while Wachovia folds

So, what do you think about when your bank is about to fold?

Oddly, the dramatic passing of a kidney stone has been on my mind all morning. Have you had the pleasure? It's the closest thing to a male giving birth is what my oh so sensitive doctor told me at the time. Yes, the doctor was a male, so with you I ask...how the frig did he know?

Okay, your hero got up on a sub-zero, January morning in beautiful (in the summer) Belfast, Maine. It was a little before 5:00 AM. My job at the time involved shipping and receiving lobsters. This was in the late seventies, so there are a lot of variables in this story that some of you younger folks might not have a grasp on. For starters, getting up would be a tad euphemistic. I hadn't slept and had been imbibing heavily, smoking ganj and doing (as we called it then) an occasional bump of "toot" to get me through the night.

Now Belfast is a brick town that rolls down Main Street into the harbor. I lived at the corner of Main and High Streets, above the Belfast Cafe (hippy bar du jour) and across the street from Weaver's Dounut Shop...the locals bastion of sanity, where we "flatlanders" could mix with the natives. To navigate down the hill to lobster land, I required a large cup of Weaver's joe, black and hot. It had to be hot, because within forty steps the local weather started to sap the heat out of anything outside. That morning, like so many others my hangover (or, was I still drunk?) led me down the street, where I was to start sorting orders of hommerus Americanus for shipment around the nation and to spots in Europe. The salt air froze my moustache as I carried my many layered self down the dark road, the nasal hairs stiffened up while numbness worked its way from my extremities back to the core. My back always hurt, but that day it seemed to hurt a bit more.

Fumbling with the keys I let my self into the noisy, damp poorly lit building that housed thousands of pound of "bugs" that needed to be prepared for shipping. I was the first one there, and started the Joe DiMaggio coffee maker. The sound of the pumps was playing like Ginger Baker in my head. When the lights came on they revealed a soaked floor, levels of tanks filled with lobsters and crates piled randomly around the depressing workplace. I vaguely remember my back tweaking a little more than usual.

As the aroma from the Joe D machine started to meld with the rotting seafood pungency I headed to the crapper for a morning squirt.

The inside of the bathroom was unique in a couple of ways. There was a full length mirror in what could be the least needed place on earth. There was also and amazing rendition of the last supper hanging above the toilet. It was a montage done by my pal and co-worker Leo, an artist of wonderfully zany talent.

My back was really hurting as I unbuttoned my Levi's. I looked over at the mirror and there stood a real life action figure of a lobster shipper. Steel-toed rubber boots up to the knees of my salt-encrusted jeans. Flannel shirt over a waffled long underwear top and a down vest held together with half a roll of duct tape. On the top of my head was a fitted Cleveland Indians ball cap. My giant moustache drooped in a manner that exuded pain. I longed for a brace of percocets, or even a handful of codeine with Tylonol # 3.

I then turned my eyes to the last supper. Jesus also had an Indians hat on, and he had a Budweiser in front of him. One of the other guests was sporting full Sioux-Ogala headdress , and another wore an international orange hard hat. There were plates of oysters on the table, hamburgers and condiments were there, and there were large plates of chicken wings spread around for easy access. Of course, there were plates of steamed lobsters piled high and next to them were old school finger-bowls for cleaning up after the feast. All of these treats were being served by women who were dressed like Hooter's waitresses...but they didn't have all their teeth. I found something new in that painting every time I took a leak. I always hoped Waldo would show up.

Speaking of that I had started to pee...oddly, nothing was coming out of my penis. The pain was building and I sort of felt like there was going to be an explosion down there. And then there was! The next thing I knew I was on the floor spraying pee around the tiny bathroom. The pain was now excruciating. And then there was a spreading of relief in my back that was better than a narcotic experience. After a few minutes I stood, with my hands on the walls, and looked into the toilet bowl. My eyes were still good then, and it seemed like there was a tiny Siamese fighting fish in the bowl with a pinkish, diaphanous tail.

I buttoned up and headed to the office to sit down. Hours later my doctor confirmed that I had "probably" passed a kidney stone.

I'm more mature now...the bank going out of business can't hurt that much. Somebody will buy it, right?

The Mets have left their fans at the altar two years in a row. On the last day of the season! They need to find some relievers. It's funny, talk radio can not condemn Reyes, Beltran and Wright (the new Axis of Evil) enough. Look at their numbers, they'll work for this Indians fan. Any scrutiny of the bullpen, well, it just plain sucks.

Someone asked how long you had to live in northern California to drop your affiliation with the Rangers and become a Sharks fan. That's a tough question...it's either never or two hundred years...whatever comes first.

Here's the political news for today. One canidate said something shitty about another one. Then they did it again.

Maybe I should get my Wachovia assets and put it on the Ravens tonight...later, biff