MUD BOY AND THE NEUTRONS

MUD BOY AND THE NEUTRONS were playing on my car CD as I pulled into “Brothers” Italian restaurant at 8:20 PM Hallowe'en Night, one of the precious few establishments thankfully still open that late Sunday hour. I was ravenous, having not eaten since the day before and having worked outside all that day. The CD music source accompanied the book I am now reading, It Came From Memphis, a history of the post-WWII Memphis music scene.

I felt like a condemned prisoner, savoring the last meal before The Big Dirt Nap. The next day would be “clear liquids only” in preparation for the “cobra-cam” colonoscopy early the morning after in Charlottesville. I was eagerly anticipating consuming about a half-gallon of the dreaded “green-apple quick-step” cocktail that I should pick up at the drugstore and mix with cold water before guzzling. I figured disco-dancing was out for that night! Remaining close to the toilet was Priority No. One. (Or No. 2—this higher math confuses me so.)

All my reading glasses were accounted for, so there should have been no evidence that my head was ever lodged “where the sun don’t shine.” I had forgotten to ask the doc if the ‘scope was night-vision equipped. If ultra-violet, it would take tanning to a new level! Groucho Marx had observed that inside a dog, it was too dark to read, etc.

Pathetically stupid, not-at-all-frightening slasher flicks were on The Tube all day (I periodically checked), and I despaired of finding something amusing or interesting in my persistent channel-surfing at home. My porch lights were turned off to discourage the panhandling rug-rats who might show up and threaten to deprive me of all the candy I had purchased allegedly for the observance at hand. I loathe sharing anything. After all, I could have made my last meal exclusively of really small “Snickers” bars!

So, I started my “last meal” at “Brothers” (Oilville, Virginia) with a delicately breaded, fresh, fried calamari, complete with a small dish of marinara sauce and two huge wedges of lemon. It was some of the best I have ever eaten, as good as “Nick’s Roman Terrace” on West Broad Street (just east of Parham Road) in Richmond. Likewise, the Romaine lettuce in my Caesar salad was also very fresh, and cold. I finished up with a wonderfully crisp-toasted Italian sub sandwich, washed down with very cold Italian beer and cold water. It was a delightful meal, and I brought home a chocolate cannelone to munch on as I desperately tried to find something worthy on the TV. Regrettably, it was too late for some savory drip coffee to go with that pastry.

Much of getting old is about subjecting oneself to all sorts of invasive procedures that may only reveal one’s impending death. “Mud Boy and the Neutrons” don’t abate the experience. Had I known about these things as a child (like the dreaded annual prostate exam) I might have been less eager to reach adulthood, but we don’t know of nor learn about such things in our tender years, when “invasive devices” for most of us are otoscopes in our ears and hypodermic needles.

I once told my doc that if I felt both of his hands on my shoulders while undergoing the prostate exam, I was going to leave immediately! As bad as it is to endure such a procedure annually, it must be a living hell for the docs who have to perform them all year long! Dignity for both doctor and patient are redefined.

Well, chicken broth and no coffee all day before the exam. I hope I have lost a ton of weight for all the deprivation I have endured!