DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

May 1 is the beginning of PG&E’s summer rate season for “Schedule E-7” customers, which includes most PV owners. Which means it’s time to haul your butt onto the roof to wash off the panels again.

Pictured is my new panel-washing device, which turns out to be so useful it practically qualifies as a life hack. It’s a car-washing wand, about five feet long. The garden hose screws into the handle and water sprays out of the brush. It’s totally not worth the $25 the local hardware store charged me for it, but given the 8% electricity generation I’ve just regained by washing the panels, I figure this brush will pay for itself in, oh, about six years.

Following is an illustration of the only way to win an Ebay auction any more: wait until the absolute last second, and bid 29¢ more than than the next guy.

This auction closed at 12:16:50, one second after my bid was received. I nearly missed the window because I decided 3 seconds before close to revise my bid. I wasted 25¢, as it turns out.

Bidding in the last moment of an auction is called “sniping” and it is annoying as hell, unless you happen to be the winner. I’ve lost numerous auctions by $1.00 or less, in the last 10 seconds of action. And I’ve won numerous auctions the same way. In fact, most everything I’ve bought on Ebay in the past year — or failed to buy — has come down to a last-moment bidding war. I’ve saved a bit of money this way, and, probably, shaved 18 months off my life due to sniping-induced stress.

I had a physical yesterday, my first in probably 10 years, spurred by the coincident realizations that [1] I have 0 sources of vitamin B12 in my (predominantly vegan) diet, and [2] I have more than 0 symptoms of B12 deficiency, or at least hypochondria. I put 1 and 2 together and got, naturally, B12. I decided to order a blood test, to see if I’d done any damage — my cholesterol, acid/alkaline balance, glucose, protein, or any number of measurements could be whacked. All this healthy living can be dangerous.

Modern American healthcare, or insurance, anyway, requires a doctor’s intervention for labwork. I couldn’t simply order a full metabolic panel and expect the folks at Blue Whatever to cover the tab. But then the doctor chided me for having gone so many years without a “full physical,” which, according to modern American healthcare, or insurance, anyway, means having a medical professional with six years of training spend approximately eight minutes asking dumb questions like “when was your last physical?” I caved in and scheduled a physical after the bloodwork came back.

At the beginning of the physical, a nurse recorded my pulse at 80 bpm. It’s usually 60. I attribute the elevated rate to the presence of the tube of Aqua-Gel on the side table. Fortunately, though, Dr. Jellyfinger didn’t make an appearance. His kindly counterpart Dr. L_____ (you can tell them apart by the rubber glove) informed me that the DRE can wait until I turn 40.

My blood test, as expected, showed the classic sign of a non-supplemented veganesque diet, namely an elevated homocysteine level, a precursor to coronary artery disease, stroke, and thromboembolism. Apparently all those warnings about B12 supplements for vegans aren’t kidding. I ordered some B12 supplements.

The doctor also recommended that I get a tetanus shot. The primary symptom of the need for a tetanus booster is the inability to remember the date of one’s last tetanus booster.

A nurse entered the room with a syringe full of a sickly yellow substance. “This goes into the muscle,” she said. “It’s going to hurt.” The nurse has apparently not learned the power of suggestion, or maybe she was disappointed about the whole Aqua-Gel thing. I bared an arm with growing dread. I’d survived the recent blood test, but in general, needles give me the screaming heebie-jeebies. It’s fine for doctors and nurses and even you to be all cavalier about it — “it’s a simple injection, for Chrissakes” — but let’s see you say that when you’ve got a fucking needle sticking into your arm.

“Err, I’m not sure I really need that shot,” I offered like a man grasping desperately for the slick edge of the buoy just before a thousand-ton wave crashes down on his head. The nurse held up the syringe and gave me a look like I can’t exactly put this shit back in the bottle, and began swabbing my arm. She asked if I ever cook meat (no!) or work in the yard (no!) and seemed somewhat bothered that I genuinely had a near-zero risk of exposure to tetanus bacteria. In the end I swallowed my fear, and I think a little bit of the previous night’s dinner, and I allowed her to administer the shot. She was all pro. It was over before I knew it started.

She was right about the pain. It’s 24 hours later, and my arm feels like a truck drove over it. A truck full of linebackers, each of whom hopped out to punch me in the arm, just below the shoulder. With brass knuckles. With little diamond studs set into the front. I’m afraid to peel off the little round band-aid; I think the bone might be showing.

So, I’ve left my band. I realized I was past due for a change of scene when I found myself enjoying playing a Creedence tune. I have nothing against dead-simple rock tunes — I just don’t want to play them. Nor hear them. Nor think about them. Nor stand in the vicinity of anyone who enjoys them. Nor admit knowledge of anyone who owns, or at any time owned any such CD. Etc. I’ll be spending what used to be rehearsal time learning music theory and composing.

June brings the return of Borrowed Time Studios… coming soon to a nursery near me.

In August or September, depending on how full my recording schedule is, I hope to put a progressive-rock band together. I doubt it would ever play out, but I wouldn’t care because I’d be playing crazy 4-limbed ostinatos in 7/8. (That, in fact, is the reason we’d probably never play out.)