Confrontation with Bloodthirsty Peasants Turns into Trip to Petting Zoo

Hungarian peasants have absolutely no idea about protesting. First of all, they were supposed to flood the city with gigantic farm implements, wrecking havoc with traffic. At the very least, block some bridges and the square in front of parlament. Bullshit. There were 10 (TEN) tractors, carefully cordoned off, on the sidewalk, not even remotely slowing down – much less clogging up - traffic, and exactly 19 (that’s nineteen – I counted them) peasants in winter coats. This is the same square where there were tens of thousands waiting to get shot in 1956. The same square where… blah blah blah. You get the idea. These people did not even chain themselves to their farm machinery. There was not a single SCYTHE present. There were no implements of mayhem present at all. I was really very disappointed. It turns out the peasant leadership was cold and they rented rooms in a neighboring office building – where they are now waiting for the minister of agriculture. The minister of agriculture is waiting for the peasants at the ministry. Both made statements to this effect on TV. I hope neither side blinks and we all starve to death.

So, petting zoo. Instead of berating the peasants for being such pussies, I walked to Margit island in the center of the city. This is Central Park a’la Hungary. It is really beautiful and green and it is in the middle of the river. I sat on the ruins of a 13th century convent and ate salty pretzels. I also withstood the temptation to buy hot spiced wine in a paper cup (also sold by the same vendor) despite a nearly overwhelming craving to act out one of my poems like some kind of a romantic ass. But I digress. There were a lot of two year olds staring suspiciously at the smelly ponies. I liked the birds, though. Now, you might think, what the hell can you do with birds in a petting zoo? These were not fuzzy wuzzy birds! The first bird that caught my eye was a GIGANTIC VULTURE with a beak the size of my head. He eyed me hungrily. I glanced at the sign on his cage. “Retisas” (golden eagle). What the fuck? Are my eyes deceiving me? I looked at the English translation. In English, this creature purported to be a “white tailed sea eagle”. I scratched my head. This was (1) no eagle (2) it had no white tail (3) the area supposedly inhabited by this critter did not include the sea. Anywhere. I examined the map on the cage thoroughly.
A two year old future field biologist squinted at the bird.
His father glared at me and faced his son. “Vulture.” He said, challenging me to say something.

I left the island and walked to my favorite café. This place is great. It is on Saint Steven boulevard (in Hungary, Saint Steven is like Washington in the US). The café has a fantastic view of the boulevard and it is always empty, so I can just sit facing the window and watch the people walk in front of the theater of comedy (this is not some kind of a stupid metaphor about life – there really is a theater of comedy) Frequently these people are really hot women which is nice. So I sit down and I order. Unfortunately, 20 years in America rubs off a bit, so I order in an American fashion.
“Can I please have a cup of coffee and a glass of mineral water?”
The waitress, a blonde cupcake in a pink haltertop, looks at me like I am from outer space. “Yes? You can have coffee and water?” She runs off muttering to herself.
Lesson learned: You don’t ask if you ‘can have’ something here. Of course you can have coffee and water in a goddamn café! That is what it’s there for. You demand it. I know. This is how you order: “I want coffee. I want water. Bring both. No bubbles. Raw meat on the side.” I actually placed this order once last summer and it went off without a hitch.

I am leaving to my doom in an hour - time to drool over Kate Beckinsale

I just saw The Aviator last night. I loved the FILM. I love Kate Beckinsale's rendition of Ava Gardner. I love Kate Beckinsale's rendition of anything, actually. I am not sure what happened in The Aviator, other than making me understand, fully, why Ava Gardner chewed through so many men. Drool drool. Is Kate Beckinsale single? Wrong question. Is Kate Beckinsale into me? I think she is! She is attracted to my handsome wit and my delightful, teary eyed blog. All hail Kate Beckinsale. I mean... I even watched Van Helsing, for crying out loud.

I am going to take a shower now and dress for my date with a Scythe or a Green Pea Harvester. If anyone can inform me what the proper name for a green pea harvester is, (or is willing to set me up with Kate Beckinsale) write me. This call for information probably means that I will look up the name of the machine and e-mail myself, addressing my ID as You, thereby deepening the elemental rift between my multiple personalities.

Dejected Counterdemonstrator Wannabe

Does anyone read this blog? I really don't think so. Reading over it, I am not surprised. I am going to the square in front of parliament tomorrow morning and engage in some good natured ribbing of the peasants who pitched camp there and who irritate the crap out of me. You see, the peasants (okay, farmers, but peasants sound so much more on point) are demonstrating against the socialist government because they did not get their subsidies. They brought in a ton of farm equipment and paralyzed the city. In typical Hungarian fashion, the minister of agriculture refuses to talk to 'politically motivated right wing lunatics' and the peasants refuse to talk to 'uppity ass commie bastards'. How anyone can call someone right wing when they are demanding EU subsidy payments... but I am starting to talk politics and I hate politics.

I am only going to look at this from the point of view of a bored urban intellectual. I am bored. I don't like peasants because they are boring. I am going to attack them with witty repartoire (probably misspelled repportaire). This will probably result in my death, and I will not be bored anymore. There. I am hoping for death by some kind of enormous farm machine, something extremely heavy and cruel looking, used to harvest green peas. At the very least, if I am killed by a hand operated farm implement, it better be a scythe.

Now there is a FINE tool! A scythe! That is the word of the day, as far as I'm concerned. This word has no vowel! It is a weapon! It is pronounced completely different from the way it is written, making it into one of those terrifying English words that make foreign people think that English is hard until they realize it is not.

I must say I eat well here, probably thanks to the peasants I am going to be killed by tomorrow. I breakfasted on fresh gooseliver pate (for those of you... wait, nobody is reading this blog, so what am I doing addressing people? I suppose I am reading myself.... Good. Now that we have established that I am a schitzo, let's move on - from now on, when you see the word 'you' I am referring to you, that is, me, you. Yes. You've got it). I just had fresh crepes with cottage cheese, apricot jam and raisins. This may sound odd, and it is, but what the hell. It is tasteee!

I finally understand Woman

I finally fully understand Woman. I understand her motivations, the root of her angst, her aches, her pains, her every whim. I understand the psychology required to get her to do stuff. All of it. I know what it takes to get her to give me a toy, or to make her eat her vegetables. It is straight up reverse psychology.
"You want to build a castle?"
(She hands me a block and immediately pulls it back. She screams) "I’m not giving it!"
"Well, then don’t give it. I don’t want it."
"I am giving it." (she hands me the block – a moment after I take possession she quickly takes it back)
"Well, if you are not going to give it, I will just let you build the castle yourself."
"I am giving it." (she hands me the block, sour eyed)
"Here we go. Let’s put this yellow one on top of this blue one…"
"No."
"Okay, you put a block on top of this block."
"I am not giving it."
"Uhm. Okay."
"Drink."
"You want something to drink?"
"Drink."
"Okay, let’s go get something to drink. What do you drink?"
"Raspberry."
This conversation is a capsule summary of all female/male interaction.
Note: She demands that you play with her but REFUSES to let you touch her blocks. Only after you have demonstrated your willingness and ability to LEAVE does she let you play with her blocks. Once you have committed to her game on her terms, she abandons the game entirely, in favor of drinking.

Distract Yourself from Shadow of Death by Setting Self on Fire

Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick.

Actual conversation between my mother's 60 year old girlfriend and yours truly (my mother is not a lesbian. I am referring to this woman as 'girlfriend' to denote familiarity and femaleness. Not that I have anything against lesbians - au contraire. Still, I like precision in my writing):

"What you need, what you need now, with your medical problems and all, is a distraction. You need to be distracted. You need to fall in love!"
(choking on water) "What?"
"You need to fall in love with some sexy girl!"
"Are you MAD?"
"What do you mean?"
"Have you ever been in love?"

This woman... This woman was not on drugs. She was not even very drunk. What was she thinking? Seriously!

My First Words Ever!

Actual conversation between my sister (Let's call her Katie) and her husband (let's call him Matt):

Matt: You know, my first word was 'car'. Don't you think that makes perfect sense? I mean, look at me! I really, really love cars!
Katie: Hahaha. My brother's first word was 'pussy'.

I love the word 'corpulent'.

I do. It conjures up such wondrous image. It is not simply fat - it is corrupted fat. It has no redeeming value at all. I love it.

Try to use it today in a sentence!

Example:
"My corpulent glows with the passion of a thousand suns."

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part 2

Dr. Bear shook his head. “I recognize the engine. That’s Perfectly Frank’s Suzuki Samurai. I asked him to come over.”
“Why? Who the hell is perfectly frank?”
“He is bringing weed. His name is Toad.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
Rabbit chose to precede his response with what he considered a thoughtful gaze. The door swung open, forestalling his words.
A fat man with excited brown eyes entered the tree. He had the ruddiest lips Rabbit has ever seen. He jumped up into the air, sniffing loudly.
“Oy! To be perfectly frank… the air in here stinks.”
“Uhm. Yes. It does.” Rabbit looked upon the invading primate with distaste. “I thought you were a toad.”
“I am Toad.”
“You are hairless… and you did jump. But you are no toad.”
“I am Toad.”
“Are you high?” Bear was drooling, great gobs of saliva hitting the ground with wet splats.
Toad chuckled. “Not yet… Just wait.” He produced a clear plastic bag of suspicious looking dried plant matter. “Huh? Oy!”
“Are you Australian?” Rabbit’s tone could have frozen liquid nitrogen.
“To be perfectly frank, I was born there.”
Rabbit nodded with a lazy, peaceful smile. He slowly sidled towards the flame thrower. “Is that so?”
Bear put a gigantic clawed paw on rabbit’s shoulder. His booming voice whispered in his ear, blasting his eardrum. “HE’S GOT WEED, RABBIT. DO NOT FRY HIM UNTIL HE GIVES US THE WEED.”
Toad’s hands froze over the plastic bag. His smile froze as well. He nodded. He smiled. He nodded. A single drop of perspiration condensed into existence in the geometric center of his forehead. The dewdrop of mortal fear fattened and ran down his nose, finally dropping to the ground.
“I THINK HE IS ON TO US, RABBIT.”
“Stop whispering, you ass.”
“Oh. I think he is on to us, Rabbit.”
Those excited brown eyes traversed the extent of the tree. “Uhm… Oy… So, where is Mr. Fox? I normally deal with Mr. Fox.”
“He had all the smoking he could handle.”
“Chuckle chuckle Dr. Bear. I am so amused.” Rabbit sighed and moved away from the flame thrower. “Don’t worry, Toad. I won’t kill you. Let’s smoke some and relax.”
Toad opened the bag and held it out to Rabbit. “Sniff this shit!”
Rabbit poked his nose into the bag. He breathed in deeply. “Holy shit.”
Bear looked on hopefully. “That good?”
“It smells like… it smells like… it SMELLS LIKE CATNIP. IT SMELLS LIKE FUCKING CATNIP. I AM GOING TO KILLLL YOOOOUUUU.”
“Cats like it! To be perfectly frank, you…”
“Shut up! Try being PERFECTLY FRIED!” Rabbit sprinted towards the weapon of mayhem.
Dr. Bear lied on top of it. “Maybe… maybe we can still smoke it.”
Rabbit skidded to a halt next to the gigantic furry ursanoid. He tried to tug the end of the barrel out from underneath the 2000 pound omnivore. “So…” he gasped. “What you are suggesting is that we smoke some catnip while we consume REFRIGERATED honey mixed with the charred ashes of my hereditary enemy?”
Dr. Bear thought about this. “Well, yeah.”
“To be perfectly frank,...”
“SHUT UP.” They said it in unison.
“Okay, okay…” Without another word he rolled a joint and faced Rabbit. He gazed upon his face and saw something so horrible, so elementally evil that he gave it to Dr. Bear instead.
“Light it for me. I have gigantic claws. Ever tried to use a lighter with gigantic claws? It’s a total pain, let me tell you.”
Toad lit the joint and passed it to Dr. Bear. The bear took a deep, satisfied drag. “That’s some good shit…” he mumbled. His eyes immediately took on a sedate, glassy sheen.
“Okay, now that just does it for me. Even if that was the greatest pot ever grown… You are too huge to get stoned from a single drag.”
Bear handed the joint over to Rabbit. His face was a blank, wondrous page in a long lost book of paradise. “mmmmmm….”
Rabbit sighed and accepted. He shrugged and breathed in the smoke.

Thank Bacon (Pork Part, not Literary Giant) for Shiny MRI Machine

So I went to get my MRI the other day. Does it sound like my life revolves around medical care? It does? Tough shit! I am happy to be alive, you condescending bastard. I talked to my neural surgeon today about what they have found.

An excerpt of that conversation follows.

"So... You liked the new MRI machine?"
"Yes - it was amazing. It was incredibly wide!"
"You can thank the pigs for that."
"Excuse me?"
"The pigs. You have not heard this before?"
"Uh... No. What do pigs have to do with the new MRI machine?"
"There is no money for health care in this country. There is money for meat. Pigs going for export to the EU must meet bacon thickness standards. They make money with the machine by MRI-ing the pigs."
"Really?" I tried to think back - did I smell anything funky while in the tube? I mean, how would they mask the odor? Does 100 miligrams of Xanax dull one's sense of smell? Am I supposed to feel insulted, or honored to be thrown in with the pigs?
"Yes. This is how they could afford the new machine. They scan pigs with it."
I nodded sagely. What else could I do?

Kevin Costner Seeking Dry Land Has Nothing on My Search for Lost Retainer

One of these days God will stop nickle and diming me and just scrag my ass. God did something to my retainer and it disappeared. The top one, the one it took forever to get used to. These are the kind of things God does to me on a constant basis. God takes my retainer. God hides my keys. God loses my personal statement in e-mail land that I sent to The New School ages ago. (Well, okay, so God tried to scrag me twice for real in the last 9 months, but (knock on wood) I keep living through it. One would think I would have acquired immunity to lesser scrag attempts by being at death’s door so many times, but noooooo….. These attempts to ANNOY me to death continue.)
If you wore braces for three years you become a bit touchy about your retainer. It feels important. You suffered so much, you don’t want to fuck it all up by not wearing it. This is why losing it is such an enormous pain in the ass. This is particularly true when you lose it on the rain soaked streets of Budapest, but you are not sure exactly on which street corner. You must understand that your retainer is your child. It is forlorn and abandoned in some filthy puddle next to some dog poo, incapable of carrying out its destiny. It is alone, without its friend and lover, the lovely Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I tried to create a psychic link with Retainer of the Upper Jaw by concentrating on Retainer of the Lower Jaw. I was unsuccessful. I retraced my steps. I get lost EVERYWHERE. For me to retrace my steps through the streets of Budapest is the functional equivalent of, say, a Shetland pony knitting a sweater. I tried to think back to where I last had it. Antique bookshop? I tried to find the antique bookshop. I could not find the antique bookshop. Where the hell was it? I opened the book I bought there and randomly stared at a poem, seeking inspiration. I am a big believer in random shit.

THE RUNAWAY BOY

Wunst I sassed my Pa, an’ he
Won’t stand that, an’ punished me, -
Nen when he was gone that day,
I slipped out an’ runned away.

I took all my copper-cents,
An’ clumbed over our back fence
In the jimpson-weeds ‘at growed
Ever’where all down the road.

(This book comes with illustrations. They are so syrupy I nearly wretched. I would include them but I fear them). Obviously, my retainer ran away because I mistreated it. It is all so clear to me now. You might ask yourself why I read this godawful shit. I am a big believer in horrible poetry. Not in mediocre poetry – anybody can write mediocre poetry. Anybody can write good poetry, when they get inspired or DUMPED. To write godforsaken crap like THE RUNAWAY BOY and get it published takes incredible perseverance and connections.

Dentist, Budapest Style

As luck would have it, I was scheduled to go and see the dentist that day. There was no formal appointment, just show up and ask to talk to him.
Hungarian dental care mimics medical care. They just don’t fuck around at the dentist. I arrived at the dentist’s office at 2pm. There were twenty people ahead of me. I said I just wanted a quick consultation. After five minutes, the receptionist called those who just wanted to talk to the dentist to go and see him one at a time. I was fourth. Within a half an hour I got to see him. I reminded him of our last encounter, the time when he yanked out all four of my wisdom teeth in a half an hour, without pain or proof of insurance, for 200 bucks.
“I lost my retainer – my top retainer only - two hours ago.” I felt like such an ASS.
Without another word, he fumbled around for a plastic tray looking thingie and shoved it in my mouth. I made mmmmphmm sounds. He pushed down on my jaw. Looking satisfied, he removed the tray and gave it to the technician. “Fill this with (whatever it was that he said was blue and looked like clay).”
He looked around in my mouth with a mirror (a clean one) as I detailed the rest of my problems. “Go get me an x-ray.”
“Okay.”
“Get it from the city, not from your mother’s town.”
“Okay.”
“I will tell you exactly where to get it from.”
“Okay.”
Without telling me that it was coming, he shoved the blue clay mold into my mouth. After it filled my soul with its blueness, he added like an afterthought: “Oh, breathe through your nose.”
I began to choke and made fashionable vomiting sounds. I did not have anything to eat since breakfast, thank god. I made very loud sounds, too. The door to the waiting room was wide open – they could not see me where I was, but the sounds coming out of my lips must have been totally disgusting.
He waited it out. I had a feeling I could have gotten sick and choked to death on my own effluvia and he still would not have removed the mold until it set. He waited.
I choked.
He waited.
Pleased, he removed the tray. “You have done well!” I added the grasshopper in my mind. I was sent on my way. Like I said, they don’t fuck around at the dentist.

You Can’t Get Blood Poisoning from Potatoes

Going home from the dentist was such an adventure. It really was. More nickel and dime shit, AGAIN.
“You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.”
I glanced over. These women were in their mid sixties. There were two of them facing each other sitting on one of Hungary’s light rail (HEV) trains. One of them, the one in the suspiciously camouflage type jacket, was holding up a torn, blood caked, filthy fingernail like some kind of power symbol.
“No. You can’t get blood poisoning from potatoes.” The woman in the blue coat said this in a calm, even tone. I think she would have used the same tone to say something like ‘no – you can’t die of drowning’.
A shrill whistling sound halted all conversation. After a momentary pause it became evident that gas was escaping. Somewhere. What kind of gas? Nobody seemed to know. Why was gas escaping? Nobody seemed to know. The train came to a gradual stop a hundred feet from the station. The intercom crackled to life. “We are stopping here to stop the gas from escaping. One sec.”
We blinked at one another. Apparently, this was not a cause for blind panic. The shrill whistling was coming from the cockpit in the back of the train. A conductor looking person forced his way through the electric doors. He was old and kind looking, sort of a country bumpkin in a uniform. God, he was blushing mightily. He disappeared in the cockpit and the shrill whistling sound cut off.
We started moving again.

Mr. Fox and Rabbit - Part I

“I have some good news – I no longer have any fear of death.” Muttered the little red fox.
Rabbit picked up the flamethrower. “Good.” Said Rabbit, fingering the trigger. “You are gonna need that.” He depressed the mechanism. Fiery plasma enveloped the suddenly shrieking orange ball of fur formerly known as Mr. Fox. Rabbit yawned.
“Time for honey.” Dr. Bear stepped over the cooling gristle on his way to the refrigerator.
“You always refrigerate your honey?” frowned Rabbit.
“Doesn’t everyone? I mean, it’s full of sugar. Don’t you refrigerate cake?”
Rabbit stared straight ahead, thinking about this. “Well… I don’t. I don’t even eat cake, though. I eat carrots. Only carrots. Sometimes I hunt, of course, for meat.”
“Do you eat the meat?” Bear finally had his paws around the pot of honey. His eyes roved over the impossibly complicated technology.
“Well, I tried to eat the meat once. I was sick for days. No, I don’t eat the meat.”
“Why do you hunt, then?”
“It is my god-given right as a forest-dwelling animal. I hunt.”
Bear simply dropped the pot. It shattered. The honey oozed all over Fox’s grisly remains. The immense ursanoid lowered his bulk and began to lick the sticky sweetness with his gigantic, raspy red tongue. “Tasty…” he mumbled.
“I can’t believe you would taint that wonderful honey with all those disgusting chemicals.”
Bear raised his head with obvious distaste. “Well, you are the one who had to use a flame thrower.”
“What else was I supposed to use? Screw him to death? Or maybe I was supposed to run away until he chased me to the point of a heart attack? How can you be so dumb?”
“I would kill you for that… but you are too fast to catch.”
“Or I can just fry you as well.” Rabbit trained the tube on the bear. “You would burn like he did.”
“Blah blah. Like you could pay the rent all by yourself.” The bear finished the honey. His maw was covered in sticky ash.
“Good point.” Rabbit lowered the weapon. “You do realize those ashes are carcinogenic? It’s not just the ash itself – it’s the heavy traces of kerosene.”
“I am fully aware that eating corpses is not healthy, even when they are dipped in honey. It’s not like I have never done it before.”
Rabbit looked interested. “Bears are scavengers?”
“Uhm. You remember Mr. Pig?”
“But Pig was not dead. He was just passed out, drunk, on his doorstep.”
Bear blushed. This was, of course, invisible under all that fur. You could tell he was blushing from his voice and from the way he shook his rump. “Oh… He was just passed out?”
“You didn’t… I guess you did. That explains why I have not seen him of late. Or the new, bleached white skull decoration in front of Mr. Pig’s door. That is not a reproduction, is it?”
“Who would have such a thing for art?”
“Pig would. Would have. Would have had? He always had morbidly bad taste.” Rabbit chuckled at his own joke. He looked up at the sound of the engine outside. “That better not be another lumberjack with a chainsaw.”
Dr. Bear shook his head. “I recognize the engine. That’s Perfectly Frank’s Suzuki Samurai. I asked him to come over.”
“Why? Who the hell is perfectly frank?”
“He is bringing weed. His name is Toad.”

Stabbed in the leg with a scissor = successful surgery

There is a nearly hypnotic quality to the nature of Hungarian health care. It is positively Ramboesque. Take the story of my leg. This was years ago, of course, yet the story retains its fresh, bloodthirsty edge. I drank a lot at the time. Madrases. A Madras is a cranberry-orange-vodka drink. For those of you who think I am gay, well, I am not.

So I drink. Drink some more. I drink again. This is an open bar, folks. I enjoy my drink. Suddenly, it begins to fog up a bit. I direct my stumbling feet towards the bathroom. The stalls inside this bathroom are very, very uncouth. When I say it is uncouth, I mean UNCOUTH. There are round holes in the wall. There is unidentifiable filth on the floor. There is the odor of ass sweat. It is very, very uncomfortable. I am here, however, and I am hugging that obscenely filthy toilet like she was my lover because there is no strength left in my legs and my soul wants to exit my corporeal body through my gullet. Upon finishing, there was no motivation left to operate my strangely empty body. I just sat there, crumpled up in the bathroom, on the floor. Could this possibly get any worse?

Knock knock. Who is there? It is I, says a familiar voice. Your GAY ENEMY. For those of you who assume that gay people are inevitably kind hearted interior decorator fashion plates who only get irate about wall hangings and white socks with loafers, let me give you a heavy dose of truth: You are so fucking wrong. Some gay people are perverted, evil crossdressing bastards who smuggle guns.

I inject strength into my legs with sheer willpower. When you spend willpower this way, you are really giving up your soul to satan. There is an instant exchange of goods and services involved when you get up ass-drunk from the floor of a filthy toilet to avoid being used for a cumrag. In essence, you (1) promise your virgin daughter, assuming you have one, as sacrifice to the Seth, the Donkey God of Egypt (2) and all your assets to go to the church of Scientology (which is really the same as (1), but I digress), in exchange for the ability to move 29 feet from the bathroom stall to some seat openly visible to the rest of the patrons, who would presumably scream if they saw obvious rape. Or not.

Maybe I am being uncharitable. Gay enemy shoves the door open. I assure you, at this point adrenaline is mixing with bile, cranberry, orange juice and the few leftover fumes of vodka in my stomach quite nicely. He gives me a triumphant, lazy stare down, mixed with equal part amusement. Let me tell you, this is not a cocktail you want served on your ass. In my desperate haste to stumble out of the stall, I hit my shin against some kind of THING jutting out of the floor. It was a part of the bathroom. The excruciating pain faded under the merciful haze of alcohol. I stumbled past ENEMY who looked at my leg with complete surprise and horror. I could see a terrible conflict occupy his entire face like a successful invasion of Russia: (1) Do I take advantage of this golden opportunity and annihilate the dignity of this troublesome being (2) or do I recognize the probability that there will come a time when I will be at his mercy, similarly drunk? (3) Am I satisfied with the probably fatal injury he chose to administer to HIMSELF? He chose (3). I will be eternally grateful. He helped me out of the bathroom and sat me down. A strange, surreal throb emanated from my left leg. I stared at it for a moment. That leg did not really belong to me, of course, it hurt so much the pain faded. Sometimes pain is so intense it fades. There was no blood on my pants, yet the cotton (I think it was cotton. It may have been wool. I don’t actually remember.) was ripped.

Weeks passed. The enormous purple bruise slowly turned brown. The enormous, brown bruise slowly turned BLACK. The pain was awful. I adopted the most effective remedy available to the uninsured: I CONSUMED ASPIRIN, in vast quantities. I am a devout believer in the healing power of Aspirin. I only refer to Aspirin in capital letters, such is my faith in Aspirin. I don’t even capitalize God on a consistent basis. Aspirin kept my pain bearable.

Slowly, the day of my departure to Hungary approached. I was looking forward to the annual visit to the family. First of all, I got to see my sister. Second of all, I got to see my Mom. Third of all, I got to see my Dad. Fourth of all, I got to see a Doctor. I communicated my need for a medical professional to my mother immediately upon arrival, as we extricate ourselves from the dinky-ass airport onto the dirt road with the hookers on it:
“Not that it’s a big deal, but it might be kind of cool if we could go and see a doctor.”
My mother looks at me with muted horror. She is fully aware that I only visit the Doctor when I am at death’s door. “Why?”
“I hit my leg.” I did not feel like talking to my birthgiver about (1) being catatonically drunk (2) at the mercy of a GAY ENEMY.

When we got home, she asked to see my leg. By this time, the limb looked like an ebony sculpture with accents of unhealthy looking ivory.
“What could you possibly do to your leg that could look like that?”
“I hit my leg.”
“Where?”
“At a club. I had a little bit too much to drink.”
My mother pulled her eyebrows together. I could her the wheels turning, grinding together like sandstone in a polishing machine. “That’s impossible.”
I shrugged. How do you respond to that? My mother called the neighbor, who was also a practicing surgeon at the local hospital. “Can you see my son please?” The unspoken qualifier: - ‘IDIOT’ son - was not spoken, but I heard it nonetheless.
If you want to get anything done in Hungary (or anywhere else, for that matter) you have to know people. This is really obvious in Hungary, though, because the place is really very very small. So when you are bumped to the head of the line because your mother knows the doctor, the hatred of the people in the waiting room is PERSONAL. It is not institutionalized hatred, like the hatred one has for the privileged boarding status of the handicapped or those with small children. No. It is hatred against YOU, a naked, panting desire to see you diagnosed with something completely horrible leading to death within TWO MINUTES. There are people in the waiting room who are BLEEDING all over themselves, yet my mother insists on shepherding you inside so the injury you suffered three months ago can be taken care of. Two fat peasant women mumbled to themselves and gave me the Evil Eye.

The surgeon looked at my leg.
“I know what this is.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You ruptured the membrane around your shin-bone (he used the Hungarian word for shin-bone. Sue me.) and the MASSIVE amount of internal bleeding filled up the space between the membrane and the bone. If this got infected I would have to amputate. If it SOLIDIFIED I WILL have to operate to scrape out the congealed blood. Let us hope it did not solidify.”
“So… So what is the procedure? When do we come back?”
My mother spoke. “Can we take care of this now?”
I gaped at her. What on earth was she suggesting?
“Sure. I can do this. Are you squeamish about blood, young man?”
“No. I am not squeamish.” I spoke in very clear, clipped tones.
“Good, then. We will give you a shot or two to dull the pain. Put your leg up on this table.”
Needless to say, this was not United States brand of healing. There were no x-rays, there was no consultation with important looking specialists, there was no gleaming MRI, antiseptic looking nurses in blue uniforms and countless forms demanding your social security number and signatures on releases. There was one old fat dude who stabbed my black leg with a needle twice until I felt nothing. He held out his hand to the nurse, an emaciated, withered crone with an angry scowl.
“Scalpel.”
She tossed him a knife. It looked like a razor sharp letter opener. He smiled at me and cut my leg open. He practically yawned. “Feel any pain, young man?”
“No, no problem.” I honestly felt no pain at all. I suspected if he really had to amputate, he would do it right here and now, with the letter opener.
Once he made the incision, he put down the knife on the table and picked up a pair of GIGANTIC SCISSORS. When I say GIGANTIC SCISSORS I mean GIGANTIC SCISSORS. He had the nurse hold my leg while he stabbed the scissors all the way into my leg until he hit bone. He slowly opened the scissors up with a hand on each (leg? Do scissors have legs?), smiling at me at the same time. Black oozing blood erupted from the opening like thick brackish lava from a new volcano. The surgeon pushed the flesh on my shin as if my entire leg was a gigantic zit and literally squeezed the black crap out of the wound until my leg turned a healing red. It was completely amazing.
“Now we sew you up and there you have it.”
My mother diplomatically gave the surgeon fifty bucks in Forints and there it was. I was healed. That was it. All thanks to Aspirin, which kept the goddamned blood from congealing, as it is a powerful anticoagulant, which is why my nose bleeds frequently when I consume Aspirin.

So I had to get my ears checked out. This requires the doctor to get a glance at your throat. I have no idea why this is. The doctor was very tall and incredibly thin with a dirty salt and pepper beard. His coat was white, the same way very old melting snow with dogpiss in it is white. He took his lab coat off as he began the examination.
“Good Lord. Look at my coat!” He gaped at the filthy stains. “It looks horrid!”
I smiled diplomatically. How do you respond to something like this? Did he think he was supposed to examine his coat? I nervously stood.
“Sit down, young man.” He pointed at the weather-beaten gray steel fold-out chair in front of him. I obeyed, terrified. He leaned very close to my face and pushed his knees in between my legs. He used his bony, withered legs to pry my knees apart. We were T HIS close. I chose to assume this was simply something he was used to doing with children that had to be examined. There was no separate pediatric department for audiology. The alternative was simply not something I was willing to contemplate. His fingers hovered over a tray full of metal implements, finally settling on one, a stainless steel mirror at the end of a disposable razor. He frowned as he looked at the metal surface, dotted with SOMETHING. The dots were vaguely white. He finally arrived at some kind of a decision and put his hand in his coat pocket. He pulled out a disposable lighter and made a couple of vague passes with his fitful BIC torch.

In slow motion, he approached my mouth with the ‘sterilized’ diagnostic tool. Three alternatives presented themselves, two of them classical and adrenaline based. (1) Fight – grab the thingie and shove it up his ass. (2) Flight – stand up and run away (3) or ask him to keep the thingie in the flame for another minute or two. None of these struck me as viable choices. He eliminated all of them in a single stroke by sticking the thingie in between my stunned lips – the metal tasted like gasoline and tobacco. Doctor Death kept continuously telling me to relax, like I was a whore with my first client.