Pickle, rioting (the unbeatable high), dead siblings

The final game of the 2013 World Series will forever be remembered for the absolutely ridiculous game of pickle shown above.  In a game filled with highlights, this hilarious, 3-on-1 spectacle is burned into my brain forever.  I think that Jacoby Ellsbury looks like the Native American woman from Seinfeld.

A sports celebration isn't complete without a couple flipped cars and other by-the-books rioting.  I can't help but think back Red Sox celebration in 2004 where police murdered a classmate of mine, Victoria Snelgrove, by firing a pepper spray projectile that hit her right in the eye.  The officer who fired the "non-lethal" weapon was put on paid leave, and the former police commissioner stated that while she "firmly and emphatically accept[s] responsibilities for any errors, I also condemn the actions of the punks...who turned our city's victory into an opportunity for violence and mindless destruction."  I do not sympathize with idiots who want to riot after a sports victory, but she should have been honest and recongize that the opportunity for violence was not ignored by the police, whose sole function to serve and protect is often undermined by a deadly combination of authority, ego, and firepower.  With that in mind, I wish those drunken sports fans would take a moment to reflect on what exactly they are accomplishing and the danger they invite not just on themselves, but everyone.

They club your head, kick your teeth Police can riot all they please
I don't think I've given a real update on my health in a while, so I guess I'll bring you guys up to date. In my "Dreams" post from September 2nd, I talk about experiencing symptoms of graft versus host disease.  My doctor was never 100% certain that it was GVHD, though, since although the timing and organs affected (liver and skin) were typical of GVHD, the actual appearance of the irritated skin was unusual to GVHD.  (I only use that abbreviation one more in this post, I promise.)  So a month or so ago my doctor made me an appointment with an oncological dermatlogist to determine what exactly was going on with my skin.  They took a biopsy and at the end of the week my doctor called me to let me know it was a reaction to a drug he had taken me off of a few weeks earlier  in case it had any role in what was going on with my skin.  He said that he has no reason to think that I have GVHD, which is a huge relief, because although it can indicate a healthy and effective donor system, it is a real bitch.  So I am in good shape for now.
A couple of weeks ago I had a follow up appointment with my dermatologist.  The waiting room was packed and I'm the only one in a mask and gloves.  No surprise there.  I sat down near a middle-aged woman and I just knew that she was going to start talking to me.  She does.  At some point I mentioned I grew up on Cape Cod, she asks which part, and I give my standard, "Truro, way out there."  She says, "Oh yes, next to Provincetown."  I tell her yes.  She then mouths silently, "Lot of fags down there."  I nod.  She then goes on to tell me that her brother was gay and died of AIDS.  Except she didn't use any of those words.  She managed to convey that to me in a manner that was at once cryptic and direct. He lived down there, got sick, and died, "when the drugs weren't as good as they are today."  
We talk a little more. She surprises me with her progressive views on the healthcare system and pharmaceutical companies.  She started getting personal again, confiding that her sister died of lung cancer and she felt guilty for not taking care of her.  She clearly had unresolved issues with her dead siblings.  When she told me she wasn't religious, but she believes there's something out there, and that things happen for a reason, I told her, "Yeah.  But some things happen for no reason."  She agreed with me and a few moments later the nurse called my name.  We said a polite goodbye and she wished me luck.  It was a very nice ending to a conversation that covered a lot of bases (hey, baseball term). So thankfuly I didn't see her on my way out.
That about wraps things up.  I have yet to muster the energy to work on my Hardline retrospective, but I promise that will come.  I have a few other ideas to for records to showcase and offer for download.  Until then, take it easy.  One thing I know for sure is we all need to stay upbeat.

Scan results, other Harrys, Charlie Chaplin was a gypsy

Yesterday I had my CT scan.  My doctor called me arund 6:45pm with the results.  The scan was (in his words) "normal."  There are no traces of lymphoma.  I am in remission.  The results of the scan could not have been better and I can take comfort in the fact that my disease has been beaten down mercilessly.
So put up what you got, or sit the fuck down!!!!!
Now, I have to make a critical distinction here.  Technically, I have been "in remission" since my first stem-cell transplant back in January/February, where I was blasted with high dose chemotherapy with the sole intention of obliterating my disease (with lots of collateral damage, of course) and I was given my own stem cells back to me to regenerate my nuked immune system.  This first transplant was critical because previous lines of treatment had failed to get me into remission, and I needed to be in remission in order to undergo my second, donor transplant (ultimately the procedure that will yeild the "cure").  What is huge about the newest scan is that it shows that in the 8 months since my first transplant, including the last 83 days with my new immune system, my disease has not resurfaced.  Without having to battle my cancer back into remission, which gets more and more difficult (and less successful each time), my team can focus on the other important aspects of my recovery, which will last for several more months even with the good results of the scan.

I asked my doctor what does this mean with regards to my current and continued care and recovery, and he said that remaining in remission is the goal, and at around two years, we can begin using the word "cure."  In the meantime, I am not yet "cured," and I still face the numerous restrictions that patients have post-transplant (although I was given the all-clear to order takeout and fresh vegetables again!  I am being entirely truthful when I say that I've missed having salad more than I miss drinking alcohol).

One of my first thoughts after getting off the phone with my doctor was god damn it, do I have to change the name of my blog?  Well, I'll be damned if I'm changing it after I just registered the domain.  Maybe I'll just switch the parantheses in the logo from the (RE) to the (IM).  But at the end of the day, this blog is not about the specifics of my illness.  If it's about anything, it's about challenge and opportunity. There is an uncertainty and skepticism that resides in the far corner of the mind, even in spite of excellent news, and that's what the title reflects.

Now for a run-down of the day's events.  I entered the stem-cell patient waiting room at 7:45am in the middle of a conversation between two men in their 60s/70s (well, technically, it was a conversation between one sick man and another sick man's wife).  They must've started talking about their diagnoses.

"I was 67, never barely got sick."
"He was 72, we just thought he was getting old."
"I lost 60 pounds.  I used to hit the gym.  I worked my whole life, I'm retiring, I'm still big and strong, then this happens."

A small part of can't help but think, "Try 25."  But I still feel for these men and their stories, which are different from mine but no better.

Next was my CT scan in the Shapiro building in neighboring Brigham & Women's Hospital.  Since it'd been a while since my last scan and I didn't want to drag my mother all over hell's creation, I figured I would ask a Dana Farber volunteer how to get there.  I was hoping for simple directions but instead she eagerly started leading us down the Dana Farber hallway and across the connecting bridge to Brigham's. While she is leading us she is telling us she does this ten times a day and could do it in her sleep.  Well, she might have actually been asleep,  dropping us off in the completely wrong place and someone else had to point us in the opposition direction to the correct area at the end of the hall and around the corner.

So I sign in, they bring me into a small, cold waiting room so I could drink my "berry-flavored" CT scan drink to prepare for my scan.  My mom has spilled coffee on her white shirt and she is freezing after trying to clean it in the bathroom.  The scan itself takes five minutes so we have lunch before I check in to see my actual doctor.

The trick is to get to the stain before it dries
In the waiting room, a family consisting of an older couple and who I determined to be their son-in-law sat near us.  I couldn't pinpoint exactly where they seemed to be from, but they definitely had an Eastern European and/or Muslim (Turkish???) thing going on.  Fortunately since I've already worked a Bulldoze song into this post, this won't be the most ignorant part of today's entry.  Anyway, they notice me in my mask and gloves and they start asking if I was post-transplant.  The son-in-law (henceforth SIL) explained that his FIL is about to go through an autologous transplant (like my first transplant, auto = one's own cells) so they asked me a couple questions.  The old man asked me what my diagnosis was.  I told him Stage 4 Hodgkins Lymphoma.  His SIL points to him and says, "That's just what you have, Harry!"  I turn to the old man, "My name's Harry!"  (A month ago Heather and I were walking my yellow lab on Cape Cod and a young family came up to us to pet him, and the mother explained their yellow lab just passed away.  "His name was Harry."  "My name's Harry!"

His wife didn't seem to have as firm a grip on English, but she did make one contribution.  I was wearing an old t-shirt with a picture of Albert Einstein on it, and she points to it and says, "At least you have Charlie Chaplin on your side."  I laughed in case she was making some kind of joke, but a laugh is generally a good response to a comment that you have no idea what to make of.  I turn to her husband, and he says, "He was a gypsy!" very matter-of-factly, so I couldn't tell what their actual feelings on gypsies are.  Shortly after, my name is called and we say our goodbyes and I wish him good luck.

My shirt

Charlie Chaplin (he actually makes the shoe look good, that's some good comedy for you)
My doctor had a student with him (likely because I'm part of a clinical trial), some girl from Portugal.  At one point I showed him a picture of my new dog lying in his bed, which he thought was cute (duh).  I then show this girl, and she says, "Oh my god, he's scary."  What the fuck are you talking about?  What kind of dogs is she used to that a Boston Terrier curled up in a bed conjures fear?

Really terrifying

Well, it's about that time.  This post has ended pretty long, but I wanted to include all the events of the day..  I want to thank everyone who has shown me so much support lately.  It means a lot.  I'll close this post with a picture I took on Prospect Hill in Somerville.  Take it easy everyone.

Life and comedy clips

You are moidering the King's English.
My youtube channel is mostly filled with music-related things, but there are a few non-music video clips as well.  I have the same basic approach to uploading comedy clips as I do music clips: if there is a moment that isn't represented on youtube, I want to upload it to at least have it at my disposal.  Generally these will be Seinfeld clips, but I also have some Three Stooges and other things.  Here is my youtube channel for those interested.  Many of those videos I have no intention of on including in this blog, so you can always consult my youtube channel and see what might interest you.  Lately I've been on a bit of an uploading spree which I plan on sharing in another post soon.

I figure after my lengthier post from a couple days ago ago, you all could use a break.  So here's a shorter update about the past few days,  First things first, this coming Monday I will be getting my 100 day scan to determine the current state of my disease (although technically it is only day 82)  Hopefully, it has been nuked into oblivion with all the shit I've been through, but hope by definition makes room for uncertainty.  Doctors hate to speak in absolute terms, with my doctor preferring to use phrases like, "I'm fairly certain the scan will be nothing to worry about."  I trust him, but worry can abound during these landmark medical moments that end up taking an entire day to go through.  To quote E-Town Concrete, "Hope for the best but expect the worst," although to be honest, I expect my results to be good and I am not dwelling on it.  I stole a fistful of surgical masks from the hospital yesterday and then destroyed my fender pulling out of the parking space and cutting the wheel too soon, so hopefully I've experienced enough Karma for now.  A Sunoco guy fixed most of it with a manly tug with his bare hands this morning.
What?  Negative's good?  Oh, yes of course!   A funny moment occurred earlier this week when my friend Matt was over and we were sitting on my second story porch which overlooks the rear entrance & parking area.  I had my iPad out with us playing a Celtic Frost song, and one of my neighbors was walking below with his young daughter.  He said, "Hey," Matt and I both said, "Hey" back, and I said "Hey" to the little girl.  Then all of a sudden, Tom Warrior from Celtic Frost shouts, "Hey" to complete the greetings.  That moment occurs around :30 in the video below. The much maligned Cold Lake record, but god damn how good is that verse riff?  
The biggest update....we are getting a dog on Sunday.  1 1/2 year old former Championship brindle Boston Terrier (he said goodbye to doggy showbusiness when his balls got lopped off yesterday).  You can expect plenty of pics once we get him on Sunday.  In the meantime I hate to leave him to your imagination, but it just wouldn't be the same to share him with you guys until he is actually here with us.  I think having a dog is going to do wonders for my mental health, which needs every possible benefit it can get.  My good friend Zack and his wife just got a dog as well, so we can finally do things that people in their late 20s do. Now I leave you with a few of my favorite Seinfeld moments which I've uploaded onto youtube for the masses to appreciate, or in the case of a few of these clips, perhaps underappreciate.  Have a good weekend and expect lots of cuteness to come by Monday evening.

Classic Kramer doubletake in the Cuban Embassy

Every time I think I'm out, they pull me back in

When you're dead, you're dead

And one of my favorite moments from The Maestro...

One of these days I'm gonna get organizized

A little collage from our apple picking experience at Honey Pot Farms yesterday

Yesterday Heather and I decided to go apple picking.  Is this the true mark of fall?  Maybe, although I am hoping we still have some warm days to come.  In any case, we decided to make the drive to Honey Pot Farms in Stow and enjoy this heralded New England pastime.  I also got to say "How do you like them apples?" 

I'd never been apple picking before.  Growing up on Cape Cod, it was just something you didn't do.  My knowledge of MA geography is so limited because of my Cape Cod frame of reference.  Making more friends in recent years from Central Mass has opened my eyes a little bit, but honestly yesterday was probably the first time I'd ever knowingly been in Stow.  It is very pleasant though; obviously it is an entirely different world from the highway and city roads, but it's also different from what I became used to on Cape Cod.  The trees are bigger, oftentimes creating a canopy over the road, and the landscape in general is more pleasing than endless rows of scrub pines that make up a bulk of Cape Cod.  To all my Cape Cod readers, you know I only knock my hometown out of love.  (And I know you feel the same way)

After consulting the Honey Pot manual, I can confidentally say these are Cortland apples.  

We purchased a 10lb bag which we filled to the brim (I kept one extra one in my breast pocket) with Cortland, Macintosh, some kind of yellow apple, and something else.  The manual I mention above lists all the apples they grow, and practically every description says "good for eating."  

A most triumphant pose, that apple had no idea what we had in store for it

View down the orchard, with the contrast boosted for a truly masterful artistic effect

After we picked our apples, we drove to the other parking lot where there is food, cider, animals, etc.   There were pigs, goats, sheep and chickens.   Standing by the sheep area, a young black guy couldn't stop commenting to me about how covered in waste the sheep was.  "Motherfucker be dropping deuces everywhere."  Heather got an apple cider donut and we went home.  

Here is our pie process in pictures:

We used ten apples, look at that pleasant yellow one, soon to meet the knife.

First, slice and dice with the sword of the lord

Then add an abundance of sugar and cinammon.  We had no nutmeg so we just doubled the cinammon.  I think this was a good choice.

Find a woman who will mix these ingredients

Find a man who will fill the crust 

So far so good

Oops.  We pieced the crust together as best we can.  Industry secret, "H" is the most effective letter to slice into the tops of your pies.

Finished product.  We still have like half a pie left

In Taxi Driver, Robert Deniro has a slice of cheese on his apple pie.  That is so weird, something from another era that must achieve something.  Trying this is on my bucket list. I wrote a new music post a couple nights ago, and have been tweaking it still.  It should be up later tonight.  A new type of post I'm doing where I share great melodic moments in hardcore/punk.  I choose a handful of songs and try to address everything that's going on with them, the way they make me feel or impact me, without coming off too much like some sanctimonious music critic.  Anyway, I'll end this post with a fitting song, "I like you less than apple pie," by early 90s Ebullition Records band Iconoclast.  Very solid jam.  There was an 80s peace punk Iconoclast as well, who have a classic song I will consider for another entry.  Till next time... I just wish you'd all stop talking, cuz you all make such fools of yourself  every time your mouth begins to spew that refuse that you breed as law.