Seaweed Shatters A Record of 35 Years ,

Gruesome:  Repellently frightful and shocking; horrific or ghastly.

As a general rule I'm not a gross person.  In my 9 years writing this blog I can't remember telling a single fart anecdote.  I'm hindered in this regard by the fact that I can't remember a single fart anecdote.  I'm not implying that a good fart joke isn't funny just that I don't think it's funny.  I am many distasteful things but gross is not one of them.  In fact, I'm quite prissy.  SuperK and I have been watching a series about some of the more disastrous battles in the South Pacific during World War II.  There are these horrific skirmishes where people are being killed and maimed, corpses littering the muddy ground, and all I can think of is where are the showers?  You're filthy.  You can't go to bed in those clothes without cleaning up a bit.

Anyway, I broke one of my longest standing records today, a streak that hit 35 or 36 years, a streak that has been intact for my entire sobriety and then some: I threw up.  I went swimming this morning - to my credit not hitting any older ladies in the face - when I began to feel a little queasy.  It got worse as the day progressed and nothing seemed to give me any relief.  SuperK and I were actually discussing the mechanics of throwing up prior to my shattering this much cherished record.

"I don't even know how to throw up," I remarked, with no irony.

SuperK - who throws up a normal amount, not frequently but sometimes - replied, in her typical understated way: "I think you'll know."

I threw up not long after this and she was right - it was time and I Knew.  Unfortunately, I had a glass of red Diet Cherry 7UP right before this so . . . well, let's say I thought I was bleeding to death.  The word "gruesome" gets tossed around a little too freely but it applied here.

Enough of this?  Me, too.  I'm getting nauseous.

Many, many years ago I was traveling in Syria with Little Westside Jonny.  We had a guide named Mohammed who made me look easy-going, a man who lives on in our memories with a crystal-clear consciousness.  One day we took a drive through the countryside to see the ruins of an old church, stopping along the way to visit an agricultural area where Mohammed picked some delicious cherries for us, cherries that were probably fertilized with livestock waste, cherries that went into my mouth and down my gullet unwashed.  Let's say I got sick and I got sick fast.  We were driving back to the hotel when I told Mohammed that it was time for me to go to the bathroom.  He mumbled something about a place coming up, leaving to state quite bluntly: "No.  I need to go NOW."

So there I was . . . my pants down around my ankles, box of tissues in my hand, 25 yards from a busy highway from which I was openly visible, leaning up against a building - rough-hewn concrete block in my memory and an unoccupied agricultural building, I think, but it didn't make any difference at the time - thinking: 

"This is as bad as it gets."