We interrupt this Shawn Story to bring you this breaking news. We are getting reports of, and I want to make sure I have this correct… an explosion, yes an explosion… in the oft discussed Molar # 2. We’re going live now to our correspondent in the field.

That’s right Brock, we can now confirm that there has been in fact been a very large, very painful explosion in Molar #2. Witnesses say that for the past year, all has been calm with this tooth and in fact we have been getting reports that Shawn was beginning to believe that perhaps the tide had turned in its tale of woe, but it appears now that the tooth problems are back, and in a major way.

Reliable sources tell us that on Sunday, March 9 Shawn went to bed with what some people here say was a “mild headache,” and then neighbors say he woke on Monday morning to a pain that was apparently intolerable.

“Um, yeah, I never thought this could happen to this kinda guy. He’s always so quiet and I never heard nothing from him. But like, you never know, you know? One day you could be enjoying a Slurpee with no problem and the next day, wham! A cold diet coke is enough to bring you to tears. I really can’t believe it. I mean, if this can happen to him, what about me? I got kids, you know?”

And Brock, we’re now being told that on Wednesday Shawn had reached his tipping point of pain and broke down and went to the dentist. But, and this cannot yet be confirmed, he apparently did not go to the same dentist who caused this problem so many months ago, but to a new dentist recommended by none other than his current boyfriend, Mason!

However, that dentist was stumped and Shawn was sent to an “endodontist,” which we now understand is a dentist that focuses solely on root canals. While there, Shawn learned that his former dentist had in fact not killed all of the bacteria lying in wait in the dark recesses of his tooth, and that it was only a matter of time before this kind of pain would reappear.

But Brock, I’ve heard from a number of people on the ground here that even more shocking than the fact that Shawn is yet again in agony because of Molar #2, but that also, upon leaving the endodontist’s office he was presented with a bill of One Thousand, Seven Hundred Dollars. That’s right, if you put seventeen one hundred dollar bills side by side, that would be equal to the amount Shawn now owes on molar #2. I, uh, I have to tell you Brock, I’ve been doing this for, well, for years now, and I can honestly say I’ve never, I’ve… never, I just, seventeen hundred dollars?! I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that while this will be a difficult hill for Shawn to climb, uh, we know he can do it and we’re all behind him. Back to you Brock.

Thank you, Silda. Our hearts and prayers are… what? I’m sorry?

Excuse me, this just in…really? No. I can’t believe it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry I have to be the one to share this with you, and I can… I can barely believe it myself… but it appears that, yes, we can now confirm, Shawn’s bedbugs have returned. That’s right, the bedbugs have returned! What appeared to be a few innocent flea bites on his ankles were apparently the work of his old friend the bedbug. Elliot, what can you tell us?

Well Brock, this is what we know. Shawn woke up a week ago with a few seemingly innocuous bites on his back and that while he thought it was possible that the bedbugs had returned, he didn’t think it very likely. After all, he had done everything he was supposed to do for some time now, and there had been no sign of them for well over a year.

But Brock, sources tell us those bites are actually the work of what is believed to be a pack of bedbugs hiding somewhere in his bedroom. Witnesses say that right now as we speak, with his tooth throbbing, Shawn is taking all of his clothing to the laundry mat, spraying his stuffed animals and pillows with some cancerous causing materials and awaiting the arrival of an exterminator to start the process of eradicating these evil, evil creatures from his room. His downstairs neighbor had this to say.

“I did not think that the bedbugs I brought to this building from being so filthy and disgusting would make their way to Shawn’s apartment. I honestly thought that the curry I cooked from dusk to dawn would keep them dizzy so that they couldn’t migrate from one apartment to the other. If he likes, one of the ten of us who live in this humble, one bedroom apartment directly downstairs from him can help him move his furniture to clean behind it? It is the least we can do. And please, tell him, if he needs some curry, to go to my store, Ali’s House of Curry and Grime.”

Brock, I will keep you as up to date as I can on this developing story, but as you can imagine, details are itchy, er I mean, sketchy. Back to you.

Thank you Elliot. And finally tonight, we bring you the harrowing tale of how one disc in a spine full of discs can wreak havoc on one man’s life. Cindy McCain is here to tell us that story. Cindy?

Brock, I’m sure you can relate when I say that back pain is no laughing matter. Ha ha. We’ve all had our aches in the morning, but how do you know when something is more serious than the everyday stiffness one gets from being caged in a Vietnamese prison for five years? Well, incredibly, this story also involves Shawn, and it began about a month ago when he began his weekend by throwing the windows open and giving his apartment a thorough cleaning.

After scrubbing every surface, and shining every fixture, he began the final task of mopping the hardwood floors throughout his apartment. All seemed fine until, he says, something in his chest seemed sore.

“I didn’t think anything of it really, just that maybe I had worked out at the gym too hard the day before. Cuz, you know, I’m hot. But by the time I was done with the floor, I was glad it was clean because I was in so much pain I had to lie on it.”

Shawn had experienced what is known in the shady world of chiropracty as “a slipped” or “herniated” disc, wherein the gelatinous material between the vertebrae in your spine seeps out and squeezes a few nerves in the surrounding area. The resulting sensation varies from person to person, but one thing is for sure; it is not pleasant. Pain radiates from one place, then another, as the nerve attempts to untangle itself from the jelly like material, and your fingers sometimes go numb.

Then, as all the other muscles in your back try to compensate for the muscles that the nerve is screwing up, your entire back seizes up and you can’t turn your head, look up, look down, or perform any variation of oral sex on your partner or partners. It is a terrible, brutal thing to watch and I hope that none of you have to. Brock?

Thank you Cindy. And what, if any, treatment is there for this horrible condition?

Well, treatments vary but Shawn’s doctor gave him a series of cortisone injections, followed by a steroid that allows the muscles to relax into their natural position, but also causes significant water weight gain. In fact, some nearby relatives of Shawn have said that it looks as if Shawn is carrying a small bowling ball where his abs used to be, though I’m sure they wouldn’t say that to his face. I’ve been told that he hasn’t been to the gym in five weeks – and counting – and that it shows. Brock?

Thank you. It must be terrible, awful really, for Shawn to have to go through all of these things at a time when he thought everything was going so well. I know if I were his friend, I would be sure to be extra supportive of him during these difficult times, and go out of my way to make certain that he knows he is my most favorite person in this wide, wide world. Or at the very least, I would give him a handy.

We now return you to your regular television program, already in progress.

Having a Ball

Oh readers. Oh fair lovers of my prose, I can’t imagine the pangs of withdrawal you’ve been suffering, the litany of despair you’ve been enduring while I was gallivanting around all summer. There I was tripping the light fantastic in the most exclusive haunts on the eastern seaboard while you, poor readers, were trolling the internet for entertainment like Lindsay on the bathroom floor scouring for remnants of blow. Save for one hot spell, we had great weather up here this year, and I took full advantage of it. I traversed the coast like a pixie, leaving droppings of cheer and humor wherever I went. And all the while you darlings met each new day with the hope that the sunrise brought with it another Shawn Story, only to watch the night fall with your prayers unanswered. I feel your pain, I do. It cuts me to the quick. But good news! Your wait is finally over. (I told you it was coming, negative nancies!)

Before jumping into my newest adventure, a quick update on all things Shawn. Everything… EVERYTHING… is working! I know I’ve just cursed it all, but my internet is great, my dvr is recording and playing away (if you’re not watching Mad Men you must) and there hasn’t been a bedbug in over a year. (Everyone knock your wood please.) There were no blackouts, no cell phone outages and no mysterious electronics failures. You might be saying to yourself “Well no WONDER he hasn’t written in so long; nothing is happening.”

On the contrary, this has been a summer chock full of Shawn Stories, and I’ll share them all with you in due time. But today’s post (and I warn you ADD types now, it’s going to be long) is what I like to call a Shawn Story Classic. Many of you may have heard the tale of woe I’m about to share with you, but I encourage you to read on because if you HAVE heard the story it was certainly after I’d had a few drinks and I probably left stuff out.

Picture it. Chelsea. Circa 2004. It’s Spring time. It’s dawn. Birds are chirping, young lovers are embracing and your beloved author lies deep in blissful slumber, dreams of Justin Timberlake making their way through his psyche. The boyfriend-at-the-time is lying next to me, and all is right with the world. As is often the case, your hero awakens with the urge to urinate and slowly he rolls over, stands up and plods to the bathroom. Half a step later, he is doubled over in pain.

“Self,” I think, “this is not good.” As I’m not entirely awake yet, I have difficulty pinpointing the cause of the pain at first, and assume it is a cramp from having to pee so badly. I take another step, and am quite nearly on the floor due to the excruciating spasm of pain making its way through my stomach. “Self,” I think, “this is really not good.”

I hobble to the door, quite unable to manage a normal stance, pull the door open ever so quietly so as not to awaken the clueless, er, I mean, slumbering boyfriend-at-the-time, close the door, flip on the hall light and let out a deep, elongated “Fuuuuuccccck.”

Save for my underwear (some very cute Calvin Klein tighty whities that cling in all the right places) I am naked. (Control yourselves.) I try to pinpoint the pain which is difficult, because like Paris going to jail, it’s everywhere. I poke around my chest; nope, all seems normal. Fearing the worst, I try to locate my appendix, but having retained only the plot of the Matthew Modine vehicle “Gross Anatomy” from my high school anatomy class I’m woefully unqualified to make such a diagnosis. Regardless, the pain is not centered in my abdomen; indeed, it’s lower. And to the right.

With no small amount of trepidation, I pull down the CK tighty whities to examine… down there. Normally, what I’m about to say would be a good thing, but in this case it was quite the opposite. You see, there was a LOT to investigate. So much in fact, that it became painfully and instantaneously obvious to me that my right testicle had ballooned to quite possibly four times its normal size. Again, usually I wouldn’t complain, but as this was accompanied by severe bouts of pain coursing through my stomach, I quickly determined that something was amiss.

No longer worried about disturbing boyfriend-at-the-time, I turned, opened the door as loudly as possible, and said in the calmest, most rational voice I could muster, “Hal, I think I need to go to the hospital.” After a few minutes of confusion on his part and frustration on mine (I may have screamed “It’s the size of a FUCKING BASEBALL, what do you mean does it hurt?!” but I can’t confirm that) we were on our way to lovely St. Vincent’s hospital in Greenwich Village.

On the way to the hospital, I thought it would be prudent to call my office and inform them that it was likely I wouldn’t be in. Of course you can’t drop a bomb like that without your co-worker asking what the problem is, so as politely and discreetly as I could I informed him that something in my right testicle had caused it to blow up like Britney’s back fat. (Ok, I’m done with the pop culture references.) For a moment all was silent, and then he said the words no one ever wants to hear in such a situation: “Let me take you off speaker phone.” Yes, the entire office had just been informed that I had a grapefruit where once there was a walnut. Or something like that. After my boss shouted “Is he walking in circles?” I hung up and made my way to the ER.

I’ve since learned that if you’re ever going to the emergency room for a non life-threatening situation, it’s best to call your primary care physician first. He/she usually knows someone at the ER and they can get you right in. (See, I entertain AND educate.) As it was, when I arrived at the ER it was painfully clear to me that this was going to be quite a long wait.

For those non-New Yorkers out there, St. Vincent’s Hospital is the southern most hospital in Manhattan yet it’s actually a few miles north of the bottom of the island. What that means is that every whacked out starving person, every coke’d up stock broker and every tweaking tranny between the Statue of Liberty and 14th Street goes to St. Vincent’s when they need to see a doctor fast. As you can imagine, there were quite a few people in line ahead of me.

Upon entering the waiting room at St. Vincent’s, two things become painfully clear. The first is that everyone in there has been there a really, really long time. The second is that there is neither hide nor hair of any person of authority. There is a person with a clipboard on a stool and that’s it. You are to walk up to this person, tell them your affliction, they take your temperature and pulse, and you cop a seat (if you’re lucky enough to get one.) The person managing the stool that morning was the cutest, kindest little old lady volunteer candy striper you ever did see. Although she wasn’t wearing a uniform, you could tell she believed her job to be the most important one there, and while I don’t know about that, she was probably the most qualified person to do it. She was so patient, with even the most difficult cracked out people, that when I got to her I felt almost dirty explaining to her what was wrong with me.

“My right testicle is swollen and in extreme pain” I said.

"Oh dear. Name?”

I have to admit, I was expecting a little more sympathy, but she clinically and expertly took my vitals and the like, then told me to take a seat and that a nurse would see me soon. As she clearly had a lot of time on her hands, I was sure the word “soon” was relative.

Some time later, I was called into triage where I got to tell the nurse the whole sordid story again: I woke up, my right testicle was thrice it’s normal size. (Thrice?! Nice!) I was in extreme pain and discomfort. No it didn’t hurt to urinate. No I was not having unsafe sex with random people. Yes I could touch it, but really didn’t want to. Yes, the swelling was visible. So on and so on.

Meanwhile, boyfriend-at-the-time had been waiting with me patiently on what was his one day off. Upon returning from the triage nurse, he informed me that he had to go, as he had lots of things to get done. Although my life wasn’t in any immediate danger, his suddenly was. I appreciate that he had one day off a week, but when your boyfriend of five years’ testicle explodes, you make the sacrifice. You just do. I let him know in no uncertain terms that my position was that he would either stay there, or suffer the consequences. I wasn’t sure what those were at the time, but I’m certain they were dire. He capitulated, and we sat. And waited for many, many hours.

I was then called into the actual ER by a somewhat handsome, but obviously exhausted, doctor. He brought me into a private room, shut the door and asked what the problem seemed to be. “Well,” I said, “I woke up this morning…” and told him the story. He didn’t seem too impressed, or even too interested really, and he casually asked me to remove my pants and CK tighty whities. Under normal circumstances, a guy that attractive asking me to remove my pants would have been given a very stiff reception, but there was none of that on this day. And really, everything was eclipsed by the ball anyway.

McFeely then decides that there’s only one way to determine what’s wrong with my poor teste, and starts kneading it through his thumb and forefinger. Ladies, let me tell you, don’t ever do this to your man, even when his ball is its normal size. It’s just not comfortable. A gentle cupping sure, or even a firm grab and tug is sometimes nice. But taking it and squeezing it between two rigid, cold fingers. Not so much.

McFeelys mc-feeling me pretty much caused the reaction you would expect, to which he replied “Oh that hurts?” Well Captain Obvious, if the tears didn’t give it away the scream should have. He removed his glove and decided that he could not determine anything until I had an ultrasound taken; once my family jewels had been properly photographed, he would be able to make a diagnosis and we would be on the road to recovery.

And that is a road I shall take you down next week. I promise, it’s worth the wait. In the meantime, gently take your testicles (or your boyfriend’s testicles) in your hand and tell them that you love them, and appreciate them for what they are. They have a way of letting you know when they’re unhappy.

Kisses.

No Excuses

Dude, I suck. Well, some of you knew that already, but seriously bro I’m a total loser. Two months! It’s been TWO MONTHS since I’ve been able to sit down in front of my computer and put together a Shawn Story worthy of my readers’ time. While I would love to come up with some fantastic excuse (like Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire finally came out of their closets and we had two months of trans-global three ways as we bounced to and from Spider man premieres) but sadly neither that, nor any other reason I could come up with could pardon my absence from the blogosphere. All I can say is I’ve been living the Shawn Story to end all Shawn Stories, and while I’d love to regale you all with it, I’m afraid I’m just a little too bitter about everything right now to objectively, and humorously, share it with you. Someday I’ll put it all down in an incredibly long entry, but for now I have to forgo that little missive until such time as I can think about it without getting angry. In the meantime, a quick update.

My dvr is… WORKING! Even on weekends! I can hardly believe it myself, but so far there’s been almost six uninterrupted weeks of television viewing pleasure. My teeth are… still screwed up. The gum by our old friend Molar #2 decided to grow over the crown rather than around it and that created a food trap bigger than Oprah. It quickly became infected, so I had to have emergency gum surgery. (The words emergency, gum and surgery should never be in the same sentence together.) There is nothing quite like sitting in a dental chair and hearing the pleasant “whheeer” of the drill all the while knowing it’s shredding your gumline to pieces.

Other than that, hold onto your seats because I actually have some good news for once. With the exception $1,000, I am officially debt free, and that will be taken care of with my fiscal year end bonus. I’d like to use that for an actual vacation (Phoenix anyone?!) but I will finally be free of the burden I’ve been carrying for six years and that will be a vacation in and of itself. And, in March I got a big, fat freakin raise so I decided that it was time for my ushering gig to come to an end. Not only am I excited to have my weekends back, but I am overjoyed to put a little space between the ex’s world and mine. Christ, there were pictures of him hanging up in the theatre; it was more than any normal person could bear and I’m glad to be done with it.

In other news, I’m kinda/sorta seeing a boy. He’s a total hottie, but he and his friends read my blog so I can’t say too much about him lest he learn all my dirty secrets. I will say that my friends who have met him or seen me with him are baffled at how disgustingly romantic we are. “Nauseating,” “barf inducing” and “sickeningly sweet” are just some of the colorful adjectives used to describe us. Who knew that despite everything that has happened over the past year I still had an affectionate bone left in my body? (Shut it dirty minds.) But that’s all I’m going to say about it, except that if he’s reading this GET A MYSPACE PAGE already so I can show people what you look like!

So campers, you are now completely up to date. See how quickly I can encapsulate two months? Hopefully that will be the longest stretch between entries, but I have a serious travel bug that needs some taking care of so I may be off to who knows where sometime soon.

In honor of the end of my ushering days I’d like to share with you my two favorite Shawn Ushering Stories. As I’m sure we all remember from our high school/college days, the service industry is a miserable existence. Whether it’s retail, fast food or waiting tables, people treat you like crap. The same can be said for the cultured masses who attend Broadway, only they’ve paid $100 or more for their ticket and they’re going to be damn sure you know it.

When I first started ushering, I was at a blissfully short show called Doubt. This show was a four person play that took place in a parochial school, so all in all it was very conversational and very, very quiet. On day one of my ushering gig, as I was nervously escorting patrons to their seats and fielding the same two questions over and over (where are the bathrooms and what time does the show let out), whom should I happen to seat but my former dentist, Dr. Thaw. (You may recall my having mentioned Dr. Thaw previously. I still swear, that is her real name.) My molar #2 would not be where it is today if it weren’t for sweet Dr. Thaw, and she holds a special place in my heart, but despite that I politely showed her to her seat and went on with my ushering duties.

The lights dimmed, the show started and I plopped down with my gameboy for an hour and a half of video game bliss. Two minutes later, Dr. Thaw runs to the back of the house holding her stomach and says to me “I need a bathroom. Fast.” I point her in the direction of the women’s room, which is unfortunately for her all the way across the theatre. I have to give her credit, she tried to make it on time. But alas, she did not. Just as the audience was settling in to the cadence of the show, a not so subtle “Blehhhggccchh” rang out from the last row. Luckily, she managed to avoid hitting anyone else with her projectile vomit, but there was what appeared to be the remains of a pasta dish on the floor, and the acrid smell we all know and love emanating throughout the theatre. She ralfed a couple more times, then made to the women’s room, where she sat for the rest of the very, very quiet show, barfing every few minutes. I called her the next morning to make sure she was still alive, and I was surprised to hear her as chipper as ever. “Bad fish” she says to me, and then has the chutzpah to say “You’re due for a cleaning.” As if.

Sadly, Doubt closed and I moved on to a show that I’m not allowed to name because my office is now representing the tour, but it was a horrible piece of theatre that I had to endure for many, many months. It got particularly bad when a certain American Idol loser joined the cast. Every piece of South Jersey trash decided to trek into the city to see their favorite long-haired reality show reject, and I could start a whole new blog with the stunts they pulled. But my absolute favorite was a family of four I like to call The TransFatties. Now before you all pinky commies start shouting “WEIGHTIST!” at me, the TransFatties redefined the gluttonous American we all have come to know and love. I’m sorry, but they were really, really… out of shape and had obviously spent way too much time enjoying Costco’s free samples. Just to be clear, I don’t begrudge someone their right to eat as much as they want, but there is a time and a place for everything, and no matter how overweight you may be, you cannot honestly believe that a Broadway theatre is an appropriate venue for you to whip out your bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

And yet, there they were, ensconced in their seats and chowing down on some Colonel Sanders. Surprisingly, they were shocked… SHOCKED I tell you… to learn that not only were they not allowed to consume their finger lickin good snacks, but that they ALSO weren’t allowed to even have food IN the theatre. Mr. TransFatty, blustered out some line about how he guessed things were different in “the city,” and went to throw his chicken away. Never one to waste food, Mrs. TransFatty had the nerve to ask if I could hold the food for her so that they could pick it up on the way out. I was on the early shift that day and as far as I was concerned whatever happened after I left wasn’t my problem, so I told Mrs. TransFatty that the usher Mary who reads tickets at the door would have it waiting for them. Poor Mary is 100 or so years old and can’t walk, and to this day I don’t know how it turned out, but something tells me she ate every last piece of that fried goodness.

Well readers, I could go on and on… seriously, I could… but like every good fashionista I know less is more. Until next time, I hope you all are enjoying your springtime weather and that you eat your KFC in the privacy of your own home.

Fortune's Fool

Well dear readers, once again I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. It has been a hell of a month. My DVR isn’t working on the weekends now, of course, but other than that my humble abode is doing ok. Oh wait, there is that whole broken window thing. (Another story, another time.)

Today’s blog is a little more personal than most, so if you’re in the mood for a glimpse of the inner workings of Shawn read on. If not, see you next time around. And those of you who keep nagging about the length of my blogs, no one said you had to read it all at once, but there is a certain flow to my stories and I don’t think you really get the full effect unless you commit to reading the whole thing. Just my two cents. And I’ll try to keep em shorter, ok?
Off we go.

Picture it. New York. 2000. Your beloved writer is living in Brooklyn, and had recently broken up with a boyfriend who he had also dated in college. For some reason, I invite this ex – we’ll call him Hank – to come visit me in New York. And for some reason, Hank decided (and I let him) bring the boy he’s seeing at the time, some nubile singer/actor type. Yes, there seem to be a few trends at work here, but I was not entirely over Hank at the time and while I should have never agreed to let twink come to New York, I did because I wanted Hank to be happy.

You can imagine my angst. Here I am longing for Hank, while the hottie boyfriend gets to cuddle with him and make obnoxious lovey dovey noises and all of that crap. In fact, I actually walked in on twink performing an unmentionable act on Hank. (It’s unmentionable because twink’s mouth was full at the time.) That was awkward.

Well, needless to say I was an emotional wreck, and to my friends’ credit they rallied around me in my hour of need so that I wouldn’t have to endure the new lovers’ bliss on my own.

On the final night of Hank’s visit, we all decided to go to a famous Chinese restaurant in the Village. All of my friends volunteered to go with me and support me in my hour of need, so we were a table of ten. I was surrounded by people who loved me, people who I loved and a person who I wanted to love, and it was a beautiful portrait of the infinite varieties of how we can be intertwined with the most amazing of people in the most random of ways.

Everyone but Hank and his twink knew what I was suffering through, so there were constant pats on the my knee, winks and smiles to comfort me, and I felt very touched. Still, I had an absolute volatile pounding in my heart and I had to make frequent bathroom trips to mute the tears (and of course pee.)

The meal came and went, delicious I might add, and along came the standard fortune cookies. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason (I’m thinking the free wine), the cookies became the most important thing in the world to me. I was convinced that my cookie would contain the answers to my questions about Hank, about how we should be together, and about how we could grow to live in gorgeous harmonic bliss for years to come. (Apparently I was anticipating a novel in my cookie.)

The tray with the cookies was set down in front of us, and I eyed each one carefully, hoping to receive a message or vibe from a specific cookie, saying “I’m the one, pick me.” I decided on the one that spoke to me the most, and my compatriots and I reached in and the unwrapping began.

The usual pithy fortunes ensued. “Love thyself and others will love you,” or “One’s neighbors are not always ones friends,” and so on. I paraphrase of course, but it seemed that night that everyone’s fortune were strangely in sync with where the readers happened to be in their lives. Everyone’s, even Hank’s, whose fortune said “Love blossoms in the most usual of places,” seemed dead on.

I was therefore convinced that my cookie held my entire future in its crispy golden goodness, that the core of my existence was printed on a crappy piece of paper baked into a cookie. It would tell me how to proceed, how to start our lives over, fresh and new, and how to finally move on.

I trembled as I picked it up and slowly tore open the cellophane wrapper. Careful not to break the cookie, I tugged at the seam of the wrapper until it popped open. I held it in my hand, caressing it for a moment longer than what would be considered normal, and thought about what I was holding, what the rest of my life would be like. That cookie contained my destiny and I wanted to cherish the moment. Everyone stared at me as I held my cookie, clearly wondering what the hell I was doing.

“All right,” I thought, “here we go.” I cracked open the cookie, slowly like Charlie with his Wonka Bar, and as it snapped in half I was holding my breath, anxiously awaiting the words that would put me on the path to peace.

The cookie, however, had altogether other plans. Dear readers, the cookie, that tasty treat I had entrusted my future to, was empty. No fortune whatsoever. No words of wisdom, no advice, no answers to anything, not even some lousy lottery numbers.

And suddenly it was clear to me; that WAS my future. Empty.

I excused myself to the restroom and cried and cried and cried. I was so confused and lost and frightened and I had put all my faith in that damn cookie. My friend Beth knocked on the door, clearly clued in to the fact that something was going on, and talked me down from my ridiculous precipice. It didn’t take her too long to convince me that the whole thing was completely, freakishly random, and I went back to that table with my head held high as I possibly could.

Hank and I are still great friends, I’ve gotten some fabulous fortune cookies since then, and I know that I will still be able to approach every table with my head held proudly high, ready to once again rip open that fortune cookie with abandon, no matter what the results may be.

I hope you all internet denizens are well.

Gotta go Gotta go Gotta go Right Now

It’s been way too long since I blogged last, so a quick update. My dvr isn’t working again, my #2 molar hurts and there’s a strange smell coming from the kitchen sink. Everything is normal! Thanks for all the comments on my last post; I love the stories, so keep ‘em coming.

All right campers, when last I left you I had just popped a few vicodin and gone into a haze of blissful oblivion. Despite having to change the gauze every few hours, and practicing a fun game of “put the ice on one side, put the ice on the other side,” I was comfortably ensconced in my cozy living room. John stayed the night, just in case I bled out or something, and he also loaned me a few movies from his absurd dvd collection. (I encourage everyone to take drugs and watch Amalee.) Save for one small problem, I would have had the ideal recuperative rest. But because this is a Shawn Story, you can guess it wasn’t that easy.

As most of you know, I have what can only be described as a minuscule bladder. In college my friend Nina tracked it, and a single can of diet coke led me on 8 trips to the bathroom within an hour. Movies are pretty much a waste of time for me; I have to avoid all liquids for hours before hand or I spend the entire evening climbing over people and running back and forth to the bathroom. During my recuperative period I was told to drink lots of water, so I was already anticipating a few late night emergency trips to the loo. Unfortunately, matters in my nether region became… complicated.

Back in those college days I wasn’t much of a player, despite my devastating good looks. Nonetheless there I was one day standing innocently in front of a urinal when it became painfully clear to me that something was wrong. Peeing felt like razor blades being forced through my unit. (All the boys are cringing right now.) Shocked, I consulted a few of my more experienced friends, whom all agreed that I had managed to contract a “social disease.” Being a college student I had no money, so off to the free clinic I went.

The Dr. assigned to me was a good southern Christian woman, who clearly had decided that I needed to be punished for my sins. She told me that she was going to perform some sort of “test,” and that while we wouldn’t have definitive results for a week, she would assume the test would come back positive and treat me with antibiotics. The “test,” she explained, would be somewhat “painful.” When someone is talking about your johnson, you don’t want to ever hear the word “painful,” especially when that person is a born again Christian who looks forward to the End Of Days. She went on to say that although even some FSU football players had cried during the exam, it would be very quick. She popped on rubber gloves, ordered me to drop my shorts and unveiled the longest Qtip I have ever seen.

“No,” I’m thinking.

Ohhh yes, dear readers, it went… there. And was swirled around a bit for good measure. (Cue the cringing again.) She plopped the swab into a baggie and said I could go. I hobbled home, feeling punished by the universe.

Until, that is, the test came back negative! I didn’t have one of those diseases after all. “But Shawn,” you ask, “what was it then?” Well, the evangelist doctor explained that it could have been some other infection, or even some very acidic juice (as in the orange juice with my vodkas), but that if the symptoms were gone, I shouldn’t worry, and thank god. So I didn’t worry.

In the years since then, the razor blade peeing, accompanied by the constant need to go, has come back to haunt me at least two or three times a year. As an official adult, I have health insurance, so a few years ago I decided to go to a urologist, whom I like to call Dr. PeePee. You could tell this guy was the real deal because he had a really thick Polish accent. I figured if anyone knew about suffering, it was a Pole.

Dr. PeePee felt around… down there, and around… inside there and then he fingered the problem: Acute Prostatitis. (Even my prostate is cute!) Apparently, I have an incurable malady of the prostate that results in painful urination, the constant urge to go followed by extreme bouts of what most of us know to be “pee shyness.” Oh joy. I guess I was happy to have an answer, but I was not so thrilled that it was incurable.

It is possible, Dr. PeePee explained, to treat the symptoms. One method is a medication that makes all those feelings of having to urinate go away, but also happens to turn your pee a delightful shade of rust. The other method is through what the doctor called a “sitzba.” I had never heard of a “sitzba” before, but I told Dr. PeePee I would get one right away. He looked at me strangely, and sent me on my way with a prescription of the rusty pee pill.

As the pharmacist took my scrip, I asked her if she might know where I could get one of these “sitsbas.”

“A sitsba?” she asked.

“Yes, a sitsba.”

“A sitz… bath?” she asked.

“Um, I guess,” I said, resigned to the fact that she had no idea what I was talking about.

She looked at my prescription, looked up and me and started laughing uncontrollably. She explained that “sitba” was Dr. PeePee’s Polish way of saying “Sit Bath,” which meant sitting in a tub of hot water for as long as you can stand it. Who knew? I mean, I wasn’t even aware there were positions other than sitting that one could bathe in, unless there are two people in the tub, and even then your options are limited.

So it was to be a lifetime of funky looking pee and long baths for me. I guess it could be worse right?

Yes, it can. Try a raging flare up of prostatitis during your recuperation from a wisdom tooth extraction. My bladder was already on overdrive from all the water I was drinking; now in my drugged up state, it felt like I had to pee ALL THE TIME. I would wake up from some trippy dream to realize that I seriously had to go, only to stumble to the bathroom and realize I had been tricked by my prostate once again. And when I actually could pee, it felt like my old friend the razor blade.

To make matters worse, as if they could be, I was so loopy I couldn’t really stand to pee like most boys, so I had to sit like a stupid girl. There I would sit, waiting for the razor blades, while holding ice to my face or changing gauze. I definitely fell asleep a few times. Once a bag of ice even slipped out of hand, and fell clumsily onto my boys. Few can imagine the surprise of a heavy bag of ice slamming into your bits and pieces, and I encourage you not to try.

While the holes where my teeth used to be eventually healed, this latest case of prostatitis has been the most stubborn one I’ve had in some time. Dr. PeePee has even gone so far as to prescribe six weeks worth of Cipro to try and nuke whatever infection is going on this time. At least I’m safe if we’re hit with anthrax. Meanwhile, I wait for the day when I can pee normally again. You’ll know it has come when you hear a really loud, long “Aaaaahhh.”

Until then dear readers, take care of your prostates and enjoy your sitbas. I know I will.

All right, all right campers! You have been clamoring for weeks now for me to update my blog, and I am happy to report that I am FINALLY able to satisfy your craving for a Shawn Story. Old Man Winter may have arrived last week in the form of three inches of the white stuff, but I’m all warm inside knowing there are millions of teeming fans endlessly clicking “refresh,” eagerly anticipating a new entry. So without further ado…

As you all know, I had the pleasure of having some wisdom teeth extracted a couple of weeks ago. Millions before me have had their wisdom teeth removed, and I’m sure by dental standards mine went as routinely as can be expected, but this wouldn’t be a Shawn Story if there weren’t some snafus.

On the eve of the surgery I hit the grocery store to stock up on supplies. I don’t know what’s available in other locales, but New York has a very limited variety of these commodities, so I pretty much had vanilla, chocolate or strawberry something. Despite my refined tastes, I also picked up some powdered mashed potatoes. My momma raised me right and I am happy to say that until this point in my life I have never had the pleasure of powdered mashed potatoes, but I am here to tell you that Betty Crocker saved my life. They were filling, warm and comforting and I highly recommend them to anyone who wants something soft and mushy in their mouth.

As it’s not such a great idea to traverse the streets of New York in an anesthesia induced haze on one’s own, my friend John graciously offered to see me to and from the surgeon’s office on the day of the surgery. We arrived at 12 noon on the dot, and surprisingly I was ushered in shortly thereafter. As I settled into the chair, Dr. K came in, grabbed my chart and said, “So what are we doing today?”

I was a little surprised that I had to tell HIM why I was there, but once his memory was refreshed, he was raring to go. Careful readers will recall that I was to have the top, left and right wisdom teeth removed, as well as an examination of the #2 molar on the right hand side. While Dr. K went through the list of all the calamities that were about to take place in my mouth, the Science Experiment of an assistant was laying out his barbarous implements of destruction. She then declared that I shouldn’t worry, everything was going to be fine. Well, if you can’t trust chubby Science Experiment, who can you trust?

Dr. K slid the IV expertly into my “extraordinary vein” (why, thank you Dr.) and said that in a few minutes I would feel very relaxed. The last thing I remember before crashing is wondering how much of the mixture running through my blood was made of the ketamine sitting on the counter, and then I was gone.

When I woke up, Dr. K was telling me that everything went very well and Science Experiment was cleaning up the now bloodied tray of instruments. I couldn’t really feel much except for an odd pressure in the back of my mouth. Science Experiment informed that this was perfectly normal, and I really wasn’t in much of a position to argue so I went with it.

As luck would have it, Science Experiment and I happen to live in the same neighborhood, and she decided now would be a great time to rub her bouncy belly and tell me how the noise of our neighbors’ Harleys made her feel “all wet inside.” Well, yuck. I smiled meekly as she helped me out of the chair and took me to the “recovery area.” The “recovery area” is a room about the size of a smallish bathroom, with no door but a bed built into the wall, and is conveniently placed in front of a window that looks into the lobby. Thus, when one is recovering from whatever atrocities have been done in the torture chambers nearby, all the anxious patients waiting outside can see you. I don’t think this is very good planning, but what do I know. As Science Experiment led me to the bed, my knee slammed right into the corner of it with a resounding “crack” and Science Experiment laughed and said “Everybody DOES that,” as if the thought of warning people never actually occurred to her.

I chilled out for a bit, and then was brought to the nearby reception area, where John joined me. The receptionist assigned to the task of talking me through the post-op protocols was a bespectacled, smarmy woman who had a habit of treating every object she touched as if it were made of the most fragile china.

She placed two small envelopes of gauze in front of me and told me when to change them and how, what to eat and when, and when to put ice on my face. I gave her the phone number for the pharmacy by my house and asked if she could call in the prescription for pain medicine so I wouldn’t have to wait, and she obligingly passed it off to a nurse, who made the call. She then reached into her printer, pulled out a piece of paper, gingerly brought it to me and placed it so delicately in front of me you would have thought it was the Magna Carta itself. She pushed her glasses down to the base of her nose and stared at me like I was her son and she had just caught me picking my nose.

I find it incredibly rude to present a bill to someone just as they’re coming out from under anesthesia, but maybe I’m naïve that way. Regardless, that’s what she had done, and after a few quiet seconds, I said something like “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“How do you want to take care of this today?”

Resigned to the fact that I would have to deal with this in a bit of a stupor, I took the bill and read through it. Of course the requisite sticker shock ensued, but upon careful review it became clear to me that something was amiss.

My more devoted readers will recall that my dentist had agreed to pay a portion of the bill because all of this was his fault. However, there was no mention of any adjustment on the actual bill. I mentioned as intelligibly as possible to the receptionist that there was supposed to be a portion of the bill taken care of. You would have thought I said “There is feces on your chin.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” she curtly replied.

“Dr. F was supposed to talk to Dr. K about it,” I mumbled.

“Again, I don’t know anything about that. I’ll have to ask Dr. K.” And with that, she popped out of her chair and bounced happily to the back of the office. Clearly this was a woman who loved sharing bad news, but then who better to work in a dental surgeon’s office? Even in my drug haze I realized that this was not going to end the way I wanted it to unless I took matters into my own hands. I asked John to pass me my cell phone and I called Dr. F.

Dr F., conveniently, was not in. Dr. K came out of whatever procedure he was in the middle of to inform me that Dr. F had in fact never even contacted him about my case, which was mildly surprising to me given that he was examining the #2 molar at the recommendation of Dr. F. I knew if I paid the bill in full I would never see my money again, so after some hemming and hawing on Dr. K’s part, and some quick thinking on my part, he agreed to take a copy of my credit card and let me sort it all out later.

It was at this moment that the nurse phoning in my prescription came out from around the other side of the desk and said in the most exacerbated voice I’ve ever heard, “Well I ain’t never heard THAT before.”

Receptionist popped up like a prairie dog from around the corner and said, “What?” Man, she really got off on bad news.

“The pharmacist said I can’t phone in the scrip. He say I got to give it to the patient and he got to bring it in to be filled.”Shocked, but clearly elated, Receptionist bellowed a hearty “What!?” and I put my head on my desk and sighed. Say it with me readers; this would not have happened in Chelsea.

“He said I can’t fill it over the phone and he hung up on me!””I can’t believe it!” Receptionist said with glee.

Dr K., upon hearing all of this, decided THIS was something he could ball up and be a man about, and said “Give me the number.” He called in the scrip, and then told me I should never go to that pharmacy again. I thanked Sherlock for his opinion, and John and I left.

John expertly hailed a cab, and off we went to Queens. It was upon arriving at the pharmacy that the Novocain began to wear off. As we trudged toward the back, prescriptions in hand (just in case), it became immediately clear to me that the five people in line before me weren’t getting their meds anytime soon, and thus I probably wouldn’t either. I was prepared to have a hissy, but held off.

Surprise of all surprises, Rashid the Pharmacist had not filled my prescription, despite Dr. K calling it in. So I dropped it off and mentally decided that Rashid had 20 minutes to get this done before I went postal and began throwing bloody wads of gauze at his turban. I’m not sure if it was 20 minutes or not, but when I hit the end of my rope and my pain threshold, I got back in line. Luckily Rashid had just put my precious pills in a bottle and called my name. John got me home, and I promptly entered into a Vicodin induced Jimmy Hendrix Experience. That’s some fun stuff.

Well readers, that’s it for today. I’ve been told that my blog, not unlike so many other things in my life, is too long so I’m going to wrap it up here. In my next installment, coming soon (I promise), you’ll learn more about me than you ever wanted to know and how my recovery was made even more difficult by a little friend that visits during the most inconvenient times. Until then, be well. And send Ricky Martin an email thanking him for giving George Bush the finger. Oooh, that’s livin la vida loca baby.