After Action Report // SITREP 3-24 // Blog Entry #55

Well, of course it went exactly as expected—which is to say, with a faint whiff of bureaucratic dread and antiseptic doom hanging in the air like a bad omen you can’t quite shake.

I arrived at the dermatology outpost ahead of schedule—early, because the Marine Corps burned that particular paranoia into my bones: if you’re not early, you’re already dead or wrong, but definitely late.. No middle ground. No mercy. So there I was, planted in the waiting room like a suspicious package, marinating in fluorescent lighting and regret.

Thirty minutes passed. Or maybe it was thirty years. Time behaves strangely in those places—stretches, warps, crawls into your skull and sets up camp. I sat surrounded by a small convention of ancient war survivors and sunburnt philosophers—old geezers with skin like leather saddlebags and eyes that had clearly seen things the rest of us were lucky enough to avoid. A gallery of cautionary tales.

Finally, my name was called—dragged out of the void by a voice that had long since given up caring.

I surged forward like a man being summoned for judgment.

A short march followed: two right turns, one left—standard maze tactics, probably designed to disorient the patient and soften resistance. I was delivered to Room 8, which had all the charm of an interrogation chamber disguised as a medical facility.

Instructions were issued with clinical indifference: strip down to skivvies, don the ceremonial gown—the kind that leaves your backside flapping in the breeze like a surrender flag. A fine tradition. Keeps you humble. Keeps you compliant.

Then came the waiting. Again.

The first practitioner entered, gave me a once-over like I was a used vehicle with questionable mileage. And the gown? Useless. First order: ditch it. So there I stood—half-naked under the cold tyranny of overhead lights—while this stranger inspected my mortal coil.

She left. Of course she did. Had to fetch the real authority.

Moments later, that doctor arrived—trailing a med student like a junior reporter on assignment to witness the slow unraveling of a civilian. Now we’re up to three sets of eyes. A full panel. Apparently my skin required a committee review. After all, I am good looking.

They poked, prodded, examined. Whispered things in low tones like they were discussing crop yields or minor weather patterns.

Good news, they said: most of the dark spots are “normal.” Wisdom spots. That’s what they called them. Which is rich, considering the ongoing evidence that wisdom has yet to make a meaningful appearance in my decision-making process.

Still, I nodded like a man accepting praise he didn’t earn.

Then came the verdict: “You’re looking good… but we want to see you every 120 days.” Translation—you belong to us now.

And just to seal the deal—let’s freeze that little spot on the bridge of your nose.

Right there. Center mass. The bullseye of the human face.

No ceremony. No countdown. Just cold, clinical violence—zap—like a tiny arctic ambush. I could practically hear the skin surrender.

And just like that, it was done. Branded. Marked. Initiated into the dermatological herd.

Stamped and processed.

Another citizen processed through the great machine of preventative maintenance.

So I walked out into the daylight, nose tingling, dignity slightly dented, carrying the faint realization that the system has its hooks in me now.

And I suppose… there’s only one thing left to do.

Lean into it.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Looking out for number one

 

 

Not another day, not another dollar—no, that clean little slogan has no jurisdiction here. In this corner of existence, we measure time in appointments, in waiting rooms that smell faintly of antiseptic and quiet dread. Calendars don’t flip—they accumulate. And this week, the tally stands at two. Two scheduled encounters with the modern priesthood of white coats and calibrated concern.

Today’s event: the freckle check.

A deceptively cheerful name for what is, in reality, a full-scale reconnaissance mission against the possibility that the infamous rat bastard charlie—the internal saboteur, the cellular anarchist—might be staging a quiet insurgency somewhere on the skin. And not just anywhere. We’re talking about skin—the largest organ, a sprawling frontier of flesh stretched out like contested territory. Acres of it. Too much real estate to patrol with any confidence.

And so we go in.

There is, I’ve found, nothing quite so efficient at dismantling the illusion of dignity as the clinical ritual of disrobing under fluorescent lights while a stranger conducts a slow, methodical inspection of your mortal casing. You stand there—naked, vulnerable, and suddenly very aware of gravity—as someone half your age and twice as composed circles you like a biologist studying a mildly interesting specimen.

And of course—of course—the practitioner this time is young. Alarmingly young. And female. The universe has a twisted sense of humor when it comes to these things. One of the great truths of medical trouble is this: dignity is the first casualty. It doesn’t fade—it vanishes. One minute you have it, the next you’re holding a paper gown together like a failed conspiracy.

Still, this is the price of vigilance.

With any luck, the verdict will come back clean—no suspicious outposts, no need for freezing, burning, slicing, or any of the medieval remedies dressed up in modern terminology. Best-case scenario: a nod, a polite smile, and a “see you next time.”

But I’m no fool. I expect the usual hedge. A few “areas of interest.” Some “nothing urgent, but let’s keep an eye on it” nonsense. A gentle reminder that the war is ongoing, and the enemy has a habit of hiding in plain sight.

And truth be told—I’m fine with that. My oncologist is a cautious man, and caution has kept me in the game this long. If he wants to sweep every inch of the perimeter for signs of trouble, I’ll stand there under the lights and let him.

So now we wait.

Six hours from now, I’ll have a verdict—clean bill or a fresh list of minor grievances to address in due time. Either way, the wheels keep turning.

In the meantime—pour something reckless, brace yourself, and as I like to say . . .

 

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

Spring has Sprung

 Spring has kicked the door in like a drunk optimist with a sunburn and something to prove. The forecast is screaming ninety degrees this weekend—ninety, in March—because subtlety is dead and the climate has decided to start freebasing chaos. 

Out at the forest compound, everything is glowing that radioactive shade of green that only shows up when nature is either thriving or plotting something. Redbuds are exploding in all directions like botanical fireworks, flowers are crawling out of the dirt with reckless enthusiasm, and the air itself feels thick enough to chew.

Step outside and you’re sweating before you’ve even had time to regret it. It should be wonderful. It almost is.
Except for the part where the universe keeps a loaded gun under the table.

Because somewhere beneath all this chlorophyll and optimism is the small matter of that MRI from last week—the one that came with the charming promise of “results in mid-April.” Forty-five days. A month and a half of marinating in uncertainty while the medical establishment takes its sweet, bureaucratic time sharpening the axe or polishing the pardon. Nothing quite like being handed a calendar and told, “We’ll let you know how worried you should be… eventually.”

It’s a peculiar kind of dread. Not loud, not dramatic—just a slow, steady hum in the background, like a refrigerator full of bad news.
And then, this morning, a flicker.
An email notification. Innocent enough. Could’ve been spam, could’ve been a coupon for vitamins nobody trusts. But no—this one had teeth. A test result. Early. Unscheduled. The kind of surprise that makes your stomach tighten like it’s bracing for impact.

Open it.

And there it is: a clinical dispatch from a real, licensed wielder of Latin phrases and life-altering opinions. An MD. A professional. A person who presumably sleeps at night despite writing sentences that can ruin a man’s week.

Three lines. Just three. The kind of minimalist poetry that determines whether you pour a drink in celebration or necessity.
1.    No suspicious prostatic lesion.
2.    Sequela of prostatitis and BPH.
3.    Overall PI-RADS category: 2 — Low (clinically significant cancer is unlikely to be present)
 

You read it once. Twice. A third time, just to make sure your brain isn’t translating hope into hallucination.

Line one: no obvious villain lurking in the shadows. Good.
Line two: the body is, in fact, an aging machine with plumbing issues. Also not a shock.
Line three: the big one—low probability. Not zero, because the universe doesn’t deal in absolutes, but low enough to exhale without checking for a catch.
 

In plain English? Nothing screaming “doom.” Just the gentle confirmation that time is undefeated and your bladder has opinions.
 

So we mark it down. Another small victory in the ongoing war against that rat bastard—the one that shows up uninvited, trashes the place, and dares you to keep living anyway. The scoreboard ticks forward. Not a win by knockout, but a clean round. You take those.
Of course, the game doesn’t end. It never does. There’s always another scan, another test, another politely worded email waiting somewhere down the line. Sixty more days until the next round of imaging. Sixty days until the next roll of the dice, the next cryptic report written in a language designed to keep you humble.
 

Time itself starts to warp under this system. Seconds and hours? Useless. Days? Decorative. No, now we measure life in months—two months to this scan, three months to that follow-up, six months if you’re lucky and nothing looks suspicious enough to warrant immediate attention.
 

Months become the currency. The checkpoints. The mile markers on a road nobody asked to travel.
 

But here’s the crooked beauty of it: months stack. Quietly. Relentlessly. They pile up into years if you keep showing up, keep reading the reports, keep rolling the dice with a grin that’s maybe a little too sharp.
And years—that’s the whole play. That’s the long con. String enough of those together and you’ve beaten the system in the only way that matters: you’re still here, still sweating in the absurd spring heat, still watching the forest turn violently green like it’s trying to outlive you out of spite.
 

So we take the win. Small, clinical, wrapped in jargon—but a win all the same.
 

Pour something cold. Step outside. Let the sun hit your face like a bad idea.
 

And keep going. That's the plan.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Finding Magnetic North

 

Another day, another dollar, and another appointment inside the magnetic torture chamber. Baylor Scott & White’s MRI division runs like a cold, efficient cartel—get you in early, process you without mercy, and spit you back out into the daylight before you’ve had time to question your life choices.

This particular expedition was ordered to confirm that my prostate was not harboring that rat bastard charlie—the rogue menace who was freelancing in my eye. While that eviction was successful, my oncologist seems confident the prostate isn’t the crime scene, but the PET scan whispered otherwise, and in this line of work, you don’t ignore whispers. So the order came down: Prostate-Specific MRI. Capital letters. No negotiation.

After check-in, I was escorted into the usual ritual of dignity surrender—strip down and suit up. But this time? Two gowns. Not one. Two. Front and back. A full defensive perimeter. Apparently, word has spread about previous incidents involving wardrobe failure and an unsolicited display of the rear provinces. I couldn’t quite wrangle the rear ties into submission, but the front held strong. Decorum preserved. Civilization intact.

Then came the machine.

Longest. Loudest. MRI. Ever.

This wasn’t medical imaging—it was a full-scale mechanical uprising. Metallic shrieks, jackhammer rhythms, some kind of coded transmission to hostile dimensions. They knew it too—handed me earplugs like a survival kit. I accepted without hesitation. They did their job, but sleep? Not a chance. In hindsight, I should’ve taken the headphones and the promise of classic country—maybe let some outlaw ballads carry me through the storm instead of raw industrial chaos.

Still, I’ll give credit where it’s due—the staff was sharp, attentive, almost unnervingly kind. Check-in was fast, the whole operation smooth and professional, like they’ve done this a thousand times and still haven’t lost their grip on humanity.

Now comes the waiting. The long, twitchy pause while the results crawl through the system, deciding what kind of story comes next.

And as always—

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

 

The sun hung high and mean in the western sky like a crooked cop leaning on a blackjack. Eighty-seven degrees in mid-February—an atmospheric felony if there ever was one. I was out there working the forest compound, sweating like a whore in church, mostly because sitting still leaves a man alone with his thoughts—and those are dangerous company.

I’m playing the waiting game these days, which is the lowest form of sport known to mankind. No rules, no scoreboard—just a slow, grinding stare-down with the unknown. So I keep busy. Chop this, haul that, rearrange the deck chairs of my own restless mind. Anything to keep from staring too long into the medical abyss.

Every little twinge in the machinery makes me pause. Is that it? Is the rat bastard back?
Hard to say. The body has developed a whole orchestra of minor complaints now—creaks, pops, mysterious electrical impulses that feel like someone flicking the wiring with a greasy thumb. One thing is certain: I am not as young as I once was, and the warranty expired sometime during the Reagan administration.

Still, the calendar is filling up like a booking sheet at a crooked casino.

First up: the Prostate MRI on the 14th, followed four days later by the grand unveiling of the results—like waiting for a jury verdict delivered by radiologists. Ten days after that comes the Freckle Census, the annual dermal inspection where a professional squints at every square inch of my hide looking for signs the rat bastard charlie might be planning a sneak attack through the skin.

Then a month of uneasy truce before early May, when the labs and the CT scan roll in like federal agents kicking down the door—looking for evidence the rat bastard charlie might have planted roots somewhere in the territory.

This, apparently, is the new rhythm of life:
Looking. Waiting. Worrying.

It’s a tedious business. Tires a man out fast.

But the sun still burns down on the ranch, the woods still need tending, and until the next medical telegram arrives from the front lines, a man might as well keep moving—if only to confuse the enemy. 

And anyway, that begs the question, is a moving target harder to hit?

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

A Moment in the Campaign — Gonzo Dispatch

 

Yep. It’s like that.

The war against charlie grinds on, a low-budget jungle operation with no theme music and no goddamn medals. No artillery barrages lighting up the sky—just the long, paranoid shuffle of a campaign that refuses to end. Weeks of uneasy quiet, then a flare in the brush. Not enough to call in air support. Just enough to remind you the enemy never signed a treaty.

This wasn’t D-Day. It was Tuesday.

Another checkpoint. Another slog through the bureaucratic swamp—appointments breeding in the calendar like mosquitoes, paperwork stacked in sterile white towers, waiting rooms humming with the soft mechanical purr of machines that look like they were designed by cheerful Nazis. No smoke. No gunfire. Just fluorescent lighting and the smell of disinfectant. But don’t kid yourself—the vigilance is real. You never stand down. Not when there’s always another scan circled on the horizon like a distant artillery coordinate.

So I went in for the first scan. Recon mission. Easy on the throttle. A cautious stroll into the fog, telling myself this is just the beginning of a long road. And in this campaign, a long road is good news. A long road means you’re still breathing dust and cursing the map.

But dread is a faithful companion.

Five days of it. Not hysterical, not frothing—just a low electrical buzz under the skin. The kind of hum you get waiting for a verdict from a judge who doesn’t know your name. Each day stretched thin and brittle. Each night wandering into speculative madness. By day three I was pacing. By day five I was sick of hauling that invisible question around like a duffel bag full of bricks.

Then today the report dropped.

Clean.

No sign of the rat bastard charlie. No tracks in the mud. No smoke on the ridgeline. Just a crisp clinical communiqué from the front lines: Not this time.

No parade. No ticker tape. Just a bureaucratic sigh and a new date inked at the beginning of May. A reprieve stamped in twelve-point font. Breathing room. The jungle goes quiet, but nobody holsters their weapon.

And now—because the campaign must expand—another practitioner of the medical arts enters the theater. I’ve been referred to a dermatologist. A new specialist in the relentless hunt for insurgent freckles. Annual inspections. Another arena. The rat bastard has forced us into amphibious operations.

It could wear a man down, living life in quarterly installments. Measuring existence in scans and reports and follow-ups. Time reduced to medical checkpoints. But for now, clean is clean.

As the old song says, the lion sleeps tonight. The jungle is still.

And in this war, stillness is victory enough.

 

 

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

 

 

The Road Goes On Forever

Yeah. It does.

No finish line. No triumphant final chapter. Just the same cracked asphalt stretching out ahead, narrowing into a thin gray thread until it disappears somewhere over the horizon—probably right around the bend where they keep all the answers, the closure, and the affordable health insurance.

Last week I officially entered the sacred phase of the anti-charlie campaign:

Wait. Look. See.

The medical world calls it “monitoring.”
I call it state-sponsored psychological torture.

We’re on the sacred 90-day cycle now:

Labs. Scan. Evaluate. Report. Repeat.

Like a deranged subscription service nobody asked for. Netflix at least has the decency to cancel shows before you get emotionally invested. This one just keeps renewing itself automatically.  And I think I know how this is going to play out.

First comes the scan.
Then comes A few days of dread—that exquisite limbo where your brain becomes a 24-hour doom factory, churning out worst-case scenarios with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated intern.

Then the results drop, and you get one of two outcomes:

1. “Nothing to see here, move along.”

2. “Oh shit… more tests. STAT.”

Both are terrible, just in different flavors.

Option One sounds good on paper, but it’s really just the universe saying, “Congratulations. You get to restart the waiting game.”
Like surviving a car wreck only to realize you’re still stuck in traffic.

Option Two at least has the decency to be honest. It’s panic with a purpose. It’s the hospital equivalent of, “Alright boys, load the rifles—we’re going back in.”

And honestly? Sometimes I wonder if that’s better.

Because “move along” isn’t peace. It’s not relief. It’s just a temporary ceasefire while you sit in the trench counting days like cigarettes.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a high-definition prostate MRI scheduled for March—because apparently the universe looked at my medical chart and said, “You know what this guy needs? A whole new subplot.”

The oncologist has pretty much dismissed the old “prostitute gland” as being involved.

Which is comforting.  In the same way it would be comforting if a man on a sinking ship said, “Relax, I’m pretty sure the iceberg wasn’t that bad.”

I wish I had his confidence. Truly. Must be nice to walk around with that kind of optimism, like a golden retriever in a lab coat.

Either way, one or the other has the capability to put a big red stamp on my life in the next few days.

So until then, I roam around here at the forest compound like some half-feral groundskeeper in exile. I take care of business, sure—but only the bare minimum. The essentials. The survival chores.

Because starting a long-term project right now feels like planting a garden on the deck of the Titanic.

Why build anything when you’re not sure if the next scan is going to come back with:

“Good news!”   or    “We’re gonna need to borrow you again for additional suffering.”

So I drift.  A man on a long road with no visible end, watching the horizon like it owes me money.

And it does.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler