31th Aug 09 → The Sunday Cock ‘n’ Bull session

My day to write on the blog. I’m sitting at a table behind the front window of Starbuck’s monitoring the parking lot. I’m waiting for my friend Madison, the Mad Mutt, to arrive. We’ve a lot in common, as we are both orthopedic surgeons who aren’t practicing surgery anymore.

He calls these brunches cock ‘n’ bull sessions as in “we’ll have a little of the cock ‘n’ bull, and a venti.” Most of the time, we venti plenty, two old bone-bending curmudgeons who think they understand how the world works, even, as the ground shifts under our feet.

I guess, a former Marine Police Investigator isn’t going to call our meetings a hen party, but that is basically what they are. When we aren’t venting, we gossip, but with a manly attitude. No Latté’s, we go for Cappuccino’s no added sugar, and chocolate croissants warmed in the microwave. Crumb cake gets powdered sugar on your Tommy Bahamas shirts, or your front-pleated chinos, never know when you’ll need a little extra tummy room. They have to be dry-cleaned, not a good idea to soil them. The BWC agents at home call the white powder trace evidence.

We be men. Picture both of us flexing our Pecs while growling, ”Grrr.” The belly bounces, when old guys flex their pecs. Doesn’t happen when you are young and fit. Women straight from the gym in Reeboks, leggings and sports bras stare, wonder, and then move away. The baristas giggle. They think were flirting. To us flirting has one monogamous target, our in-house BWC agent. It works for me.

We talk about the kids. He has one, a female lawyer, Pam who is divorced and practicing law in Shrewsbury. That’s New Jersey for all of you who are geographically challenged.

I have two daughters neither of whom has taken the first step toward divorce, since they are both single, and never married. But they’re young and there’s time, hopefully for marriage without divorce. Marriage is sort of like playing golf, the fewer tries the better your score. Mulligans are frowned upon and costly.

Mutt is divorced and making a second attempt with fiancée Tink. It’ll work this time, since they’ve known each other for over eight years. She started out as his x-ray tech. For the last four or five years, she has lived in his shore home as a dollar-a-month tenant, because her crazy former boyfriend arsoned her Metuchen house to the ground. They slept in separate bedrooms until two years ago when The Fatal Blow happened. But now, even Pam accepts they are good for each other, making a family with her and Jayson. And that leads us to today.

Anyway, I watched a 735 BMW drive up with Pam behind the wheel. Tink was in the back seat with Jayson, playing a silly car game that had Jay throwing himself. Mutt gave Pam a real kiss, and got out. It was good to see the love. It wasn’t always that way, since Pam’s return to the shore. Misunderstanding fostered by ten years of non-communication, but that’s over.

Tink then exited the back door, and she and Mutt rehearsed a kissing scene from “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Bradjolina had nothing over my two friends. Get a room.

He was only getting coffee for god’s sake, and Starbuck’s has never been fatal. The man's been through Vietnam as an MPI and has survived gunshot wounds from the Mob. He's only going to drink coffee til you guys get back.

Tink got in the front seat, and they drove off, while Pam and Tink chatted away as if they were having the cock ‘n’ bull while Mutt was going to a serious commitment like rehab.

It’s a sunny Sunday and I figured Great Adventure. Mutt corrected me. “Right direction, wrong target, the Outlets.”
Jayson had begged to sit at Starbuck’s with us, but the rules for cock ‘n’ bull are no one under 18 allowed even with a grandparent. So he gets to play model for Tink and Pam.

Accessorizing, the female term for putting frilly things a young man against his will to humiliate him. Jay, so young yet so wise, saw what was coming. He was powerless to stop it.

Mutt thanked me for the saving him by creating a valid excuse to escape. He’d pay the bills and not participate in the shopping effort. Men are more into try-outs than try-ons.

I suggested we needed to take Jay to a ball game and teach him macho things. Mutt’s answer was “They can’t even walk in and out of the dugout without hurting themselves. They get hurt during rehab for heaven’s sake. They’re not men, they’re an infirmary waiting to happen, hospital ward fodder in a uniform.”

Mutt is a fan of the Mets as I am. We have the insight of Board Certified Orthopedic Surgeons. Hell, in the past, I even met and spoke with some of the ones taking care of the Mets. The injuries this year create one of several conclusions.

One, the people talking to the media are lyin’ rats. When they say it is a small injury involving the ankle, it is probably broken in three places, and dislocated. For what purpose? Got me. With the way sports teams in the Metropolitan area reveal injuries, this could be the true problem for fans. Delusional expectations feed by false information. OR …

Two, the doctors don’t know what they are doing or are influenced by the team management to take a shot at a quick fix. Anyone who knows anything about histology and hematology knows that injecting damaged blood products into a healing area increases inflammation by adding fibrous precursors, causing more scarring. This prolongs healing, and makes it more painful, period. The scar needs to be stretched everyday for up to nine months. It is the immutable law of nature’s healing. It is not suspended because this player is a New York Mutt. Now they say Jose may need surgery. What are they doing? That’s rhetorical.
I think the timing on the Delgado surgery speaks for itself. A-Rod had similar surgery, and he’s back fighting for a pennant. The Mutts {Mets new name} – with all due respect to my physician colleague – timed it so they could pay a salary for a player who will miss at least 80% of the season and will become a free agent this winter. And thanks to Bernie M. there isn’t enough money left to re-sign him.

Anyone out there want to get paid millions while rehabbing in Florida and occasionally sitting on the bench of a major league team, joking around with your teammates. You could do worse. Then when things get really stressful, you could take time off and visit your family and newborn daughter in the Caribbean. Is that a sympathetic tear I see in your eye? Is it for Mutt and me or the injured players who are suffering so?

Then next year that player can negotiate a contract that will make a team pay him a million or two just to peek and see if he regained any of his past prowess. He makes money whether he has recovered fully or not.

Mutt ranted about how even the New York Nomads were having a better year, and four of them were indicted for throwing baseball games. You can read about that in the future, when he has finished writing that book. It doesn't have a title yet. It may not even be a complete outline, but it's there in his head, waiting.

Arthur Frank, our friend from the FBI, is a Phillies fan. Boyo, we can’t invite him to the cock ‘n’ bull sessions until it’s NFL time. His winter team is the Eagles. Then we can talk about hiring a felon for the backfield. Maybe Art worked on his clearance?

“Who let the dogs out?” Oh my bad. I don’t think they will play that song in Philly this year.

At least, we have ammo for the cock ‘n’ bulls this winter, when Art hangs with us, or takes Mutt to the range in Sea Girt for target practice.

Till then we’ll just have to stand the pain.

Lew P.

Mutt’s Journal 28th Aug 09

Friday morning office hours: Four second opinions for surgery and three independent medical examinations, two sent by AllState. One was a walking wounded, with a large herniated disc at L4-5 on the MRI associated with a missing knee jerk reflex and a sensory deficit on the anterior shin. AllState won’t be happy with the report, but that isn’t important.

The other examinee is healed but claiming persistent symptoms, a fraud without findings, awaiting the green poultice. I asked for several tests that will be accepted by the legal system as hard evidence of normalcy. Justice will be done, if AllState authorizes the test. When they fake continued injuries, they are reaching into the public’s pocket.

The last client was the centerfielder of the New York Nomads. He was having issues with balance, swallowing, walking and driving at night, no wonder they can’t beat the Sisters of Mercy’s girls softball team.

He already had a big work-up at a New York hospital, but the blood work and x-rays were normal. At 19 million a year, the team wanted him on the field, not in the infirmary. The doctors dismissed him as a drunk and the DUI stop in Florida during spring training, served as evidence, even though he registered zero on the BAC machine.

When doctors don’t know the answer, the patient is crazy or lying, or the objective test performed by a machine is wrong, because a doctor never is.

As a doctor, I know we generally believe this lie, to protect our egos. All physicians suffer from the same delusion, DOE, Doctor of Everything. That’s why so many go bankrupt running a restaurant or something. It comes with the hypocrite’s oath. Sorry I digress.

Josh Jones was accused of throwing Major League games. My daughter, Pam, is defending him, because George – her ex – is his business agent and sent the referral.

Josh may not reach the hall of fame in Cooperstown, but after twenty minutes examining him, I know he’ll make the hall of fame of arrogant asses. We consulted anyway, because we are professionals, and he’s sick, physically.

Tink said his aura is sickening, but that should be differentiated from physical disease. The difference between smelling rotten eggs and eating them is the degree of involvement. Doctors smell the cooking, friends of Josh, well you get the picture.

I’m convinced he isn’t bright enough to figure out how to throw a game. He’s lucky to remember how to throw a baseball, or find his way to the ballpark in time for the game, while riding in a limousine with the driver using a GPS.

His disease interfered with his ability this year, but next year he’ll bounce back. I know what ails him. I can get him the cure. I’m a doctor; I know it all.

With the humor of the supernatural, dark thunderhead clouds filled the sky at the end of office hours. Tink laughed, because I had promised Jayson an afternoon at Point Pleasant on the rides. Apparently I didn’t know the weather report. Omniscient for less than a day, so goes life.

The Monmouth sky is deep enough to hold thick black clouds that cause sudden street floods and thunder that rattle Anderson Windows, both panes like Spanish maracas.

Pam had client appointments all afternoon at her Shrewsbury office, and release Jay to our custody. It takes two adults to control a single hopped up eight year-old on a mission of exuberance. He had day-cared all morning. He is getting used to calling Tink, Bubby although she isn’t much older than his mother. I am getting used to calling her snookems, in public, which drives the young guys who want to hit on her absolutely crazy. Yeah, I said absolutely. Her vocabulary is rubbing off on me too.

We reached Jenkinson’s and bought a strip of tickets, as Jayson eyed the rides. I asked him about visiting the Aquarium.

“Grandappy, I like dogs like Bubs, not fish. Fish are yucky. You can’t pet ‘em.”

So we went to the rides. Tink rode the tilt-a-whirl with Jay because I get carsick and have flashbacks to helicopters in Nam. I’m too large to get in the small train with him, so we watched him circle the yard. He begged to go to the water slide, but we all wore Bermudas and t-shirts.

“Next time big guy.” I winked at him and he winked back.

It started to rain. We still had 8 tickets, but I used all 8 to buy a kiss from Tink – the bargain of the day – and she stowed them in her carryall.

Jay asked, “We come back tomorrow?”

We ate at Jenkinson’s Pavillion. The rain didn’t stop, so we drove home to the shore house to wait for Pam. Jay laid out in front of the television and couldn’t care less that nothing in the house was moving except Bubs. She only wagged her tail sitting at the foot of the couch while I read the JBJS. Tink napped.

Dinner tonight at Punjab Ocean Palace owned by my Friend Singh Mack, Chicken Vindaloo. Jayson brought his six-shooter, because he’s sure not all Indians are friendly like Uncle Mack. Too bad I don’t have FBI protection anymore.

The Mad Mutt goodnight.

Mutt's Journal

I now have a co-author who will be writing about his world. His name is Dr. Madison Muttnick. He is the main character in a series of mystery novels, some of which are actually already in manuscript form. He visits me daily at my home and tells me about his world.

He is an Orthopedic Surgeon who is semi-retired after his stroke. He still performs second opinions and Independent Medical Examinations in his brand new office at the hospital annex. It represents part of the settlement which was made at the end of The Fatal Blow.

His x-ray tech, Tinker Belle, Rose Mary Angelucci, is now his fiancee, but she still works with him. His daughter Pam is a lawyer with offices in Shrewsbury. His grandson Jayson lives at the shore house with Tink and Pam, and a white standard Poodle that Pam still calls Bubbles, but everyone else calls, Bubs.

The Mad Mutt will be blogging on this site with daily activities at the shore. He is presently working on the diagnosis of Josh Jones who is the multi-million dollar center fielder for the New York Nomads.

All characters mentioned in his journal are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to people, alive or dead is purely coincidental. Reference to world events and actual places that exist are made to ground the scenes in reality. Not all the places actually exist, and not all the events actually took place, except in the Mad Mutt's mind. Which according to Sartre would make them real to Mutt. Go figure.

If this world as described by the Mad Mutt seems real to you, then I thank you for believing. If it seems preposterous, then I am sorry. It is written to entertain and to have fun. The real world with its problems and its solutions is at times too real. Mutt always escapes successfully, and it is my pleasure to bring you along.

The Mad Mutt and Tink were in the office Friday morning and spent the afternoon with Jayson at Pt. Pleasant. For full details check tomorrow's post.

Dr. Lew