Passing out is a truly surreal experience. I should know, I’ve done it enough to write a book on it. Minor surgeries, donating blood, you name it I’ve passed out. There’s some sort of medical term they bandy about when I do it — no, I don’t think it’s “giant pussy,” thanks — that I never remember because I’m still wonky when they say it. Truth is my blood pressure goes down and off I go. I know when it’s happening and I tell the doctor that I’m about to depart reality and they invariably say “you’re okay, take deep breaths.” Listen, Trapper John, I’ve had this happen a number of times I know what it feels like and no amount of Cosby breathing techniques are going to reverse the process.

So, last Monday I got a spinal tap. My doctor’s little helper figured it would be “bad medicine” for me not to get one with my symptoms of high fever and insane headache. It wasn’t too bad, really. In terms of pain the only thing that really hurt was the deadening stick. The doctor gave one good, firm push which I sure as hell felt. Then I was waiting for her to drain my spinal fluid and that’s when “the feeling” popped up and I warned the (burly, male) nurse that I was fixing to take a nap. “You’re okay, take deep breaths.” Fine. I did, simply trying to remain conscious long enough for them to get the damned 5″ needle out of my back before I crashed to the floor. I think I made it.

The odd thing is I never got a definitive answer. Sure, “viral meningitis” but they never said definitively. I guess the symptoms fit but it would still be nice for someone to just say “yup, that’s it.” Medicine. Well hell, we’re less than a century away from leeching bad blood anyway, right?

Still have headaches. Now I have tenderness about where my thyroids are and my ankles are killing me. I practically hobbled into work this morning. What the hell? (Yes, back to the doctor.)

I love music. My 2-year-old daughter loves music, dancing with naive, precious abandon to almost anything we throw at her (personally, I think she’s going to be a drummer as every single drum break in any song causes an ecstasy of butt-wiggling and head-nodding). But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a dark side. I have stared into the face of evil and grimaced.

“Come a little closer…”

As I walked — okay, limped — out of Java Jive this morning I heard a noise up by the street, a sort of tuneless soliloquy loudly vocalized. As I got to my car I caught a glimpse of the source between the trees. I stood mute as a roughly 6′3″, 300 pound, moderately beefy 30-something sweaty male in silver shorts and white tank top power-walked past, vigorously chanting the lines from the song he was listening to on his portable player. Even that sight, as disturbing as it was, wasn’t the worst part. No, the true evil was revealed as the song choice: some of the foulest, most blatant bubble gum pop horseshit you could imagine. I remembered some of the key words and looked it up. Prepare… Aaron Carter’s “Baby It’s You” as performed by sweaty man. Oh the sweet strains!

Baby it’s you that I want

So come a little closer

And don’t get me wrong

I’m kinda shy, but I know what I want

I’m waiting for you

So baby let’s get it on

This is what Rhapsody has to say about Mr. Carter:

Carter is about Michael Jackson’s age when the latter was in the Jackson Five; this is not to say that you’ll be hearing any type of “Ben” emerge from this cute-as-a-Hanson boy’s lips. Covering Dance Pop tunes made popular by outfits such as the Jets (”Crush on You”), Carter shows off his boyhood charm, high voice, and playful demeanor.

Hold me.

How could Muzak be any worse?

My workplace has muzak in the halls. And cafeteria. And lobby. And bathrooms. It’s the insipid kind that’s piped in from space directly from a far planet harboring a race of malevolent lemur-analogue musicians whose only exports are muzak and suffering. That’s bad.

What’s worse is that the planet is having some political problems. This manifests itself on Earth and in my building in particular by the ordinarily horrid muzak selections being replaced by the same 158 seconds — I counted — of energy-sapping crap repeated forever and ever, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. I could reproduce each soul-draining note perfectly on their native instruments at this point, bleeding from every part of my body the whole time.

The funny/sad/scary part is this started happening a few months ago. Then “they” turned off the muzak and I figured someone finally noticed that “hey, morale is down and people are ripping each others’ throats out with staple removers… must be the endlessly repeating muzak!” That it’s back on in the same state proves to me that fell trolls really do run the facilities department in this building and they feed on the corpses of the ones who just can’t take it anymore. They’d lost their meal ticket and now meat is back on the menu.

Hold me.

Ah, the infinite possibilities surrounding 7 bibs and a pair of oven mitts. Behold, Julia the Wonder Crab in all her diaper-wearing splendor! Fear her fluffy claws!

I figured it’s been a while since I’ve posted a Julia shot, and these just killed me. She’s become quite the camera ham — she keenly understands the usage of “cheese” — though she hasn’t developed the patience to be a top photo subject. She’ll stand still and in position for roughly a second before she’s running at the camera holder piping “See? See? See?” so she can witness her glory on-screen. You can see a bit of motion blur in this shot from her ramping up to grab her peek.