laughter is only the best medicine when you can't get the hard stuff

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of seeing my all-time favorite comedienne, Kathy Griffin, from amazing floor seats at the soon to be nameless, but currently named WaMu Theater at Madison Square Garden. It was a brilliant show, and if you know anything about Kathy you will appreciate that the highlights of the night included massive amounts of swearing, a whole lot of shit talking and vastly, extremely, unbelievably inappropriate comments that most people would find offensive to their sensibilities, and would probably make a more gentile woman get the vapors.

In a word: hysterical. After the show, my friend Harry and I had planned to stake out the place and wait for Kathy and her famous entourage (Tom, Jessica and Tiffany) to emerge from the Garden and greet us like the no. 1 biggest fans that we are. We cased the joint a little at first, trying to find potential exit points, before polling some nearby police officers about where stars usually enter and exit. They pointed us around to an awning-covered employee entrance, which looked promising. There we met up with about four or five other people who were also waiting for Kathy et. al. We stood around for a while in the absolutely frigid cold, wind whipping around the arena, with no Kathy in sight. A few minutes later one of the fans was tipped off by an official at MSG that Kathy had a meet and greet, but that when she left she would most likely do it by car from a ramp about halfway up the block. We all immediately dutifully scurried to the vehicle entrance, only to be told by the Guido security guard that she'd gone at least 15 minutes ago.

At which point I turned to Harry and said, let's get the eff out of here. There might have been a night when I would've broken out into the streets of New York, determined. But the thing that I failed to mention earlier in the story is that I have the black lung.

Okay, so I probably don't actually have black lung. I've never actually worked in a coal mine, but I have had an inexplicable fascination with the Appalachians lately. Power of suggestion? I don't know. The point is I have this crazy chest cough that popped up out of nowhere on Thursday morning and has gotten more and more intense by the day. So much so that last night, after Harry and I left Manhattan and headed for Jersey City, we also headed for Jersey City Medical Center. Harry was probably just trying to shut me up, because in between loud, obnoxious coughs and comments about my flem I wouldn't stop talking about how I thought I needed "to seek medical attention." In those exact words.

Unfortunately for us the ER is the place. to. BE on a Saturday night and let me tell you, the JCMC was hoppin'. We had everybody there. Sick baby with everyone in immediate and extended family, including at least two cousins. Two dudes who looked totally fine with another dude who "got in a fight" and thinks he has a broken nose, and won't stop asking the nurse if he needs stitches. Stitches? For a broken nose? I mean I know you didn't go to med school, but you've watched TV before, right? Christ. We also had loud Latina woman who may or may not have been pregnant who had allegedly been there since 7 p.m. It was now after midnight. She also had an audience of people of assorted nationalities who were listening to her soliloquy on the state of healthcare (which mostly included things like, "You remember the old hospital? Now that was a hospital, oh they were just so nice, you would walk in and get seen like THAT! (snapping her fingers) Just. Like. That! Oh they don't have hospitals like that around here no more, uh uhhhh"). These people did not seem injured in any way, but I'm sure they were also waiting to be seen.

We only lasted about thirty minutes at the ER, after it became very clear that I might not be seen by a doctor until sometime next Wednesday. And that the Latina woman would be seen on Tuesday, and Idiot McBrokenNose would still be asking for stitches.

So now here I am, feeling about like I've been rode hard and put away wet, getting ready to go to the Duane Reade in Times Square to see their clinic doctor to make sure I'm not about to become the first non-coal miner ever to be diagnosed with black lung. Some people are tough when they're sick. I am a big damn baby. I want my mommy, followed by a personal car service, an endless supply of orange juice and a line of people to make that frowny sad sympathy face at me and say, "Awww, poor baby."

I'm just thankful that -- at least for the time being -- I have insurance. Because once I turn 24 in 21 short days (and until this black lung story breaks and I get a cool million from NBC Nightly News for the exclusive Katie Couric interview), I will no longer be one of the few, the lucky, the insured. And it scares the living bejesus out of me.

(Of the many pieces of mail we receive on a daily basis for a variety of Hispanic people, only two of whom ever actually lived here, as far as I know, once upon a time we received a piece of mail for a man whose last name was Bejesus. And I'm sure it's actually pronounced Bay-hay-seuss or something ridiculous like that, but as far as I'm concerned, that man's last name is Be-jeez-us. Mr. Juan Bejesus, to you.)

So I suppose I should be thankful I have the black lung on Feb. 22, and not on March 16. Thank Juan Bejesus for that.


cheers,
elizabeth