discharged around midday Monday. It was a relief when the nurses took the IV out of my arm. For one thing, I could bend my left arm again without setting off an alarm. For another, I know I have mentioned a few times that I am trypanophobic. The IV was tolerable after the initial insertion, but it was still something of a nuisance. I was sent home with prescriptions for a couple of painkillers. I was also sent home with a jug, a couple of strainers, a vial for storing the stone once I passed it, and an appointment with the urologist a couple of weeks later.
The rest of my vacation went much more smoothly. I finished the articles on which I had been working before this little interruption, and I turned them in. I went by work mid-week to pick up my check, and gave everyone a rundown of what had happened. I remember peeing into that jug more than a few times, but nothing ever appeared in the strainer.
And I got ready for my road trip to Columbus, for Marcon. Mom thought I should take a pass on the convention. I wasn't going to do that, considering the money I had already spent on my membership. She was primarily worried that I would have another pain attack while in Columbus, and thought I should come home right away if I had one. I reminded her that I would be taking the painkillers with me, and depending on how strong they were, I might not be in any condition to drive after taking one.
As it turned out, the only time I needed one of the painkillers was Thursday night, the night before I left. As I was finishing dinner, a wave of pain hit again. I was going to ride out the pain, but Dad saw how much pain I was in, and pointed out that this was just the reason the doctor had prescribed the painkillers. I couldn't really argue with him on that point, so I took one of the pills, and I sat down on my bedroom floor. After about 30 minutes, the pain went away, and I was able to finish my packing. About 45 minutes after that, I was flying higher than the Space Shuttle. Oh, yeah, I definitely wouldn't be driving if I had to take another one of those.
In terms of the kidney stone, Marcon proved to be uneventful. While I may not have passed it during that weekend, neither did I have another pain attack. And I did have an interesting story to tell my friends.
The only thing resembling a problem was with my room. for obvious reasons, I did not want to be carrying the jug and other paraphernalia with me, so when I checked into the hotel, I asked for a room on the lowest floor possible. When I explained my situation, the hotel was able to comply quite readily with my request. The only problem there is that the guest rooms at the Hyatt Regency Columbus start on the fifth floor, and the convention activities took place on the first and second floors. Let's just say that I got real good at paying attention to when my bladder was approaching to full mark, finding the stairs, and making my way back to my room with all due alacrity.
I finally passed the stone a week or so after I returned to work. After describing what the doctors were having me do, my male co-workers were more than happy to steer clear of the restroom whenever I needed to go. I think they may have made a few jokes about it, but it’s nothing I wouldn't have done if one of them had been the one with the kidney stone.
We did have a few temps, and one of them came pretty close to pissing me off. After every visit to the restroom, I thoroughly rinsed the jug and strainer, and kept them in a plastic grocery bag. I put the bag in a somewhat out of the way spot, but this particular temp was being somewhat nosy, and looked inside the bag. When one of my co-workers and I explained why I was carrying all of this stuff, he seemed to think that this was one of the funniest things he had ever heard. As I was still trying to get rid of Marvin at that point, this was becoming something of a sore subject, and I was losing my sense of humor.
A little later, Teresa asked me about the matter. The temp had told her about finding my equipment, and to hear him tell the tale, I had left everything out in plain view. I told her how he had been nosing around uninvited, and that I didn't particularly appreciate what he had been doing. Somehow, I managed to keep from going into a full-blown rant on the matter Teresa hadn’t been too impressed with this guy, because I don’t remember seeing him after that night.
As I said, it was a week or so after my vacation that I finally passed the stone. I was at work, and while I was in the restroom, I felt . . . something. Not pain, not even what you would call discomfort -- just something that you normally don't feel. At the same time, I noticed a slight ripple in the urine stream, and I began to get a little excited. Was I finally rid of this nuisance?
When I was finished, I poured everything through the strainer as usual, and there was Marvin. I was alone in the restroom, and I all but shouted the first thing that went through my mind:
"This was causing all that pain?"
The kidney stone was roughly football-shaped, no more than five millimeters long. It was about the size of a pencil eraser. The main body was a reddish color, and it had three white spines sticking out, looking rather like the plates on the back of a stegosaurus. From all the pain I had endured, I thought Marvin would had to have been quite a bit larger than that.
I rather happily announced to my co-workers that I had finally passed the stone, and showed it to them. They were just as surprised by Marvin's size as I was.
A few days after that, I had an appointment with the urologist, and I gave them the stone. A couple of weeks later, I had a follow-up appointment. The stone was calcium oxalate, which I have been told is the most common composition of kidney stones. The doctor told me that the stone could have been forming inside me for as long as 10 years. As I recall, he also said that there was an equal chance of this being a one-time affair, or something that might be recurring from then on.
He gave me a few suggestions to reduce the chances of having another Marvin. First, I had to be careful with my calcium intake (i.e. dairy). Second, I had to cut back on my salt intake (something I already did, and do). And third, I had to be careful with my intake of foods containing oxalic acid. These included dark greens (like spinach), nuts, cola drinks, and chocolate.
I restricted my intake of those foods for a while. I think it might have been as long as a couple of years. But eventually, I went back my pre-stone consumption. For one thing, I love cheese and yogurt way too much. And give up chocolate for good? Not going to happen.
I am following another of his suggestions. I am drinking plenty of water. The more fluid flowing through my kidneys, the less chance there is for the minerals to accumulate and form another stone.
I haven't had another kidney stone, so I'm going to guess at this point that Marvin was a one-time thing. I don't have any complaints about that.
CLOSE: JANUS FILE #0256 | | |
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