SOME RESTRICTIONS APPLY

Oh one more thing

I can’t even believe this gorgeous man comes home to me every night.

And here’s the thing. He’s beautiful all the way through. Just an incredibly warm, loving, decent, smart, kind, funny, sweet, patient, generous man.

Whatever. He’s hot as shit.

Here’s a slide show of Musto as Lohan as Monroe which appears in The Village Voice today. It’s just inspired.

In other news, I am getting dangerously close to the move on Friday, which means I’ll be without internet access starting Thursday night. Marc and I are going to try and get a podcast up before the whip comes down, but that will be sometime tomorrow.

As an aside, I’d like to point out that the reason there is no Wednesday podcast is because Marc fucked up his side of the phone call.

I realize I could have been discreet and just said “technical problems”, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, it’s so rare that I can pin the blame on someone else and actually be right.

In any case, I understand I have an obligation to you. You came here today hoping to hear a podcast, after all. Or maybe I just came up first on a Google search for something or other. Let’s not split hairs.

The point is, I can’t just leave you sitting there with nothing to listen to. And it has to be something at least as bad as one of our podcasts, or you’ll be spoiled forever.

But what could be that crappy?

I know!

HOLLYWOOD AFFAIR

The complete “Lost” Kim Basinger CD

Written and Produced by Prince

Nine jaw-dropping tracks by the musically gifted star of The Marrying Man. Say what you will about Alec, but he never subjected anyone to this kind of abuse.

Here’s the front and back of the inner booklet (which inexplicably features Batman). Sadly, I don’t have this insert. I would have loved to have seen how many letter and number combinations they were able to work into her bio.

And here’s the back cover, showing Prince in the studio, trying to decide if the pussy is worth it.

There’s a lot to take in here, I understand that. And it’s possible you may not be able to process it all at once. So I would suggest you start with something small, and if it comes back up, don’t take any more.

Personally, I’m partial to Action Action, which features Ms. Basinger rapping. She has some mad skillz, yo.

WordPress only allows 5 tracks to be displayed in a post. Real masochists are invited to go to my MP3 page for the rest of the CD.

Marc and I have not abandoned the podcasts. We hit a little snag is all, and it’s my fault.

First of all, I’ve had some technical problems. I can’t access files I need, and the podcasts are just stacking up like planes at O’Hare. We have to stop recording them until I can solve these issues, and I’m hoping to have it sorted out by the end of the day.

Secondly, they changed my meds. I know it sounds like I’m trying to be funny, but I’m not. There’s no comedy here. Ask John how funny it is.

To keep my cancer from coming back, I have to be on medication for the rest of my life. And the shit is kind of dangerous, so they keep lowering the dosage every few months. Take too much, your bones start breaking like matzohs and not even Sally Field can help you.

The down side is that your metabolism takes a nap when you lower the dose, so everything you eat immediately goes to your ass and stays there, like a homemade hemorrhoid pillow.

On top of that, you’re freezing all the time. Except for when you’re really hot and sweaty. Oh! And you’re a bitch.

Plus you’re in a fog. Just lost. I tried to leave the house for a walk yesterday and I forgot what I was doing at least twice. I kept putting bottles of water in my bag, like I was going to Vegas on foot.

I realize that blogging about your health is only slightly less interesting than blogging about your computer problems, so I’ll keep both mercifully short in this post. Suffice it to say that they cut my dosage by 50 milligrams last week, I gained 5 pounds in 2 days and I’ve spent a lot of time walking around and crying. Good times.

It’s bad. I’m not going to lie to you.

Anyway, just give me a day or two here and I’ll get it together.

When she would get to the gym, Harold Greene would already be there, working out. He was anchoring the afternoon news at the time, so he started his day pretty early.

One day, as Harold was on his back doing a bench press, Amber walked by and glanced at him.

His balls were hanging out of his shorts.

* * *

My best friend Mick is a huge fan of tasteless birthday cakes.

There’s a bakery down the street from me called Regal Cake Gallery. They’ll do virtually anything, without raising an eyebrow. At least three or four times a year, Mick will draw some kind of horrible, obscene picture and fax it to the pleasant Korean woman who runs the place. She’ll ask him what flavor, he’ll give her his credit card number, and it’s just another day on Fairfax.

The first cake he ordered from them featured Mickey Mouse jerking off to gay porn.

After he faxed the drawing, he started to worry about the language barrier. The owners speak in broken English, and you don’t want to trust a cake like that to people who may not fully grasp the subtle nuance.

So he called them up.

“Did you get the drawing?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, we get.”

“Do you understand what I–”

“Yes, yes, we understand.”

“But… do you see what the mouse is doing there?”

“Yes, yes, the mouse, he cumming.”

* * *

Amber was horrified. Nobody wants to see Harold Greene’s balls at that hour.

She tried to forget, but the very next day, it happened again. There he was, on his back, with his bright red sack hanging out like Santa.

And it kept happening. Every day, Amber was treated to the sight of those withered goolies spilling out of his gym shorts.

Eventually she had to complain. She went to her manager and politely asked that Mr. Greene be told to put some underpants on before working out.

She never saw Harold Greene’s red nuts again.

* * *

A few weeks before my 30th birthday, Mick started asking me what I hated the most in the world.

I had no idea why he was fishing for that kind of information, but I knew he was up to no good. I tried resisting the topic, but he was relentless. We were working together at the time, and almost every day he would draw me into long conversations about things that drove us both nuts.

Eventually he caught me off guard, and I revealed that I had a deep loathing for Doug Henning (who was still alive at the time). I don’t know what it was, just something about those buck teeth and those stupid T-shirts. He reminded me of Shelly Duvall.

Speaking of which, I used to live in a house that was once owned by Shelly Duvall’s boyfriend. It didn’t mean much to me until one night, I sat up in bed, stricken. I realized that at some point, Shelly Duvall had sex in my bedroom.

In any case, Mick and I were working on a Nissan truck commercial when my birthday finally rolled around. On our dinner break, Mick came over with a birthday cake and lovingly set it down in front of me.

On the cake, were the words, “Have a Magical Birthday!”

And below that was a caricature of Doug Henning, sitting cross legged on a cloud. Much like he is probably doing now.

* * *

A few weeks later, Amber got a letter in the mail. It was from Gloria Allred.

Apparently, Harold Greene was now her client.

And she demanded that Amber stop talking about his balls.

* * *

Tonight my family went to Canters Deli.

There isn’t a whole lot I love more in this life than Canters. It’s just a shit hole, full of surly waitresses, overpriced sandwiches and ancient clientele. You have to love a place that still has a sandwich named after Billy Rose.

I’ve had a lot of good experiences at Canters. We used to go there when I was a kid after my dad taped at CBS, which is just across the street. It’s always felt like show business to me, despite having seen Dane Cook there.

Perhaps my greatest show biz moment at Canters came when my friends took me there to celebrate my 19th birthday. At the end of our meal, the waiter explained that there had been a mix-up, and Dyan Cannon had inadvertently paid our bill. Since she had already left, the waiter asked if we would pay hers. It was easily $50 less than ours, so we jumped at it. I later discovered that Dyan Cannon and I share the same birthday.

So tonight, in what seems like a natural closing of the circle, my family went to Canters to celebrate my sister Amber’s birthday.

My mother bought her some candles and perfume. My sister gave her pink kitchen tools. I gave her an attachment for her new coffeemaker.

And Mick brought the cake.

You probably know by now that Daniel Radcliffe is starring in the London revival of the play, Equus.

It’s a light and fluffy sort of piece, all about a young man and his court-appointed psychiatrist, trying to figure out just what made him have sex with all those horses and then gouge their eyes out.

Heh. I like to think of it as Mr. Oedipus.

In any case, Daniel appears nude in this play. And I’m talking full frontal. A boy and his broomstick.

So the publicity photos were released today, and… well… huh. Let’s just say he may have been practicing his Engorgio Spell.

What can I say? Clearly he’s excited about his part. And I think it’s safe to say that theatre afficianados of all persuasions will be too.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Harry Potter, Uncut.

Granny's Got Some Body Mods

Dear sweet Jesus.

Today's email contained some breathtaking photos. You people certainly know good shit when you see it, and I'm so happy you see fit to send it to me.

Apparently this plucky senior has a few tatoos and some other surprises, and she isn't afraid to show them to you.

By the way these are not safe for work and probably not safe for your eyesight. Your corneas may be burned and I can't be held responsible.

Maybe it's so you don't look at the teeth

]]> http://www.aprilwinchell.com/2006/03/15/637/feed/ 0 http://www.aprilwinchell.com/2005/10/14/618/ http://www.aprilwinchell.com/2005/10/14/618/#comments Fri, 14 Oct 2005 19:43:00 +0000 april http://www.aprilwinchell.com/?p=618

Afterglow

Well, today was the day.

This morning I headed down to Santa Monica Hospital, and took the dose of radioactive iodine I've been anticipating for two weeks.

Like every aspect of cancer I've weathered thus far, today's experience was not at all demoralizing, expensive or humiliating. No, it was just plain fun. And I have the photos to prove it!

But first, let's talk about the prep I've endured for the last two weeks. Because I can see it's been a while since I updated the site, and I don't want you to miss out on any of the fun!

Two weeks ago, I went off my medication to prepare for the iodine I took today. I knew it was supposed to make me feel bad, and let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed! I had a migraine for about 7 or 8 straight days (a personal best), and I was unable to sleep most nights.

Eventually I had to call my doctor for some pain relief. Apparently he knew something I didn't, because when I picked up my prescription, it was for 100 Darvocet.

Emotionally, I held up better than I anticipated. That's my take, however. It's likely that those closest to me have a different perspective.

In addition to side effects brought on by stopping my medication, I've been forced to submit to the oddest diet imaginable. For two weeks (and another week or two ahead), I've feasted on jelly, egg whites and vegetables. It's positively decadent!

The highlight may have come last night. Knowing that I was facing several days of isolation, I asked my wonderful boyfriend John to go to dinner with me. I urged him to get a big, greasy burger with bacon, fries and chili. I ate a skinned, unsalted baked potato. Plain. With my hands. Mmmmmm!

This morning I reported to the hospital at 8:30 to get a pregnancy test.

Let me just digress here for a moment. I know I haven't even really gotten started, but still, this needs to be said.

Do me a fucking favor, and be a hospital, okay? Look and act like a hospital. Do not put your urine tests in folksy little wicker displays, because it just makes me angry. I don't need you to look like my fucking kitchen, all right? If I want to piss in a place with baskets, I'll go to Marie Callendar.

In any event, I had to take the test, and take it I did. Apparently, ingesting this drug while pregnant results in seriously mutant offspring, much like Tom and Katie are destined to have, and Santa Monica wants no part in that. Fortunately, I was barren as usual, and reported to the lead-lined halls that held my salvation.

As I expected, everything was running like a well oiled machine. What this of course means, is that for over an hour I sat in a waiting room, looking down at this.

Eventually a nurse came to retrieve me, and I went behind the radioactive warnings to a small exam room, where I sat for another half hour. This time, however, I was treated to an issue of In Style magazine from April! The time flew by as I learned about Mena Suvari's bold experiments in pink eye shadow, and Sandra Bullock's private pain .

I also had a moment to appreciate some of the attention to detail that makes The Santa Monica UCLA Medical Center such a fantastic place. It's this sort of precision that makes the difference to people like me.

After many a fortnight, a 14 year-old resident came in to answer any last minute questions. I didn't have too many, since I'd already had two long phone calls with the nuclear medicine department, telling me in detail how to do everything from flush the toilet (before you start peeing) to brushing my teeth (throw out the brush and use a new one every time) to disposing of my Kleenex (put it in a plastic bag on the patio and close the door until the squad comes for pick up in three days).

We did have one little unpleasant patch that could have led to a dust up. Halfway down my consent form, there was some language about "having been informed of alternate treatment methods and refusing same". I asked Dr. Pimple-Face-Giant-Adam's-Apple what alternate treatment options there were, and he said "none". So I refused to sign until that language was removed. Someone had to be called and it was all a big waste of everyone's time, most significantly my own. But something about the idea that I chose this option really annoyed me, and I wanted to go on record as being a victim.

That settled, they took me into the room with the medicine, and told me that they would physically put it in my mouth with a special tool. I could hear a Geiger counter clicking sporadically behind me, so I knew I was in Chernobyl country. The nurse told me to wait while she got the technician, and left the room.

I snapped this picture of the lead tabletop fortress that surrounds the medication. I could not believe how intricate this things was. There are 3" thick solid lead bricks to keep people away from pills they want you to put into your body. Even then, the pills are kept in leaden containers that are placed inside larger lead canisters. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

I was lining up my next shot when the nurse and the tech came back in. The looks on their faces were priceless. I guess people don't normally document these kinds of experiences unless they're planning a lawsuit. I mean, it's not every day you're going to see something like, oh, say, this.

I was instructed to open my mouth, and the doctor, now in a Hazmat suit, retrieved the pill from the vault with a foot long forceps. He stood back and asked me to open my mouth, and I swear to you, I saw him wince as he placed the tablet on my tongue.

I was then instructed by the nurse (who was hiding behind the file cabinet) to drink the entire glass of water on the counter. As I did, the Geiger counter behind me started clicking loudly.

"Is that the pill?" I asked

"No," she replied, "it's you."

I then put on a paper mask and went down to the valet to get my car. This seemed really unsafe, and I hesitated to tip the guy, just in case he wanted to have children. But the staff assured me that I wouldn't contaminate anyone unless I spit on them, so I just refrained from using words like "Poplar" and "Perspire". I got in my car and went home.

Now that I'm here, I absolutely cannot leave for three days, not even to check my mail. I tried to be extremely well prepared for all of this, but I did manage to overlook something important: my bedspread isn't washable. Since my bedding has to be washed every day I'll have to throw it out.

Fortunately, Mick called shortly after I got back and said he was coming over with a new, washable blanket. I told him to just knock on the door and back up at least 6 feet, and I would be able to open it in his presence.

A little while later there was a knock at the door. I waited a minute for him to back up, and when I opened the door, I saw Mick in the hallway, decked out like this.

Personally, I think tying garbage bags around your head and hands is overkill. But then, he does watch a lot of CSI.

DO YOU GLOW HARD?

If you were at What's My Line a few weeks ago, you pobably got a wrist band. I had them made up after Mr. KABC suggested I should have solidarity bands like Lance Armstrong.

Since Lance already had "LIVE STRONG", my friend Gina suggested I use "GLOW HARD", which appealed to me tremendously. I had glow in the dark bands made up and I've given away a ton of them.

Now is of course, is the time to use them. Wear them for the next three days and glow along with me. And for God's sake, send me a photo of you wearing or using your band somehow, so I can post it.

I'll get you started with Gina’s photo, which will be hard to top.

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