So I finally got to see my guy, Dr. Something Middle Eastern, and his office is down where you’d expect a fuck up from Vanderbilt’s to be - i.e. the basement.  You’re more than six feet under the ground in an effort to make sure you stay above it, it’s a bit of psychological mind fuck to say the least.  If you haven’t been taking your meds as directed, have below sea level phobia, or forgot your copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth for comforting purposes, you might find yourself looking for a broken down cardboard container, and a boom box with a Chaka Kahn mix tape so you can start doin’ the seizurepede.  Due to my lead foot (which also lead to me getting a speeding ticket on the return trip), we got to Dr. Brain’s neurological underground railroad about an hour early.  I signed up and completed the questionnaire.  For the record, I responded that I had no clue what could make my visit any better.  Since I could not put down a script for unlimited morphine, I kept it short.  I also had my daily headache, so I was asked to rate it by reviewing numbers associated with circular faces in different states of happiness and/or despair.  I went with a four because I’m use to it, and I thought that particular face probably didn’t get much play because I’m sure the majority of fools up in this underground trailer are fishin’ for opiates and the like. 

To pass the time until I was asked to come on in to the exam room, my wife and I played iJeopardy on my iPhone.  We made a rather formidable team, and kicked Player No. 2 and 3′s asses all but once - and I fucked that one up by not being able to do the math and figure out what we could bet on Final Jeopardy and still win if we missed the question.  We got the motherfucker right, but Player No. 3 had bet the iPhone application farm and kicked our ass.  What I did find humorous, prior to making the cut, was that my wife got pissed about how long we had to wait to see what was behind the big curtain.  You may not have a program, or, this could be your first experience with whatever it is here that I conjured fourth, but she is a what?  That’s right, a doctor.  All doctors make you wait, and expect you to deal with it like waiting for that big ol’ turd you’ve been working on since attending Cheese Fest 2010.  Apparently doctors even make doctors wait, and doctors don’t like it when they are made to wait.  This is like one of those situations where you see a mirror reflecting into a mirror on television.  You never know where the reflections stop.  Like the Golden Hypocratic Oath says, “Do unto other doctors as you would do unto your non-doctor patients.”

Once I finally made it to the Big Show, my wife, my doctor, and I sat in a rather outdated medical holding cell to discuss the state of my gourd - I think I had seen photos of the place with some half nude detainee being abused in it.  Dr. Brain reviewed the computer with all the notes containing my medical history he had wrote, yet seemed to be unaware of my prior existence and the cause of my gourdery.  I showed him my driver’s license.  I reminded him he visited me at least once a day during my week tethered to the wall prior to me seizing out.  I refreshed his recollection, and explained my prior diving through a windshield without a helmet was the cause of the Red River Gourd like dent in the right side of my head.  At one point, I think I saw him type “patient unable to do headstand due to injury” on the computer.  I have no clue why that was relevant, but I can’t say he’s lying either.  The purpose of this encounter was to determine if my current “meds” are doing me right.  I explained I was all about the Lamictal, but also felt like the occasional Ativan was very helpful when I started getting one of those “not so conscious” feelings.  My wife and I explained how we believe my not so conscious feelings are brought on by stress.  Dr. Brain apparently didn’t like this answer too much.  He didn’t say to keep eating the Ativan as needed, ordered up a blood test, and then told me he would see me in four months.  To put it another way, “You ain’t gotta go to another doctor, but you got to get the hell on up outta here.”

So we left and re-valeted my wife’s upper tier Buick – the American luxury brand formerly perfect adulterers used to be paid to flog.  The trip out of NashVegas was uneventful.  We did see a car with bumper stickers that stated he was a Christian supporting Israel, wanted to save pets, and keep jobs American by just saying no to Mexicans.  I picture this guy mowing his front yard wearing a tea cozy with his cat on a leash following his eco-friendly grass killer.  About an hour into it, a swarthy Kentucky State Trooper was sitting off in the darkness in Lyon County and caught me doin what he calculated to be 85 mph.  I had no warrants, did not smell of the strong odor of alcohol -amazingly- nor did I act nervously, so his stop was rather run-of-the-mill and boring.  I had my valid license and proof of insurance hanging out the window prior to his even approaching “my driver’s side”.  I didn’t know the KSP was typing out their tickets, but I was glad Trooper Jones did because it cut down on the time I lost by not being allowed to speed.  He showed me the ticket, gave me the almost obligatory drop in speed, and a brief explanation as to how to take care of it.  I did not play the attorney card or ask about his buddies Troopers Clark, Ramsey, Fields or Detective Ramage.  I just wanted him to end the encounter and let me drive a mere 3 to 5 miles over the speed limit the rest of the way home.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give the whole trip a 5 and choose the smiley face that looked constipated to represent it.

While I was driving to NashVegas for my gourd appointment with Dr. Brain today, I noticed what everyone else may have noticed but never commented upon in literary form.  Once you hit the Tennessee state line, there is at least one Waffle House per exit.  Some exits have both a Waffle House and a Cracker Barrel.  So people in Tennessee either wake up early and hungry, or, late and confused about what meal time it is.  I bet there are people in Tennessee that use a waffle iron to cook breakfast, and to get wrinkles out of their clothes.  Based on the prevalence of Houses containing Waffles and Barrels full of Crackers you see once you cross the line, I’d have to surmestigate – that’s a mix between “surmise” and “investigate” all rolled up into one little word that makes no sense – Volunteers’ blood has a heavy concentration of butter, bacon grease, and lard.  You can’t be eating that much breakfast food without being banned from every blood drive for which one could Volunteer.  Hell, if you thought transmitting the AIDS, STD’s and the first three letters of the alphabet hepatitis style was bad, you should take a look at a motherfucker after they’ve been transfused in between Kentucky and Alabama.  Anemia can turn into hyperobesity within 2½ bags of that rich, over-calorated, high-cholesterated, life saving A, B, AB and O goodness (+’s contain a ½ ounce of either syrup or gravy & -’s are lacking in any type of jelly or preserve content whatsoever). 

It’s almost like there’s a civil war going on between breakfast food and any other type of fair in TN.  Cracker Barrel and Waffle House have seceded from the Union of non-breakfast eateries.  They believe in the viability of living purely off the fruits of the hog, flour-based pastries, and all strains of cow squeezins.  They also believe in terrible music on the jukebox, paper hats, promoting smoking, the selling of corny trinkets, and candy so fucking hard there is usually a dentist’s office within’ horse and buggy range.  Mickey D’s, King of Burgers, Arby’s, Hardee’s a/k/a Carl’s Jr. and other of that ilk believe in a variance of meal styles depending on the time of the day – some say they cook with sundials.   They believe in the power of assigning numbers to their various concoctions and connecting them to some other sort of signature dish.  W.H. and C.B. believe in using “words” to describe their food, and it is assisted by pictures when necessary.  Literate or not, you know the words “wavvle”, “baycan”, “sauwsugh”,  “buhhtur” and “miwwlk”.  You know a straight from the creek, one strap off the overalls hayseed couldn’t figure out what they wanted at any of the Union eateries.  “Welcome to McDonald’s.  Would you like to try an extra value meal?”  “What kindly you speakin’ of ma’m?” “Would you like any of these meals shown behind me?” “Uhh, Eye’d jest likes me sum brekfust.”  “Well sir, it’s past 11:00 a.m. and we’re serving lunch now.  You can choose anything from menu but, if you order a extra value meal, you get a drink and fries with it.”  “I want tree peesuss of baycan, a wavvle and sum miwwlk“.  “Uh, sir, No. 3 is a Quadruple Quarter Pounder with extra cheese, a pound of fries and a 3 gallon Mickey McDrink glass.  Is that what you want?”  “I jest wahnt some feekin’ brekfust hussy.  Either you gets it fer me, or I’m rightly gonna double back and take my silver dollars wit me.”

Any you, the area surrounding the hospital in Vanderbilt has a dreary, old school castle-type vibe.  By the looks of most of the apartment buildings round them parts, Schneider would have his hands full – I’m not talkin’ about him just havin’ to deal with the shenanigans of them Cooper girls either.  After all the pub I’d heard about the place, prior to spending a week tethered to one of its rooms’ walls last March, I thought it would be the crème de la crème of hospital accoutrements and technology.  My room had a type of film or grime on it that you usually only find in a museum exhibit about the history of not brushing your teeth.  The technology looked outdated.  I swear, one of the things on the wall had a crank the nurses would have to wind up prior to it doing something neurological to me.  They had to get a stationary bicycle up to 37 mph before my blood pressure could be taken.  I was waiting to be leached and plied with some sort of shitty whiskey or high quality moonshine whenever something painful was about to be performed.  There was actually a tornado warning, and they merely took me and my tethered head out into the hallway to hang out with a bunch of other neurologically unsound motherfuckers joining me in a game of tether head.  I guess the point was to have all of our wires twisted together so we could be kept up with if a tornado did rip through the freak out farm.

Today we returned to the skyscraper-like medical building that houses the neurology and involuntary dancing department at Vandy.  They do have valet parking, which is both nice and very smart considering any of us coming there could lose consciousness and run over a gang of other fellow retards waiting for their short buses, short minivans or whatever tardmobile they arrived in.  The building itself is a mix of dungeon, with an “you’ll be poked and prodded” type vibe.  It’s got new parts too, like a “walkthrough” pharmacy, a multi-staffed bloodsucking room, and one of those indoor aortas with the fancy pebbles, plants and a waterfall.  You couldn’t get to it because it was sealed off in pixiglass, but you could see it nonetheless.  I’m sure it is comforting for all the people with terminal illnesses to sit and look at a phony, glassed-in garden while they are waiting for their diseased blood to be removed and ran through yet another Cuisinart to ensure that they are indeed still dying. 

Well, I am being called to yet another part of the hospital’s hood, so I’ll be back later in the day to regale you with more observations…