This episode probably needs its own thread.
Before I go any further, I want to thank Slummy and Plainsman for their responses last night. When you're head's in the bucket and you think there is no greater depth to sink, some guys have a knack for poking you in the side and letting you know it could be worse. Thanks.
The setup for today's activities: My platelet count has plummeted. I am the crown prince Alexei in exile. They need to get a bag of platelets into me, but yesterday's attempt was flummoxed by your intrepid shaman's offhand comment. Today, they're going at it again, but this time giving me a dose of IV Benedryl. The ostensible reason is to keep me from having an allergic reaction to the blood product, but it also will bomb the shaman into insensibility and remove the possibility of one of my half-assed observations being heard.
Look, before we go any further: The room did seriously seem to darken. I did feel a little tingly, all right? I didn't know it was going to be a big thing.
Film at 11. Updates as they happen.
One thing is for certain: I better be damn careful what I complain about or I'm going to be out another $50 for fried chicken.
Last night's impromptu fried chicken party was a bit of a strange affair. Mind you, my family is terrific. I have no complaints. I'm proud to be their Patriarch. This is more about the underpinnings of what make us human. Up until now, the general turn of events have either been down one of two tracks. One has been the flat-out emergencies, like me being rushed to the ER last month. Or they've been methodical exercises, like assembling the clan to discuss the cancer coming back and what to expect. This was an in-between affair. Yeah, it was serious, but it was handled like you would go about paying an overdue water bill. It did however, produce an ambiguous set of circumstances.
I used to love those animal documentaries, where they'd follow a group of baboons or bonobos or whatever around and do reality TV on them (before Reality TV). It was like a soap opera without lines. Biff, the Alpha, gets the trots from eating bad mangos and the whole group would erupt in chaos while Biff lies in the bushes twitching. Moa, Biff's #1 consort, comes over and puts Biff's hand on her forehead, looking for a reaction. You know the show.
So there I am, bombed out of my gourd, and floated home to the recliner, and the entire shamanic tribe showed up last night. I'm drugged, but cogent. I don't know about you, but Benedryl makes me just unresponsive. I hear the words in my head, but they don't come out. Everyone is looking for a sign that Dad's all right. Dad's just too swacked to say anything.
Junior, #1 son, has a way about him. Being autistic, he just doesn't shive a git.
"Dad, I've been meaning to ask you. . ."
. . . and so began an evening long discussion on the Protestant Service and the role of the Sermon. I have to say trying to explain Protestant Orthodoxy to an autistic is a challenge.
"But these are just his opinions, right?"
"Well, yes. . . but-"
"What gives his opinions any weight?"
"Well, he is the minister after all.. . "
. . . and this went further down the bunny hole. My message to Junior was that when he walked into the sanctuary, he should be looking on this as a chance to sit down with God, the Almighty. Whatever impediment there was (bum sermons included), he should be praying to find why this impediment was there and opening his heart to God.
We ended up watching a half-hour's worth of Billy Graham preaching on the Samaritan Woman.
This was Junior's way of poking the old Alpha and seeing if he still had it in him.
Last edited by shaman; 05/13/22.
