It’s a little sad that the trip to the doctor was about the most romantic outing that my wife and I have had in years. Well, not the ride out- that was the sort of pressured drudgery that no one can enjoy. But on the way back, we had the chance to take our time, as we weren’t going make it back in time to pick our son up from his school. It helped that our driver decided to unload everybody halfway through the bus ride back, and I convinced my wife that we could walk the little over half-mile distance to the Powell Street BART station. The deciding factor was the unknown wait on another bus, and not knowing if that bus would be held up by the same accident that our previous driver had described. So, of course, as we crossed the street and had passed the point of no return (to the stop), two buses pulled up, filled up, and continued down the route. “The exercise is good for us!” I said as my wife smacked my arm.

We passed a number of seemingly interesting eateries, but I was curious to see how my old place of employment was holding up. Flor wasn’t completely sold on the idea, but I told her that if we passed anywhere that she really wanted to check out instead, that we could eat wherever she felt like patronizing, and I’d just pop my head in to Blondie’s Pizza on our way down to the BART. Mollified, she took my proffered arm, and we walked down the streets of San Francisco, pointing out how much better Seattle had been. I suppose that she might not have truly felt that way, and was only offering support for my hometown as a gesture of goodwill, but I still prefer to believe that Seattle is superior in almost every way.

As we began approaching an area which I could vaguely recall, I pointed out the Regency Ballroom, where we had gone and seen Apocalyptica four and half years ago. Now that was a date night to remember. It was one of the few times where we felt like kids again. I don’t remember who the opener was, but they weren’t really all that good. I’d been excited to check out the co-headliner, Dir En Grey, as the reviews I’d read seemed pretty great, but when their set started, I vowed to find their sound guy and forcibly remove his testicles so I could plug my ears somehow. The levels were horrible, like running your entire sound system through a T.V. from the 1970’s, and then feeding that in to receiver and cranking it all the way up until your speakers had blown out. As some point, I noticed blood trickling down from my ears, and was begrudgingly impressed until I realized that I’d simply scratched myself while trying to plug my ears. My wife had been balled up and sobbing with a headache growing larger with every hateful note. It got so bad that one of the Event Staff came over to see if she was overdosing on something.

Somehow we made it through, and I prayed that the band which we were there to see could redeem the evening. Flor looked like the Oxford English Dictionary’s entry for despair. In those moments of sonic aftershock, I could almost hear her questioning her love for me. I assume those were her thoughts, because I couldn’t really hear a thing. And then Apocalyptica took the stage, and from the first hint of bowed sting, I could tell that they were actually professionals. I saw the difference on my wife’s face as well. Maybe it’s because we were getting older, but the first two bands had just been repetitive noise. But the soothing sounds of Finnish Cello Metal reached out to us, and inspired us to dance a headbanging Charleston. I don’t know, maybe it was a Mosh Merengue, but whatever type of moving to the pounding beat you’d like to call it, the both of us were swept away. And I don’t mind mentioning that I felt a little moist as I watched them bowing cellos which they held one-handed in the air.

We had a lot of fun that evening, and decided that we should do something like that again. We never did of course, until our third anniversary, when we went to the Whiskeys of The World Expo and drank our body weights in Scotch. But that is a topic for another column (probably the one I write a month from today). As we walked by the Regency, I asked Flor if she remembered the place, and saw the twinkle in her eyes as she responded that she did, and snuggled in a little closer to me.

The rest of the way home was fairly uneventful, and I still haven’t told you all what happened in the doctor’s office. So I’ll take you back a couple of hours and fill you in the state of healthcare in America:

Her doctor had referred us to this place in to get her checked out for a tonsillectomy. We’d thought that it would be fairly straightforward, but it wound up just another volley in the quest for medicine while being poor. This specialist decided that first we needed to do a sleep study, and try out a CPAP machine, and then, if that didn’t work, he’d be more open to taking out her tonsils. He made some valid points, and based upon the surgical risks which he described, I don’t necessarily disagree with his inclination to play it safe. I just wish it didn’t take a trip out to the boonies of SF to find out that we need to finish up more things at the clinic in Not Quite Richmond. As you can see, there still is nothing to report, so I apologize for making anybody worry.

I myself am going to take a nap, as I am exhausted, and my head feels like I’ve been listening to someone once described as a Japanese nine inch nails.

-Tex

And join us tomorrow,

Same Batmart Time, Same Batmart Channel!