But Boogus says my belly looks less Cardgagian every day.
Went to a dermatologist today to get my legion of warts check up. Typical rundown New York doctor's office, which are strikngly remeniscient of hospitals in Africa. Beat up equipment with chipped paint, cheap lighting, pastel walls, an open fuse box on the wall. Two minifridges stacked on top of each other, stacked atop two waterstained phone books.
Now if we could only find some stench, we'd complete the image. And then doc walks in, he asks me to take my shoes off, and even this professional toe scraper is astounded by the waves of stink coming off my feet. He sits at his desk, turns on a personal fan, and places his head about three inches away from it.
Two nurses with respective crack tats (Celtic knottery, brambled rose stems) come on in and there are three people working on my middle finger at once. Doc tells me a story and never lets his face or voice betray what his hands are doing.
He tells me how he always wanted to be a journalist. Slice. From his first days in the Yeshiva. A nurse passes him a frightening prods. But how his dad demanded he go into medicine. Stab, shovel. So he ended up at Columbia, but not for journalism! Probe, shock to the bone. As a matter of fact he was stuck in a Columbia elevator during a blackout. Staunch, gauze.
And now my middle finger has a big hole like someone sliced a golf ball right off it.
I tell him my insurance is going to try and cast this whole thing as a cosmetic, and therefore elective out of pocket, procedure.
"Thees? Oh no. Thees is not cosmetic. Thees was a biopsy. I want to know what is growing on you."
...
Now Charlie Rose is in the background talking on TV. He's speaking with the editor of Le Monde. Since he's talking to a Frenchman, he refers to "a political boogieman" as a "political bogeyman." Oh, Charlie. You try so hard.
