Tomorrow I get open heart surgery, and so I look at the computer screen and hope this is not my last blog entry.  The percentages favor that I should be blathering on well into the future, so I will not make this a last will and testament of some sort.


(I look sexy with my shirt and epidermis off, don’t I?)

Seems a lifetime of coal cracker food has finally gotten to me and so I regret it is most likely I shall not be regaling you with tales of bleenies and kilbo ever again (sob, sob), at least not in the present tense.  The word around the ward is triple bypass.  Luckily, my heart is in great shape; it’s just that everything leading to it is stuffed like a cannoli.  They say that after the procedure I should feel like a 20-year-old, which, for me, means directionless and out of control.  Wonder why they thought I’d want that experience again?

It all began with bilateral pain in my shoulders and elbows whenever I exercised, which meant it didn’t happen often as I rarely break a sweat, which is another part of the problem.  How was I to know that pain in your right elbow can mean angina?

The hero of this tale is super advocate for the working man, attorney Steve Wodka, a friend who, upon hearing my complaints, said, “You are calling my cardiologist TOMORROW!  You will take the first appointment they have with whomever is available (I was assigned someone from the cleaning service, but that’s how I roll).

For once in my life I listened to someone concerned about my health.  I called Thursday, got an appointment for Friday, was sent directly to the ER for a heart catheterization, and was told, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, buddy!”  I never went home and have been in the hospital ever since.

And so, it appears I may be out of commission for a few days.  Luckily, we writers don’t need a lot of energy or physical capability in order to do our jobs, so I should be tap, tap, tapping away on this laptop in no time.

Best wishes to all.  Think of me as you eat your next Coney Island chili cheese dog.