It is 6:19 a.m.

Getting here was far more of a pain in the ass than expected. We left at 4:30 a.m., hopped an F at 4:40, decided to switch to an A at Jay St., realized what a misstep that was by 5:00, got on another F, got out at 14th, caught a bus to Union Square, went down into the subway, saw that the entrance we stood in front of was closed, went back outside, crossed the street, went back down, caught a 6 and go to the hospital at 6:00 a.m.

And now Teresa is somewhere inside and I wait in the waiting area (I wonder if that’s how it got its name…), trying to locate wireless internet (no dice).

ABC Eyewitness News is playing on a flat-screened plasma TV above me and it reminds me what a festival of asshats network news has become. Like most everything else in this country, network news has to be sold to its audience. It isn’t enough to have good reporters covering good stories (that’s not even a requirement anymore) – you need to have smiling happy robots bantering casually and wittily and delivering their sound bites with their heads tilted just so.

Someone got kicked off of Dancing With the Stars last night and they’re treating the impending revelation like it’s the Colonel’s secret recipe (incidentally, it’s black pepper, flour, paprika, mustard seed, garlic salt, onion powder, molasses, animal shortening and a touch of honey and parmesan cheese — you’re welcome).

Oh no! It was Denise Richards! Colon! Now what will she do?

Dennis Quaid (who kinda/sorta played President Bush in American Dreamz) and Julianne Moore (who isn’t blonde, short or homely) are playing Bill and Hillary Clinton in an upcoming horrible idea. I mean biopic. Peter Morgan will write it (if it’s half as good as his Frost/Nixon, maybe half as many people will see it – what’s half of 3?).

This is disjointedly written because: 1) in solidarity with Teresa, I haven’t eaten or had coffee yet today – I’ll grab something when she’s in surgery and WHEN STORES ARE OPEN; 2) there is a fat Asian lady who keeps reading over my shoulder and it’s throwing me off my game (yeah, I called you fat, Asian lady – if you don’t like it, stop reading over my shoulder.); 3) I hate hospitals; 4) I usually have a newspaper, not a collection of voiceovers.

I’m waiting to be let in to see Teresa one more time before surgery (which is scheduled for 7:30), so I don’t want to get a paper or a cup of coffee just yet.

Last night we went to Chip Shop on 5th. Ironically, the fish (in the fish & chips) was the weakest part of the meal (the batter was a little too thick and sweet-flavored), but everything else was amazing.  Fizzy Ribenas, fried macaroni & cheese, baked beans on toast and fish & chips – heart attack? Eventually. Deliciousness? Immediately. Best fries in Brooklyn (besides Nathan’s).  I wanted to try the “Twice-Fried Cherry Pie” but the NY Department of Health no longer allows Chip Shop to sell it. I would have also liked to try a fried Twinkie or fried Snickers, but we were both so full after dinner, we briefly considered throwing up in the street (and going back for dessert). Instead, we went home, curled up in bed and made it an early night (but not early enough, it would seem – I need some coffee so badly right now). I’ve known it for over five years now: I am the luckiest man in the world. Still need steady work, and I haven’t found that garbage bag full of money yet, but I have the most incredible wife/best friend/pet monkey and I can’t wait to feed her sorbet.

“G-A-W-J-U-S” is how the Eyewitness News anchor just described the photo they are (I assume) showing of today’s sunset. He felt it necessary to spell it out first.

P.S. – Two wars, life-changing economic crisis, MTA fare hike, Lisa Ling’s sister.

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It is 8:10 a.m.

I saw Teresa (who is in excellent spirits, thanks to her legions of friends) and met her ana… anea… anaethe… the lady who will gas her, her nurse (who is a man and whose name will make any longtime fan of this blog cackle) and the nurse manager, all of whom radiated warmth and intelligence. It was almost enough to make me not hate hospitals. As much.

The operation, which should be under way as I type this, is expected to last 4 hours (though some last 3, some 6).

I am in a Starbucks on 78th and Lexington. The “artisan roll sandwich” I just scarfed down had the soggiest most uncooked bacon on it that I’ve ever had the displeasure of scarfing. Nice Gouda, though.

And as I sip the gargantuan coffee in front of me, I fondly recall the first time I tried one of these newfangled coffee shops. It was Chicago in 1997.  As I’ve mentioned before, Genealogy rehearsed (fairly) early every Saturday morning, and I usually occupied a stool at the counter of the S& P from 8:00-9:00.

Except on this particular day, I overslept. It was 8:45 and I was naked. So I hurriedly dressed and ran down Arlington Place to the Clark Street bus stop. Clark (like most streets in Chicago) was a flat line. If you stood in the middle of the road, you could see a bus coming from miles away. But I didn’t. On a good day, you would catch a bus within 5 minutes. This wasn’t a good day.

My main concern was that I needed coffee. Being surrounded by my closest friends and doing improv and laughing should be enough to keep a strapping young lad awake. But it wasn’t then and it isn’t now (at least, for me). So, while I panicked about being late (and I didn’t have no cellie back then!), I noticed I was standing in front of a Seattle’s Best Coffee. As a New Yorker, I have always preferred getting my coffee from a deli. You know, where the cups have the Greek columns on them? But I didn’t have much of a choice.

I entered and looked at the menu. It was all I could do to not scream “What the fuck?!?” when my cashier (I didn’t yet know the word “barista”) asked me if I wanted to try the coffee of the day, which was Ethiopian Raspberry. Why would anyone that finds raspberries in one of the globe’s most notoriously impoverished countries even briefly consider mixing them into coffee? Feed them to people as raspberries, dummy!

“No, thanks, let me just get a large coffee.”
“We don’t have large.”
“Then a medium.”
“We don’t have medium, either, sir. We have tall, grande and venti.”
“You have what?”
“Instead of small, medium and large, we have tall, grande and venti.”
“So venti means large?”
“Yes.”
“Venti is what you want customers to say when they want a large coffee, even though you know exactly what they mean when they say large?”
(uncomfortable pause)
“Give me a venti coffee, please.”
“One venti. And what kind of coffee would you like?”
“Coffee.”
“Yes, sir, but would you like Sumatran Dark or perhaps our new house blend which has hints of…”
“I’m sorry. Do you have a pot of coffee in the back that the employees drink? Like Maxwell House or Folgers? I want that. I want coffee that comes from a bag with nothing written on it except COFFEE.”
(even more uncomfortable pause)
“How about the house blend?”
“Is there fruit in it? Does it come from Africa, Europe or Asia? I mean, I can get on board the unnecessarily Italian bandwagon and call my large a venti, if you insist, but I have to insist on coffee-flavored coffee.”

The house blend (which I was assured was “regular”) tasted like burned hats. I never went back to that SBC.

Years later, I sit in a Starbucks burping raw bacon as I sip my large coffee (I still order it that way wherever I go and – zoot allors! – not a single barista or counter-jockey anywhere has ever corrected me.

And Starbucks coffee tastes like burned hats.

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Bloomberg’s Chayefsky quote made the front page (as did Day 20 of the Countess Divorce which really needs to go away – though thank you for the mental picture of a fairly attractive 36-year-old trying repeatedly to initiate sex with her 66-year-old hubby).

GET MAD! Call up pols NOW to halt fare hike: Mike

“I would suggest, when you see what’s going to happen to your commuting costs, you should call your state legislators and say, ‘I’m mad as Hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore.” Now, Armond White, would you like to reconsider how “politically glib” you believe Network is? Moron.

*****ADDENDUM***** Look in the letters page of the new issue of the New York Press. I like the way that Resnik guy thinks!

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The Yankees just bought the rest of Yankee Stadium. They already owned the grass, the dirt, the lockers, the outfield walls and the bases. Now (after a $10,000,000+ payout) they also own the foul poles, the seats, the dugouts and the urinals. And now they are passing this future debris onto you, the fan! Incidentally, the only seats left for Opening Day are in the $900 – $2,600 range.

Not even if I got sit in Jeter’s lap.

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Not every abusive spouse is Chris Brown. Some of them are Helen Sun. She wanted to reconcile with her estranged husband, so she handcuffed himself to her (while he slept) and locked the bedroom door so he couldn’t escape. And bit him. A lot. They’ve been married for eight years. Methinks a ninth anniversary will not be celebrated.

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More great news about the MTA’s fare hikes! Here’s the calendar of events:

In late April, LIRR service to Belmont Park will be eliminated (days before racing season begins! NICE!). In mid-May, Metro-North riders who buy their tickets online will start paying higher prices. May 31st is when the fares officially increase. Metro-North an the LIRR will charge more starting June 1st. Bridges and tunnels get fare increases in July, dozens of bus routes get cut or eliminated by summer and by fall/winter, the G and M will be severely cut and the W and Z will be eliminated.

Keep up the diminishing returns, you miserable bastards!

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Padma Lakshmi has graduated from the UCB. Congratulations, Padma. Improvisation hasn’t jumped the shark yet, but let’s just say the motorcycle is revving and the tank is jut about filled.

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Fred Astaire… racist?

Shortly after the Watts riot, Budd Schulberg (director of On the Waterfront) started a writers’ workshop to help nurture Black talent in Los Angeles. Gregory Peck donated. Jack Lemmon and Sammy Davis, Jr. did, too. But according to Fred Astaire’s new biography, he sent only a response to Budd:

“Budd, whatever gave you the impression that I would be interested in giving money to start a workshop to help Black kids? You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Top hat, old bean.

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Stevie Nicks will be signing books at the Union Square Barnes & Noble on Tuesday at 7:00 p.m.

She will be sitting in front of the Union Square Barnes & Noble until then and also immediately following the book signing.

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Michael Jackson’s hired goons (let’s hope they got paid in advance) have threatened the auction house that’s auctioning off a bunch of Jackson’s stuff on April 21st.

The president of Julien’s Auctions said in a sworn statement that the goons said they would get “Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam” to go after him if the auction wasn’t cancelled. He went on to add, “Michael Jackson wanted to give the message to us, that our lives are at stake and there will be bloodshed.”

Trey Parker, as Michael Jackson, responded, “Nooooo… that’s ignorant.”

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Now someone is firing arrows at people in the Bronx.

What was that weirdo Jodie Foster/Tim Robbins movie from years ago? Five Corners? That had arrows in it, right?

If this shitty coffee weren’t so shitty, I’d get more. But I won’t. Yet. I still have no internet (I ain’t paying AT&T for the privilege, thanks), so I’ll just assume that, yes, that’s the movie with the arrows, and move on.

I wonder if this is what it’s like being Armond White’s editor.

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I’ve often wondered what gave Ralph Peters the authority to constantly shit on my BPF. Now I know.

He was recently named “Fox News’ first ‘strategic analyst.’”

He was previously their “strategeric analyzerist.”

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You Tube is now being blocked in China.

It’s just as well – most of their uploaded videos look the same to me.

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Terry Kinney (warden of Oz, co-founder of the Steppenwolf Theater Company in Chicago) left a message on Michael Riedel’s answering machine, in response to Riedel’s cruel takedown of the play Terry is directing.

It begins with, “Michael Riedel, this is Terry Kinney. You wrote an article about my play today that is absolutely full of bullshit and lies, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It ends with (according to Riedel) the tape running out during “You’re going on a very bad source. You’re full of shit and…”

Moral of the story? Don’t fuck with the warden from Oz.

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Freddy Garcia was going to be the Mets’ fifth starter. The only thing stopping him? He’s 0-3 with a 16.71 ERA for the spring.

Poor Freddy Garcia (and, to a greater extent, the Mets).

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D.L. Hughley’s CNN news-b’also-humor show has been cancizzelled. It lasted 18 episodes.

Speaking of audience-less shows, George Lopez will debut his late-night talk show on TBS this November.

No word on how soon thereafter Carlos Mencia’s eerily similar talk show will debut, but you know it will.

Dur-dee-duuuuuur.

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OK. I have no way of posting this, so you might not read this until tonight or tomorrow, but know that by 9:57 a.m., I completed my daily assignment.

Hopefully, in an hour or two, my beautiful wife will be awake again, newly thyroidless.

In the meantime? I’m-a go back to the hospital and do filthy things in the men’s room.

Oh, and that male nurse’s name (and I am not changing a single letter, I swear)?

Tom Phan.

☺

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It is 3:39 p.m.

My aunt Pat and I just saw Teresa. She sounds like Froggy from The Little Rascals and has tubes and IVs all up in her heezie, but she’s in decent spirits (thank you, morphine!).

So many messages of love! If I was getting my thyroid out, I’d get a day-late voicemail from a wrong number (if I was lucky!).

Seriously, though, I can’t thank everyone enough. Would Teresa have made it through without Patti keeping me company? Yes. Does she need all of the texts and voice mails from friends across the globe? Not really. Does she even need me? Yes. And don’t ever let her forget it.

I will say this about Lenox Hill Hospital (where a certain pretty baby was born on June 30th almost 35 years ago): every single person here (from the security guy downstairs to the orderlies to the woman who keeps checking in on folks in the waiting room) is fucking awesome. Years of frequenting places like Circuit City (burn in Hell) and dealing with folks like my buddies at Oxford Health, had completely erased any memory I ever had of decent customer service. Lenox Hill Hospital has returned those memories in a tidal wave of comforting.
If you ever need to be in a hospital, this is the one to go to.

I’m even considering hacking off whichever limb I use least, just so I can hang out with these incredibly sweet people some more.

Phew. So relieved. Again, I wasn’t worried about the operation (any more than I normally worry about the well-being of my wife), but these last few days have been a stress waffle with extra maple syrup and also more stress. How long will it take before Teresa is back to her sprightly self? I dunno. And will the removal of her thyroid mean that her recent lethargy and exhaustion will vanish? That’d be nice, but again, I have no idea.

But whatever happens, whatever she needs, I will always be by her side. That much I know.

OK.  It’s now 4:44 p.m. The raw bacon of this morning is starting to do a samba in my gutty works. I’m almost hoping Teresa sends me home (if one of my farts winds up infecting her throat, then that would be alternately devastating and hilarious).

Time to power down the pute-pute and stretch m’legs.

I promise not to be as maudlin and kissy-kissy tomorrow.

Yes.