bring the noyz

As my pappy used to say:

"Jus'cause God might be callin', don't mean you're gonna answer da phone."
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another interesting e-mail (ooh, and it apparently came all the way from London!)
_______________

From : midconsult123@netscape.net
Sent : Tuesday, March 30, 2004 1:44 PM
To : drnoyz@hotmail.com ("Polymer Noyz")
Subject : RE: HSBC Private Banking Enquiry

Dear Polymer Noyz,

Thank you for your reply to our enquiry which was made by our consulting firm on behalf of the Private Banking Division of the HSBC Group. Though we know that you are not entirely updated With the details of this enquiry we are however constrained by law to the amount of information that can be made available. It has been very difficult trying to locate any one who is directly related to Mr. Walter Noyz, who was a customer of our client. He employed the services of the HSBC Private Banking for so many years but was always very private about his family. We have exhausted all possible means in trying to get any possible next of kin.

However at this stage in accordance with the banking regulation covering inheritance (United Kingdom Inheritance Act) We believe we have exhausted all possible avenues and will have to put the matter to rest. We are sorry that on this occasion we cannot establish any relationship between yourself and the client in question. We hope this has not caused any inconvenience to your person. We thank you once again for your assistance.

Deborah B. Gray.

Midland Consulting Limited.

For: HSBC Private Banking Division,

London.
_______________

Damn it! It appears as those BASTARDS with the MCL are trying to screw me out of my share of Uncle Walter's inheritance.
_______________

To: midconsult123@netscape.net
Re: RE: HSBC Private Banking Enquiry

Dear Ms. Gray,

"We are sorry that on this occasion we cannot establish any relationship between yourself and the client in question."

You cannot establish any relationship?

Uncle Walter's been married to my mother's sister Gladys since March 25, 1972. I know this for an absolute fact because I've heard the story from Grandma a thousand times if I've heard it once. It was so unseasonably warm on the Saturday they got married that all the icing on the wedding cake melted and the porcelain bride and groom slid right off the top and shattered all over the floor of the church basement. Almost ruined the whole day.

And bless ol' Aunt Gladys, even after Uncle Walter ran off, she kept his photo by her bedside until she died of a broken heart and the gout back in 1998. She never did get a divorce and they had no children of their own on account of Uncle Walter's narrow urethra.

What more proof could you possibly need?

If I am intitled to an inheritance, I damn well intend to get it.

Sincerely,

Dr. Polymer Noyz
|

ASKED:

From : midconsult123@netscape.net
Sent : Monday, March 29, 2004 5:26 PM
To : drnoyz@hotmail.com
Subject : HSBC Private Banking Enquiry

My name is Deborah B. Gray; I am a senior partner in the firm of Midland Consulting Limited: Private Investigators and Security Consultants. We are conducting a standard process

Investigation on behalf of HSBC, the International Banking Conglomerate. This investigation Involves a client who shares the same surname with you and also the circumstances surrounding

Investments made by this client at HSBC Republic, the Private Banking arm of HSBC. The HSBC Private Banking client died in testate and nominated no successor in title over the investments

Made with the bank. The essence of this communication with you is to request you provide us Information/comments on any or all of the four issues:

1-Are you aware of any relative/relation who shares your same name whose last known contact address was Brussels Belgium?

2-Are you aware of any investment of considerable value made by such a person at the Private Banking Division of HSBC Bank PLC?

3-Born on the 1st of October 1941;Can you establish beyond reasonable doubt your eligibility to assume status of successor in title to the deceased? It is pertinent that you inform us ASAP

Whether or not you are familiar with this personality that we may put an end to this Communication with you and our inquiries surrounding this personality. You must appreciate that we are constrained from providing you with more detailed information at this point. Please respond to this mail as soon as possible to afford us the opportunity to close this investigation.

Thank you for accommodating our enquiry.

Deborah B. Gray.

For: Midland Consulting Limited.
_______________

Hmmm. . . this looks interesting. Odd grammar, strange punctuation and a stranger sentence structure. Looks like a regular business letter to me. I am quite sure that this is obviously from a very legitimate and well established business.

Could it be that The Good Doctor Noyz is about to come into some money from a long lost dead relative? BITCHIN!
_______________

AND ANSWERED:

To: midconsult123@netscape.net
Subject: RE: HSBC Private Banking Enquiry

Ms. Gray,

Is this about Uncle Walter?

The family always suspected he squirrelled away millions after his brief stint as a Vegas entertainer that mysteriously ended following the casino robbery. We never really believed his story that he was moving to Brussells because, as he put it, "I just really like the sprouts."

I look forward to your next correspondence.

yours truly,
Polymer Noyz
|

I have a coworker who is a truly remarkable and very tiny Buddhist woman from Taiwan. Her life seems to be entirely based upon the self-less concept of 'dharma', her sense of duty to serve the needs of others with little regard her own desires.

She once shared with me a profound piece of wisdom.

As I recall the incident, it happened several years ago we were working in our classroom for children with multiple significant severe and profound disabilities.

One of our students, a 20 year-old man named Michael, had a particulary violent seizure. This was no cause for alarm because it was a weekly occurence. Both myself and my staff have received lots of training on seizures and we were very familiar with Michael's patterns of seizure activity.

A really good grand-mal seizure apparently causes the body to expend in three to five minutes just about the same amount of energy you would burn if you ran a marathon.

Following the seizure, Michael was passed out dead asleep to the world. As some of you may be aware, a common side-effect of an intense electromagnetic brain storm, is that the muscles controlling both the bladder and the intestines relax, causing the contents of both to be voided.

My Buddhist coworker and I were lifting his 125+ pound or so very much asleep and so completly dead weight body out of the pool of his own waste in his wheelchair (and surrounding puddle on the floor) so that we could clean him and change his clothes. Remember, she is a very tiny woman, so guess who was doing most of the lifting. We were quite literally up to our elbows in it.

She turned to me and said, "Our students are angels, sent to test our compassion."

Yes.

Her words frequently come back to me when I look at The Boy.

I look at The Boy and see an angel.

Not the Biblical heralding with a trumpet to bring you either bad or good news from God type of angel. Not the cute cherubic critter with wings type of angel. Not the conspiracy alien nut "Ezekial saw the wheel and it was a UFO from another planet" type of angel.

But an angel none the less.

An angel in the perfect dependence, perfect innocence, perfect beauty, perfect love, perfect purity of soul type of way.

I am truly blessed.

I am also truly shocked to find myself writing such sappy sentimental crap. Holy fuck, when did I start to turn into a goddamned Hallmark card?

All I can say in my defense is that my meager words are inadequate to describe The Boy.
|

Television, has been, and always will be, your friend. Get used to it. Embrace it now. Life just gets easier after acceptance.

Finally, Television is stepping up and claiming the crown of the reality It helped to create. Who needs the current Fat Big Money Bloated Two Party system when we, as Americans, stand on the brink of a mass mob rule style democracy?

Just like on Max Headroom.

When we live in an era where more people can name the contestants on SURVIVOR than can name their elected representatives, would it really be all THAT bad for America if we chose our leaders by calling a 900 number after watching Bush, Kerry and the other weasely scum sucking bastards be berated and belittled by Simon Cowell?

(or Simon Martin. I must have a soft spot in my heart for acerbic Englishmen named Simon.)

I, for one, would love to see Howard Dean shake his groove thang while he covers an Enrique Iglesias song.

How different would that be, I mean really, just how different would it really be from the current situation, where we chose our leaders based upon who looks better wrapped in the Flag in a 30 second montage of meaningless video clips and BLAH BLAH BLAH sound bites?

Well, my fellow Americans, thanks to Showtime, this utopian vision of the future is happening NOW!

Showtime has a new "reality" program called American Candidate. According to their website, "AMERICAN CANDIDATE will attempt to identify one individual who has the qualifications and qualities to be President of the United States."

I am somewhat baffled by the difference in the qualification that Showtime's Presidential candidate must be at least 18 years of age and the Constitutional requirement that the President be at least 35. I've already called both of my state's Senators to suggest they sponsor an amendment to The Constitution that corrects that small oversight of our Founding Fathers.

Senator Orrin Hatch (R, Utah) has already introduced legislation to amend THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA to allow Ah-nold to run for President.

If The Terminator can someday be (s)elected President, why, oh why can't I?

So, I thought, "ah. . . what the fuck (because sometimes, you just gotta say, "what the fuck"), I'll apply for the job."

From my online pre-application:

WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT? (400 charater limit. . .)

"For 40 years We have been transforming the jangling dischord of Our Nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. But stop children, what's that sound? The economy? Great if you work for Halliburton. Jobs? Yeah, at the new Wendy's. Healthcare? Brother Bono sings, "The rich stay healthy, the sick stay poor" and while I, yes I, believe in Love, the music's over, turn out the lights. BRING THE NOYZ!"

And all of my opponents fuck farm animals. (that worked for LBJ)

I trust I can count on your support in November.

|

Or maybe not the forest. Maybe just our living room. But it was an even more magical wonderful experience than Plant and Page ever imagined.

The Boy laughed.

Sure, you can dismiss this moment as the sentimental ramblings of a proud new father, ("Ooh, look, little Timmy just spit up, isn't he beautiful"). I am almost tempted to do so myself.

Even if that turns out to be true, so fucking what. I was there. It was a beautiful experience. It was remarkable.

The Boy, this sweet two year old child whom the doctors (once again, fuck the doctors) originally said lacked the brain capacity to even feel pain, who, according to the best professional medical opinions at the time, most definitely lacked the brain capacity to ever see or hear or even form attachments to or know people. . .

This boy, The Boy, laughed.

I came home from work and sat down next to The Boy on the couch. I picked him up and held him close and began speaking to him while gently rubbing his back. He smiled. Then he laughed.

My dear readers, The Good Doctor Noyz spent many, if no most, of his adoloescent and adult years living by the imagined motto of Dow corporation -- "Better living through chemicals." Hell, it was almost my god damned raison d'etre until two weeks ago when The Boy finally came home.

If you can smoke, swallow or drink it as a way to alter your mind, I have done it.

Sometimes several times daily.

I have been too high to remember my own name and subsequently fallen so low that that I could not move away from the puddles of my own urine and vomit in which I occassionally found myself upon awakening.

Sometimes several times daily.

None of that will ever compare to the euphoria induced by the sound of The Boy laughing.
|

"I got a letter from the government the other day. What did it say? It said they was SUCKAS." - Chuck D

I do not know the reason why. Perhaps it is a friend's idea of a prank, or maybe my secret suspicions are correct and all the good porn sites REALLY ARE run by Republicans (which would not be the least bit surprising, Giant Corporate Media's relationship with the adult entertainment industry is a dirty little not-so-secret).

For whatever the reason, I have begun to receive e-mail such as this on a weekly basis:
__________

Dear Good Doctor Noyz,

Will you make a difference for our President on Thursday, April 29th?  That's the day 2004 Parties for the President will be held in a nationwide show of support for President Bush. 

Across the country, supporters of President Bush will gather in homes, restaurants and community centers to stand up for our President.   

Will you stand with President Bush and Vice-President Cheney on April 29th?

WHAT: National "Party for the President" Day

Hosting a party is easy and it doesn't cost a thing.  Click below to learn more:

                 http://www.GeorgeWBush.com/Party/

WHERE:    Your home, the coffee shop, local diner, etc.

A Party for the President can be as easy as inviting your neighbors for a cup of coffee, BBQ or casual conversation. 

WHEN:      Thursday, April 29th at 8:00pm EST

For parties with 5 or more guests who RSVP at GeorgeWBush.com, National "Party for the President" Day will include a conference call with a senior campaign leader.  This special guest will answer questions and deliver a political briefing on the progress of the campaign.

WHY:         A Party for the President is a simple, volunteer event that brings together local friends and neighbors who support the President.  Plus, all party hosts receive a special package from the campaign with an exclusive Bush-Cheney '04 video, bumper stickers, other campaign materials and a letter from President Bush. These fun, informal events will help grow the President's strong base of support in local communities throughout the country and bring the President one step closer to victory in November.   

We have a hard fight in the days ahead and the President needs your help.

Will you help by hosting a Party for the President on April 29th?

Sincerely,

Ken Mehlman
Campaign Manager
__________

What the fuck!?! I thought the President's days of boozin', cokin', and whorin' were behind him. If not, well then cool dude, like wow, El Prez, count me in.

Otherwise, my response is:
__________

Dear Mr. Mehlman

Any relation to Larry Bud? Will I help the President? Only if he needs help packing and moving. I work for beer.

Sincerely,
The Good Doctor Noyz


|

And the Feds agree.

John was not wrong even if he was taken wrong at the time and caused all that. The Beatles are just as important as Jesus.
|

Another story from the 9 week foster/adoptive parenting class:

An entire class was devoted to the do's and don'ts of discipline. The State Child Protection Agency has a VERY CLEARLY and REPETIVELY stated policy that "physical discipline methods" (spanking) are strictly forbidden to use with children in the foster care system. The State quite reasonably assumes that these kids have been through enough and they shouldn't be hit, not even in the gentle guiding way of a spanking.

Well, as we live in a society that still is stuck in the whole stupid punishment to mantain social order paradigm (which will be a very lengthy rant indeed should I ever get sufficiently liquoured up to unleash that beast), many people think that it is not only okay to spank your children, but something that should be done as a form a discipline.

As I am neither a hick nor an idiot, I do not entertain such beliefs. I find it difficult to suffer those who do.

Many of the suburban Mr. and Mrs. Joe Shlubs in our class are not so forward thinking. We knew this going into the class on discipline. The Wife and I had a good talk beforehand where she convinced me that perhaps this would be one of the classes where it would be best for me to simply smile and nod.

For an hour or so, the Instructor repeatedly went over the rules for disciplining children in the foster care system. This lesson was peppered with comments such as "I was spanked as a child, and I turned out just fine" or "some kids need to be spanked to get their attention" or the more ridiculous "some kids are asking for it". To review, the instructor asked if it was okay to ever spank a child.

I just couldn't take it anymore. If I held my tongue any longer I would have bitten it in half.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO! NEVER NEVER NEVER EVER IS IT ACCEPTABLE TO STRIKE, SPANK, OR OTHERWISE HIT A CHILD. IT IS NOT OKAY UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EVER!"

As I was stepping up on my soapbox, I caught a glance from The Wife. I recalled our previous conversation. All eyes were upon me. I simply stopped talking.

There was an awkward moment of silence. The Instructor acknowledged the passion of my beliefs while saying something supportive about my comments.

Then one of the Dan's spoke. There were three Dan's in this class. All fairly interchangable. This Dan has two biological children: an 8 year old son and a 6 year old daughter. He was sitting directly across a table from me.

"The last time I had to spank my boy he was jumping around and he jumped right on his sister's stomach. He almost hurt her real bad."

I'm sure he felt my stare. With neither hint nor clue of irony he continued,

"Well, how else I am supposed to teach him that it's not okay to hurt people?"

|

Last night, a friend stopped by to see The Boy. After he was sound asleep snug in his bed, we sat around with a cold one or two and a coupla smokes and we all got to talking about many of the events that have lead up to right now. The wife and I related this story:

Prospective foster/adoptive parents are required to take a 9 week class on parenting skills and other subjects affecting kids in the State foster care system. Anyone who thinks that they want to become foster/adoptive parents so that they can raise perfectly behaved little blonde-haired blue-eyed children is in for a rather rude awakening. There's a reason these kids are in the system. They've been neglected. They've been abused. They been traumatized and in many cases subjected to treatment so heinous that a sailor would blush at the description. They come with lots of emotional baggage.

Oh, and frequently, they also come with parasites.

The class serves as a sort of screening process to weed out people who can't handle it and to make sure those that complete the process are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into. Every Thursday evening last fall The Wife and I endured rush hour traffic to drive to the suburbs so that we could take this class.

There were eight couples in the class: The Wife and I, an immaculately dressed former NFL player and his wife (who quite honestly, were the most beautiful couple we have ever seen in person), and six suburban Mr. and Mrs. Bubba Shlubs. You know the type, the slightly bumbling sitcom husband but without the hot wife. All of them very good, kind-hearted caring people, yes, but people who continue to live in a completely different reality.

Anyway, one night the class is doing this "creative thinking" activity. Yeah, we did lotsa stupid stuff like that. Had to fill the three hours somehow.

The instructor passed around this box with all types of objects in it. You blindly grabbed something from the box and then talked about what the object could symbolize about a foster child placed in your home. Stuff like teddy bears and band-aids and condoms and cigarettes.

(teddy bears, band-aids, condoms and cigarettes? reminds me of some parties I went to in college)

Like a box of kleenex could symbolize that the kid had a cold, or cried all the time because they missed their family; or the condoms meant that they had been sexually abused. You get the idea, right?

The instructor frequently separated husbands and wives "to take you out of your comfort zone" just to see how people handled the little bit of stress caused by sitting next to someone they didn't know while having to discuss deeply held opinions and beliefs.

So I'm sitting next to Ranchelle. Yes, that is really her name: Ranchelle. And she is exactly the image a name like that inspires in your mind.

Ranchelle reaches in the box and pulls out a package of RID, the over the counter lice treatment you can get at any drugstore. Well, obviously that symbolized that a foster child could show up on your door with lice. This lead to a brief class discussion about lice and the various procedures involved in treating it. Someone mentioned that there are strains of lice that have become resistant to the over the counter remedies. Well, wouldn't you know, Ranchelle had a sure fire cure.

RANCHELLE: "My 6 year old niece had lice once. My sister just took her outside, sprayed her down good from head to toe with RID, let it sit for about 5 minutes and then hosed her off."

INSTRUCTOR (with eyebrows raised in curiousity tempered with some hesitation out of concern that Ranchelle might somehow be overlooking the box in her hand): "Why yes, Ranchelle, like we have been discussing, RID is a common treatment."

RANCHELLE: "Oops, I sorry, not RID, that other stuff, you spray on cockroaches. . . RAID."

INSTRUCTOR (now with a look of shock and doubt as to whether she heard correctly): "Your sister sprayed her child with RAID, and left it on for several minutes before washing her off?"

RANCHELLE: "Yep. She said those lice never came back."
|

Today it officially and finally happened.

The State Child Protection Agency removed the remaining children from Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. The handful of staff members that even bothered to show up to today's weekly staff meeting were given two weeks severance and sent on their way.

Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs is no more.

Because she is a bitter hateful evil woman, who apparently continues to blame her current situation on her persecution by others. Because she continues to live in a state of extreme denial and refuses to accept the slightest bit of responsibility for her actions. Because she's quite frankly, just a spiteful fucking bitch. Because of these things, and the choices this way of thinking lead her to make, her so-called Home is gone, and the Children are gone.

But the investigations continue. The evidence apparently continues to mount. The tale of the downfall of Ms. von Munchausen is not yet finished. She has not yet been held accountable for her actions. She has not yet faced the consequences of her crimes.

The Wife and The Good Doctor Noyz still dream of the day when we turn on the local news and see her attempting to shield her face from the cameras with manacled hands as she is quickly lead from the courthouse to the waiting squad car. The Wife and The Good Doctor Noyz will patiently wait for the day the judge puts the gavel down, and we see the name of Ms. von Munchausen mentioned with disgust and contempt on the local news and talk shows.

But right now, on this night, I am content and at peace. The doubt and anxiety that briefly held me in its grip last night has passed.

I will sit and hold The Boy, and hug The Boy, and marvel at his every facial expression. I will remain awestruck at what has come to pass and at the remarkable child I cradle in my arms.

And I will never forget, my dear reader, that this whole thing began all for the Love of The Boy.
|

Do you ever think sometimes that you have too many thoughts?
|

The Good Doctor Noyz is feeling rather tightly wound.

This is due, well to be perfectly honest, in part to last night's interuption.

But it's much more than that. Really now, I've been dealing with sexual frustration since around the age of 12. It's got a relatively simple, if short term solution ("pictures of Lilly make my life so wonderful").

I just have this general sense of. . . I don't really know. . .

I'd like to say that I'm concerned about the possible involvement of al-Queda (or however it's currently al-Spelled) in the recent bombings in Spain. The Wife's sister is currently in Spain doing one of those semester abroad things sponsored by a State University.

But I'm not.

The television's on for background noise. Rudi Bakhtiar (she's at the top of my AILF -- "Anchors I'd Like to Fuck" list) just asked some Washington Post reporter "Where do you think President Bush is going to take us next?" I swear that his answer was "straight to Hell."

I'd like to say something really profound and witty about the current American presidential campaign, about how there is a very clear choice between the two Pig, oops I mean Big Party candidates. I mean, who can't see the difference between a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1966 and a Yale Skull and Crossbones Member Class of 1968?

[Does anyone else remember an 80's Emo Phillips routine about the Lutheran Synod? "Die heretic!"]

But I really don't give a rat's ass right now.

I'd like to be typing these words with one finger; staring cross-eyed at the screen because I spent the last eight or so hours standing in the parking lot of a normally very dead on a Wednesday bar; drinking pints of Guinness and chain smoking Camel Lights because today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick.

Yeah, but really, who cares? St. Patrick's Day, like New Year's Eve, is for amateurs. The hardcore people were standing in the parking lot, working on their fifth pint of Guinness by noon LAST Wednesday.

My gut feeling tells me that it all boils down to Fear.

Fear that some faceless bureaucrat somewhere will see my name, The Wife's name and the name of The Boy on some three paragraph one page summary report that crosses her desk daily type of of paper and for THE SECOND TIME go, "nah. . . not a good idea."

That should all change on Monday if my understanding of the process is correct. And that's a big if.

"Come Monday, it'll be alright. Come Monday, I'll be holding you tight." - Jimmy Buffett

If not, I'm completely screwed in every bad sense of the term.

Monday we go to court. Monday we clarify the status of The Boy.

Everything is still just so out of my control. It's not that it's just outside of my control, it's totally outside my realm of influence. I don't know who to call, what to say or what to wear.

I can't hardly stand it. I'm gonna throw up.
|

excerpts from e-mail dated February 27 from Doctor Noyz to Golatron 3000 about The Boy:

"So, I'm trying to do abit of intel work and find out what she may know. Working to get a kid out of Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs is a lot like working with the French Underground during the Nazi occupation of Paris. You don't know who you can trust or who knows what."

"My earlier analogy of being in the French Underground, while accurate, was perhaps a little over dramatic. Ms. von Munchausen's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs is more like a high school social scene, think HEATHERS with Ms. von Munchausen as the head Heather and The Wife and I as Winona Ryder's and Christian Slater's characters, planning her downfall. It's mostly a group of a dozen or so women and a couple of gay men (same thing) who have little to do but sit around and gossip, soaking up your Medicaid and social services tax dollars while ostensibly caring for and supervising children."
|

Last night, The Wife and I experienced one of the unexpected joys of parenthood.

As our eyes met in the dim light of the lava lamp the intoxicating warmth of vodka and Dr Pepper began to have the desired amorous effect.

[AN ASIDE: This is The Good Doctor Noyz's current beverage of choice simply because you can get large quantities of vodka for just a few bucks and a friend brought over lots of Dr Pepper earlier in the week. And if it has Dr Pepper in it, it has to be good.]

Ooooh baby. . . oh yeah. . . bom chicka bomp bom wacka chicka wacka chicka.

You see, for the past few weeks, The Wife and I have been so focused on and concerned about rescuing The Boy from the clutches of the evil Ms. von Munchausen and her so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs that we have had neither time nor thought of meeting some of our more, um, shall we say, primal needs. Well, "Mission accomplished. Good work, men." as my original Talking G.I. Joe action figure I had as a child would say if you pulled on his dog tag.

The Boy has been rescued. He is here. He was sound asleep in his bed, smiling, so we thought, "Hey. . ." well, you know.

Bom chicka bomp bom wacka chicka wacka chicka.

Then, from the monitor on the nightstand "Coff coff coff".

He's fine, just a little cough, a common night time occurence for The Boy. We have to turn him during the night at least once every two or three hours to prevent a significant amount of saliva and mucous from pooling in his throat and lungs which could lead to pneumonia.

Wacka chicka wacka chicka. . .

"coff coff coff"

No, really. . . don't stop. . . yes. . . bom chicka bomp bom. . . he's fine, he's fine. . .

"coff coff COFF"

Damn damn damn! Gotta go check on The Boy.

"coff coff coff, wretch" ooh, what's that smell?

There is nothing quite like spending an hour cleaning up the mess made by a two year old who coughed so much trying to clear what can only be described as the world's longest booger that he vomited; and then filled a diaper with what looked, but believe me, smelled nothing like chocolate pudding to irreversibly change the mood of the evening.

Oh well, there's always tonight.
|

I think Mr. Dickerson sounds like a big dick

I can't quite explain why, but I think this is really funny: AGH! The Robots are coming! . . . maybe not
|

The Boy is here. The Boy is happy. The Wife is happy. The Good Doctor Noyz is happy. The Good Nurse is happy (more on her very crucial role in this drama will be forthcoming). The Mother in-law (who drove 5 hours to join us in this grand event) is painting the room for The Boy.

Ms. von Munchausen is not, nor will she ever be here. She continues to be a fucking cunt. Ms. von Munchausen is not happy. From her perspective, right about now life most likely really sucks.

Aahhh, um. . . yeah, what a shame. . . . HA!

Thanks to the State Child Protection Agency finally getting enough information to do their job, Ms. von Munchausen has lost all of The Children. It is almost a certainty that Ms. von Munchausen will lose her so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. Ms. von Munchausen could, and hopefully will, lose her nursing license.

I'm widely regarded as a kind-hearted, considerate, caring person. As a rule, I generally believe it to be in poor taste to kick someone when they're down. Not in this case. Ms. von Munchausen is definitely down. But we must not yet rest. Like all other evil soul-sucking creatures of darkness, to finally destroy her she must exposed to the bright light of day.

Well, my children, a new day is dawning. This is a call to arms! Help us to finish the Beast von Munchausen by dragging her into the sunshine. The sheer Light of Truth will ignite the Flames of Justice and the Fires of Hell will rise up in the form of a young man named Skylar to eternally torment her with songs of Barney and visions of young boys in princess costumes.

The Wife and I continue to eagerly and actively provide information for other areas of investigation to the State Child Protection Agency. We encourage all who know to do the same. Consult the doctor and I'll give you the number.

Ms. von Munchausen is very unhappy. Ms. von Munchausen will hopefully lose Everything. The bitch belongs behind bars.

For the first time, Ms. von Munchausen, not the children, is suffering the consequences of her actions.

And although, the better part of me knows that it is wrong to feel joy at the misery of another human being, the bigger part of me is very, very happy.

And that's the end of that. . . for now.

FROM THE BUREAUCRACY IN ACTION DEPARTMENT:

His Caseworker from the State Child Protection Agency left a few minutes ago. We have papers that give us The Boy.

In typical government fashion, when I took a moment to actually read the documents I hastily signed, this is what I read:

"The State Child Protection Agency, managing conservator of The Boy. . . blah blah blah. . . hereby authorizes The Wife and The Good Doctor Jones. . . "

Either someone committed a typo or The Wife has some explaining to do.
|

"the Cuervo Gold, the fine Columbian, make tonight a wonderful thing"

Why yes they do Mr. Fagan. Most definitely Mr. Becker.

Technically, it's nowhere close to evening. For some reason I woke up to that song in my head. It's Friday morning actually. Although today marks the official beginning of Spring Break 2004, my days of tequila for breakfast are definitely behind me. And the only fine Columbian I'll be having is brewing in a pot next to the microwave.

We got The Boy. WE GOT THE BOY! WE GOT THE BOY!

Now what are we going to do with him?
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At the end of round 2, the score is: Ms. von Munchausen -- 1, The Good Doctor Noyz and The Wife -- 3

"Come gather 'round people, wherever you roam" - Dylan

In a rather ironic turn of events, Ms. von Munchausen has been banished from her very own so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs. The State Child Protection Agency found a judge or someone like that to decree that she could have NO CONTACT with the children THEY PLACED in her OWN HOME while investigations (YES! PLURAL!) are ongoing. Her husband, yes HER own HUSBAND, decided to kick her to the curb until this whole thing blows over.

But the thing they haven't realized is. . . this may not pass. Look just beyond the edge of the horizon. . . clouds gather, darken and begin churning. . .

"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows" - Dylan

Wait, hold on a minute, give me a brief opportunity to savor this moment.

Then, an even more remarkable thing happened. News about The Boy! His caseworker, and ours, have a new plan. The Wife and I finish jumping through all the hoops this week, we get The Boy next week. SWISH!

Wow. Holy fucking wow.

No more time for bloggin' right now. Lots of forms to fill out.
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I started this blog last week because, well, like I basically outlined in my first posting. . .

Oops, I'm sorry, my head just about exploded. A brief sample of a Sammy Hagar song ["sample of a Sammy Hagar song"?] just popped in there. Yes, yes, yes, you aging surf-punk, there is still only one way to rock, and to me it still is all just mental masturbation.

"Wouldn't it be really cool," I thought, "to get all liquored up and have somewhere to record all of my witty-oh-so-witty thoughts and comments about American culture, pop and otherwise."

"Yes, yes, yes! I can interject just as much thoughtful commentary on the American political scene as George Will does on that Sunday morning talk show." I told myself, out loud, because, yes, like all brilliant and gifted people, I talk to myself. Although I might answer in different voices, I still know I'm the only one in here.

"Yeah, that would be totally BITCHIN'!" I told myself. And "Hell yes, that would KICK ASS!"

Getting back to the point, this still may turn into that. I do have a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.

And while The Wife has a nearly infinite level of patience for these characteristics of mine, it is not, by any means, TOTALLY infinite patience. That's okay. We share many, if not most, of the same characteristics and tendencies. That's why she's perfect. She also has a fondness for the drink and a tendency to ramble on.

So I thought, "Well, I'll start a blog. Woo dee fucking hoo! Less time spent rambling on means more time for getting it on!"

Very clever Mr. Bond, but not so fast. My plan was perfect.

Until professional and personal worlds collided. Along came The Boy. He profoundly changed our world. And the clock is ticking.

The Boy had no one in the world to advocate on his behalf, no one to love him; which is tragic because he is beautiful and amazing in his own very special medically involved lumpy-headed way. He's a ward of the state. So The Wife and I, being people who have a profound, if not pathological, devotion to "special children", stepped forward to take on that responsibility.

Well, you may recall recent highly publicized incidents in Texas and Florida (it's always Texas and Florida, and I'm sure it's just a coincidence that the Bush family has strong ties to both states, but that's a topic for another day) where children ended up missing, injured or dead because the government agencies whose job it is to protect those children screwed up. Yes? Good. Well, in part due to that, they no longer just hand out children to people. It is a very lengthy, detailed, and intense process. The Wife and I are adopting The Boy. We started the process in September. We were going to be finished in possibly April but most likely May. The process was rolling slowly but steadily along.

Ms. von Munchausen changed all that. She almost killed The Boy. He apparently almost died in the ER. He spent two days in the hospital. And this same State Child Protection Agency that has done everything up to and including asking us to bend over and cough, metaphorically speaking, to prove our worthiness to receive The Boy sent him back to the crazy woman's so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.

Fuck.

We have to get him out of there and we have to get him out of there fast.

Back in the 80's, during this whole "feed the world children starving in Africa send your money and your cans of beans now and you can see Phil Collins play in two different bands on two different continents in the same day thanks to the miracle of the Concorde" frenzy, I had a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor. Yes, I know. . . yada. . . yada. . . yada. . . a very liberal aging hippie sociology professor? at THE university? How shocking.

He cited some probably made up USA Todayish statistic and told the class that every other second somewhere on this planet a child dies. I got this image of the Old Testament Grumpy Old Man In The Clouds God sitting up in Heaven beside a giant grandfather clock holding a sniper rifle.

And ol' God, well. . . he's just a sittin' up there in Heaven, next to the clock, in his boxer shorts, drinkin' Icehouse tallboys and chain-smoking Marlboro reds. Like some country redneck in a wife-beater t-shirt whose ideal Saturday afternoon is spent sitting in a lawn chair in front of the trailer picking off squirrels.

TICK. . . BLAM. . . TICK. . . BLAM. . .

The clock just went TICK.

There's The Boy.
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I just noticed that I bear a striking resemblence to all of the minor characters on "King of the Hill", both in appearance and personality, that really annoy Hank.
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At the end of round 1, the score is: Ms. von Munchausen -- 1, The Good Doctor Noyz and The Wife -- 0

Funny, this isn't a game. Or it shouldn't be. Ms. von Munchausen is doing her sweet best to turn it into one. What a fucking cunt.

(and I know well the power of the "c" word, it's not one I throw around lightly.)

And it's sad. And it's scary. Not just a little scary, but really fucking scary because the life of The Boy has literally become the spoils for the victor.

And I have lots and lots of questions for the State Child Protection agency. Like for example, "What the fuck is wrong with you people?" or "What the hell are you thinking?" or "Do you have the fucking sense to come in out of the rain or does someone have to tell you to come inside and stop looking up at the rain before enough of it falls in your mouth to drown you?" These questions and many others are pressing on my very sleep-deprived mind.
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As I return home from a long day at the hospital, I notice the fattest honking gecko I have ever seen basking comfortably in the warm incandescent glow of the porch light, waiting for his next meal to haplessly flutter into the light.

Maybe it's because I spent the day in a vain search for expletives to accurately and adequately express my anger at you, you god damned bitch ass cunt of a whore, Ms. von Munchausen; but as I stand blank-faced at the door, key in hand, it occurs to me that this is an apt metaphor to describe you. You are a bloated scaly cold-blooded reptile, waiting to devour the next child who is haplessly placed by the State Child Protection Agency into what they perceive to be the bright light of your so-called Home for Children with Significant Medical Needs.

I have just returned from spending the past 14 or so hours in a hospital room with The Boy. I make myself a double vodka and Dr Pepper and wish, oh how I wish, that I had a fucking joint. Guess I'll have to settle for a Camel. C'mon, it's no big deal, we've all had days like that. I know you have.

I've seen your glassy eyed stare.

C'mon now, don't give me any grief, I know a bit of booze and a bong hit can't possibly match the vast cornucopia of pharmaceuticals you have access to, but Hey! I can't steal drugs from children. Really now, what's an honest man to do?

I just left The Boy in the arms of The Wife. She is spending the night at the hospital, holding and comforting The Boy, so he doesn't wake up tonight like he did last night, with a you, a stranger in his life, hunched over him, doing things to him. Of course, there is the obvious difference that unlike last night, tonight it will be a hospital nurse with the intent to heal, not you with the intent to harm. But to The Boy, a stranger is a stranger. If he doesn't know you, he's got no reason to trust you. And he will react to you the way any two year old does when confronted with the actions of a stranger: with fear.

So The Wife is staying with him tonight at the hospital, because The Boy needs and deserves to be with somebody he knows and trusts, and I have to go to work in about 5 hours.

Well you see, how very unlike you we are, Ms. von Munchausen? We love The Boy for being The Boy.

We don't claim to love him so that the rest of the world can see what wonderful martyrs and saints we are for sacrificing our lives to care for him. We don't love him for the giant monthly Medicaid and State-aid check he causes the postman to deliver to our door every month. We just love him.

When I left his side an hour or so ago he had eight different tubes and wires connected to or coming out of his body.

In my mind, I have this vision, like some kinda dream, where I'm given a scapel, or preferably, a rusty dull old fishing knife, and the chance to insert the tubes and wires into you. I promise to show you all the care and compassion you've shown The Boy.

All this because, my way more acidic than sweet Ms. von Munchausen; because you got a little crazy last night and performed an unnecessary medical procedure that apparently went horribly awry. You gagged him with a suction catheter until he stopped breathing to gratify your twisted desires to ruin the lives of children. I take small comfort in the fact that it frightened you enough to call for the ambulance.

If it hadn't, we would have spent this whole day with the Undertaker.

So fuck you, Ms. von Munchausen! Fuck you very much!
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The phone rings. As soon as the recognizable voice on the other end of the line says "Hello" I feel the anger begin to build.

That fucking wicked evil bitch! That god damned mother fucking ass licking cunt bitch whore! What the fuck has Ms. von Munchausen done when left alone with The Boy in the darkness of her heart and night?

The voice on the phone tells me The Boy is in the hospital, taken by amublance at 4:00 in the morning. He went into respiratory distress. Hmm, funny he was fine the night before.

I swear, before this day is over, I'm gonna punch somebody right in the god-damned mouth.
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"So," you may be finding yourself thinking right about now, "tell me more about the saga and the drama that is The Life and Times of The Good Doctor Noyz."

"alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright" - Andre 3000

So today I've had some time to sit and think while trying to comfort a two year old with at best pneumonia or at worst a nasty strain of the strep bacteria and who knows only that he feels very bad. He is possibly angry that while he finds solace and comfort in my words and in my arms, I do nothing to relieve his pain.

Time to sit and think about a two year old, who although he will grow up and grow old, will never fully understand why he feels bad. It is unimportant why, he only knows that he does. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel bad. According to the medical doctors, he should not feel anything at all. According to the medical doctors, this boy has virtually no brain. He is a perpetual Tommy, unable to see me, hear me, touch me, feel me.

Fuck the doctors. Doctors are professionally trained to see what is wrong, what is defective, what is deficient. You can't blame them, it's how they're taught. "She blinded me with science" as the 80's techno pop guru Thomas Dolby once proudly proclaimed.

I'm professionally trained and philosophically inclined to see what is right, to see "ability" beyond the bounds of "disability."

So I hold and gently rock The Boy. Secure in the knowledge I have gained from my experience and my insight that The Boy who was abandoned by and will never know his own mother; The Boy who was never given a chance by the doctors because they did not, will not, take the time to know him; The Boy whom the doctors said would be dead before he was a month old; The Boy knows me, The Boy trusts me, The Boy loves me.

And then it's time to take him back to the cold blue walls of the institution in which he currently lives. It's time to take him back to the twisted black heart and care of Ms. von Munchausen and her so-called Home for Infants and Children with Significant Medical Needs. It's time to take him back to a place where things are done to him, not with him.

How can you look two year old in the eye who loves and trusts you and tell him that you have to leave him in a place where they shove tubes down his throat until he coughs blood?

How do you tell him not to scream and cry and act like any other two year old awake and alone in the dark of night because Ms. von Munchausen interprets this as a symptom which gives her license to drug or otherwise "treat" him to satisfy her own perverse need to demonstrate her martyrdom and sainthood.

How do you tell him that you love him with all your heart and soul and then leave him in a place where Ms. von Munchausen burns him with a curling iron and has the audacity to lie about it because she knows he can't tell what happened?

You can't but yet you must, and everytime the door slams shut behind you, your heart shatters and you fear for The Boy.
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Well, my dear reader, it is time to learn more about the Life and Times of The Good Doctor Noyz. You see, despite my nearly infinite appetite for alcohol and its potential for Bravado and The General Bad Craziness it inspires; I am, at the very core of my soul, an amazingly compassionate man whose life is dedicated to improving the quality of life and serving the needs of individuals with disabilities.

My heart is given to the passion of the never-ending pursuit of that goal. If we were playing the "If You Could Be Any Cartoon Character You Wanted To Be" Game, I would choose to be Homer Simpson, because despite his fanatical love of Duff's, going to Moe's and hangin' with Barney; Homer is an American icon of the lovable devoted family man and a wonderful in his own unique way father.

It has been that way for over a decade. Teacher, counselor, therapist, friend. With the Divine Grace of Providence and/or whatever else one might choose to believe in for guidance in matters both spiritual and eternal, it will remain that way for many more decades to come. Unless of course, I develop lock-jaw and night vision or get carried off by a twister.

I'm also married. (Yes I know, right now the heart of many a dear reader is probably infinitely shattering at such a revelation.)

I had the good fortune to find a like-minded individual, who identically to me [either through a self-less sense of duty towards those perceived as "less fortunate" or as a means to bolster a shaky sense of self-worth still reeling from the reality that those dreams of being forever memorialized as a minor yet very influential rock star (think Marc Bolan and T. Rex) will in all probability never come to fruition] has the same utopian vision of a world where all children are loved and rocked to sleep at night when they're sick. All children, even the Unwanted, the Unloved, and the Tards.

Yes that's right the Tards. Don't give me your god-damned liberal politically correct aging hippie bullshit. Been there. Done that. I don't know quite what happened to tardblog.com, but I for one, found it brilliant, informative and very entertaining. My only hope is that Rita Sped is somewhere writing and planning her return to the internet. Like lawyers don't joke about their clients. Like I've never heard a doctor or nurse tell a joke about a patient. Or a parent laugh at the antics of their children. Where did the phrase "gallows humor" come from anyway?

We love 'em, we laugh with 'em, we laugh at 'em. We love 'em, and you don't want them in the same class as your kid because lil' Britney or Brandon just might catch autism, cerepral palsy, a seizure disorder or heaven forbid something real like a nasty strain of hepatitis or HIV or fetal alcohol syndrome because mommy's a crack-whore junkie.

No, oh fucking no, keep that kid away from mine because maybe even something more devastatingly worse could happen and lil' Ashley or Dylan ends up connected to tubes and wires because someone's moment of human weakness and poor judgement caused a traumatic brain injury.

Because that "special" kid may cause lil' Kaylee or Lucas to get left behind and their standardized test scores might go down.

So we love 'em and we laugh. Because humans are inherently humorous creatures. And it beats the hell out of screaming and crying. Trust me, I know.

Except right now, I don't feel so much like laughing. More like screaming. . . and chain-smoking. . . and doing a double shot of cheap vodka and lime every 5 minutes until I feel like passing out. Then I'll do one every 3 minutes.

Thank you for your time. Good night, and good drinking. . .

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"The current year will bring you much happiness." - my fortune, according to a cookie. Believe in the power of the cookie.

Maybe it was Seinfeld, maybe it was Andy Rooney, maybe it was Colin Quinn at the start of his suck-ass-so-called-comedy-talk show that comes on after "The Daily Show". Whomever it was, I am quite certain that somebody somewhere has asked this question:

How come the same exact meal that you get for $3.75 at lunch time costs you over eight bucks if you order it for dinner? And it doesn't even come with soup.
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Hey! Has anyone else see that show on MTV with the guy from Jane's Addiction who has Silent Film Star eyebrows and that Baywatch/Playboy chick who's secretly old? Did you see the one which ended at the start of their "wedding"? Um. . . Yeah. . . I know that they're like BIG TIME Hollywood stars and all and, of course, America's children like, um absolutely, totally, love them because we all know that America has already crowned the Osbournes the Official Grandparents of the MTV/MP3 Generation. . . Right. Whatever. . . I swear, yes that's right SWEAR, that her bridal bouquet was not roses, oh no. . . not roses. too freaking righteously traditional. That damn bridal bouquet was made of lizards. Cute little scaly ones, yes, but freaking lizards nonetheless.

all i wanted was a pepsi. . .
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It has occurred to me that blogging is a lot like masturbating in the middle of a suburban residential street at three o'clock on a Tuesday Morning --

1) It's pure selfish gratification.

2) In all probability nobody is ever going to see or know about it.

3) In the unlikely event somebody does slowly pass by and happen to notice they will--
- at best, react with mild to moderate amusement and relate the experience to a few of their friends.
- at worst, react with moderate to severe disgust and revulsion and alert the appropriate authorities.
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