Here it is, nearly midnight, but instead of writing my Dear Diary entry, I’m reading an interview with Michael Musto at The New York Review of Ideas. (No, I didn’t know about it either [the NYRI], not until yesterday.) It’s nice to know that Michael Musto is a nice person. Actually, I learned this recently from another interview, with the Times I think but perhaps Vanity Fair, a short piece in which it was established that Mr Musto (a) doesn’t drink alcohol and (b) visits his mother every Saturday. Or was it Sunday? Anyway, he goes out to the boroughs and spends an entire weekend day with his mother. His mother is one lucky woman, let me tell you. I used to see things from what we’ll call the Michael Musto point of view. Now I see them from the Mom point of view.

Meanwhile, did I tell you that I’m dying? Well, I’d be dying if it weren’t for — what is this crap called? — Flourouracil. See? Nobody gets that stuff unless death is around the corner. How do you say it, anyway? At first, it made me think of “toura loura lay,” but now I think it’s “floura you’re a sil[ly],” with “flour” pronounced as in “flourish.” Anyhoo, it’s supposed to kill cancer before it starts — a delicious conundrum, don’t you think? My scalp is basically radioactive with cancers — an abandoned nuclear testing ground, Chernobyl goes to Yorkville — planted by insenstive guardians during my youth, imbeciles who made me stand out in left field for hours at a time, despite the fact that I have never liked being in the sun. Some people find the sun warm and pleasant, but I find it hot and unpleasant. And I always have. Left to my own devices, I would not be in need of You’re A Silly.

I put off the goop for about a month, or perhaps it was more like six weeks. I played dumb and said, “Oh, was I supposed to put this on my head? I thought I was supposed to put it here [indicating clavicle] once you’d told me that the wound had healed.” About thirty years ago, I realized that doctors will not wish you dead if you do not follow their instructions. There is no penalty — coming from the doctor, that is — if you don’t take the pills or refuse to give up French fries (“You’ll live forever if you give up the things that make you want to”). What’s curious is my way of resisting some treatments while accepting others without demur. Nobody likes colonoscopies, for example — but I used to, back in the day when a good doctor would plug you full of Demerol before plying the fiber optics. I was flying so high the first time (and this is not only twenty years ago but over twenty colonoscopies ago) that I practically choked on my tongue in an ultimately successful attempt to resist asking the doctor if he liked what he did. I can’t tell you how funny the question seemed at the time, but then you probably can’t imagine how much less nice than Michael Musto I am. 

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
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