Yankees 7, Twins 1

Friday was one helluvan afternoon, to say the least. I snuck out of work early (2:45) and bolted for the bus. Ain't no bus, so I got on the F instead. I was already exhausted.

I was headed to the upper East for a series of exams, scans, and drugs treatments. First stop was the ___________ Imaging Center. I was thinking F to the V and get off at 53rd/Lex-- maybe a farewell ride on the soon-extinct V line (and good fucking riddance!). Passed a parked V at 2nd Ave that wasn't going anywhere soon, so I switched to the D at W 4th in hopes of passing another V before 34th. Didn't happen, so I stuck with the D until 7 Av, where I pulled a slick switch to the Queens-bound E for 2 stops to the aforementioned 53rd/Lex stop. Piece of cake, really.

53rd/Lex is one deep station, so I was all about the escalator. Painted-blue plywood surrounded the escalator entrance, which I took to mean "the escalator is out of order." I staggered over to the stairs and began what Anatoli Boukreev might have called The Climb. Seriously, this is a really long flight of stairs.

Unfortunately, the stairs give a nice view of the fully operational "up escalator" about ten feet to the right. I considered leaping across the 4-foot gap (perhaps inspired by the alleged heroics of Boukreev himself), but that seemed like a bad idea. About halfway up the flight (appr. 5000 steps) I came face to face with an urchin of an old woman heading down the stairs. BTW, I was on the right side of the stairs while she was on the left.

The bitch wouldn't move! We stood there for at least 15 seconds before I said, "Come on, lady, move." She said, "Get out of my way!" I said, "Just move to the right, OK!" She said, "GET OUT OF MY WAY!" I said, "Common courtesy dictates that..." She said, "GET OUT OF MY WAY!!!"

By now, people were gawking through the gap between the escalator and the stairs, thinking (1) "what the hell is that idiot doing climbing the stairs?!" and (2) "that lady's a nutjob!" I was inspired by neither thought, and actually moved to my left, breaking every moral code in my body. Then I had to walk up the remaining fucking 5000 steps.

By now, my condition that necessitated the afternoon's exams, scans, and drugs treatments was much worse. On the bright side, I was actually on time! I stumbled into the MRI center looking like someone that needed one hell of an MRI.

I should mention that the ___________ Imaging Center is an absolutely top-notch operation, which is good considering the gravity of their work. An attractive receptionist asked me to fill out lots of paperwork, including a sheet with outlines of the front and back of a human body (they looked exactly the same) which I was supposed to mark according to my pain/symptoms. I circled both diagrams completely and submitted my clipboard.

An attractive nurse escorted me into the elevator and down two floors into the bowels of the center. I was given a key to a locker and told to store my belongings and change into a hospital gown. I asked the nurse if the facility had a restroom I could use before my MRI, which was probably the stupidest question of all time. Can you imagine an underground MRI center without a bathroom??!!

I was then led into a small room by yet another attractive nurse, who informed me that she was "setting up my port for the introduction of contrast agents." She was sticking a needle and catheter in my arm (which she did expertly and efficiently). She then led me down the hall and into the MRI room ("the tube").

A large man introduced himself and said he'd be my imaging technician for the afternoon, ending my streak at three. He was a dead ringer for Anton LaVey, which I took as a good sign. Anton asked me some stock questions, sizing me up for the ordeal ahead. I smirked and said something about this being my fourth or fifth MRI (this is true; I have had four or five MRIs in my lifetime). He smirked right back (and this guy knew how to smirk!) and said, "Well, today's session is a bit more... rigorous than you've experienced before." I replied, "How so? How long are we talking here?" Anton mumbled something about "55 minutes or so." Oh boy.

He gave me two cheap foam earplugs, which I immediately dropped on the floor. He helped me out with another pair, and strapped me in. Being strapped into an MRI with an IV tube in your arm is a little weird; I resisted the handful of death row jokes that floated through my transom. Once I was completely immoblized, Anton explained that I'd be getting MRI scans of my brain, and cervical spine, as well as an MRA of my neck, each with and without contrast. I asked him something about a "break" and he said something about "one shot."

Getting a closed bore MRI is exactly like listening to Autechre at maximum headphone volume on cough syrup, which I've done at least four or five times. The technician introduces each portion of the scan like a deadpan DJ, stating, "OK, this one's 3 and a half minutes" or "this one's about 2 minutes." The technician always underestimates the length of each song portion. That's the only way to make it through something like this (especially for almost an hour and a half!!!)-- to treat the experience like a little personal concert, brought to you by Warp Records. I totally dug the bass-heavy stuff, but couldn't stand the high-end BRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKK BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKK shit. I found out later that my right earplug fell out sometime during the scan, so my noise notch is now offically a noise ravine.

I'll also say that it was goddamn freezing in there!! I figured either (1) they have to keep the facility well ventilated for patients' safety and proper maintenance of the machinery, or (2) Anton was trying to neutralize my terrible farts.

I do have some suggestions that would improve the MRI experience for patients:
1) accompany each scan-series with a mini light show-- how hard would that be?
2) introduce each portion with a title, not just a length: "This one's something we like to call 'Gepetto's Waltz'" or "Here's 'Crunch Brigade'". That would really move things along.
3) they put a little tilted mirror above your head so you can kinda see out into the main room, like you're in jail or at a golf tournament. Maybe they could act out some interesting scenarios or at least walk around or something?! I thought I might see Anton eating a Subway sandwich or playing Klondike but I never saw anything move at all out there.

I was extracted from the tube at about 6:15pm, feeling and looking like a human Pop-Tart. I half-expected to be congratulated by the crew for remaining so perfectly still during the 90 minutes I spent in there, but only got a "Nice job, man" from Anton. I was so proud of my corpse-like performance that I actually began to fantasize about second careers that could avail themselves to someone with my special talent, perhaps in the fields of international espionage, escape artistry, being buried alive, etc.

My afternoon was only half over, as I still had to check in with my doctor about the results of my scans (they burned me a CD on my way out, furthering the music parallels I'd been working on all afternoon). I was really late for my appointment, but doc still took the time to study my brain, spine, blood, and whatever else they got on the damn CD. He gave me a "coulda been a lot worse" report, and then tossed around some pluses and minuses of the new treatment I've been considering. The therapy (let's call it "Ypsilanti") has shown remarkable results for most patients, but seems to have caused more than a few fatalities along the way. They've tightened up the ship in the last year or so, and the drug's been downgraded from "risky" to "might be sort of risky." I can live with that.

So it's almost 8:00pm on a Friday night and he asks me if I want to hook up for a steroid IV. I say, "Sure, but right now?" He says, "Why not? I'm here for a few more hours anyway." Within five minutes I'm juiced up in a chair with the Yankee game YES broadcast blasting from the waiting room television. I was feeling better already.

The rest of the night's a bit blurry. I know the kids were both asleep by the time I got home, and I jabbered at my wife for about 45 minutes about Facebook, Twitter, and the Boston Celtics. I passed out at a respectable hour.

NEXT MORNING: Oh shit, I got a Yankee game today! I had a lousy morning trying to get Jr. to do just about anything besides watch TV, shat my brains out for a few hours, and made it up to the game by the third inning or so. Fun time-- not much to report at all. Apparently Michael Kay referred to Manny Ramirez as "Man-Ram" during their broadcast discussion of grand slams, which I gladly would have stayed home just to hear.