A Sunday in April 2007, I woke up with a huge hangover. Nothing unusual. Me and Ilona went to Venice Beach and the Museum of Jurassic Technology. I drank beer and smoked pot all day. It was so fun. It was cool and cloudy. God loved me that day. Not so much the following. The next day, I woke up with this pain in my chest. It felt like pancreatitis. I know that feeling very well. The first time, I got pancreatitis, I was 21. It was a couple of months before I moved to California. It's an inflammation of your pancreas. Besides making insulin, your pancreas produces digestive enzymes (acids) that travel to your intestines to break down food. The reason it's so painful is those digestive enzymes go crazy, and basically, your pancreas begins to eat itself. Trust me, the shit's painful. It would make the biggest masochist cry like a little baby. Imagine a cylinder about 3 inches in diameter right below your ribcage, and it extends all the way down to your back. That's the area of excruciating pain. It feels like someone stuck a knife in there and is wiggling it around. But, that's not all. Your whole torso hurts. Really bad too. And it feels like if you contort yourself into just the right position, the pain will subside just a little tiny bit just for a little while and then after a couple of minutes, you have to find another position. And also, if you eat anything or even take a sip of water, it makes the pain go even crazier. Like Nancy Reagan in a crack house. Hmmm, I'm beginning to wonder if that analogy really works. The reason for this is your pancreas knows that you just ingested something, so it starts producing those enzymes even more, so it's taking even bigger bites of itself. You see, on a scale from 1 to 10, the pain is an easy perfect 10. And then, every once in a while, you get a tidal wave of extra pain. A 15 or 20. It's torture. Anyway, in my early twenties, I constantly dealt with this shit, and then I finally realized, it was because of heroin, so I stopped doing that drug, and I thought it was a thing of the past. It hasn't bothered me in at least 6 years until this incident. It's the first time that it had ever happened just from drinking. I tried to tough it out. I was laying on Sandor's floor. I wasn't eating or drinking anything. I know better than that. Tuesday night was sheer misery. Sandor thought he would cheer me up by stepping on me and playing really loud Hungarian heavy metal until three in the morning all the way, making really loud drum kit sounds complete with snare, hi hat and bass drum. He was alternating that with whistling, and mimicking guitar solos at the top of his lungs. Try this, "Dooda-dood, buuuda, wa, wa, wa, BU-La, BU-La, gidda-gidda-gidda, giggi-giggi-giggi!!!! And then, oh goody!, here comes the drums! "UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha! UM, cha!" Yeah, rock it, Sandor! The only thing missing was a group of stoned people playing Guitar Hero for hours straight. Yeah, pretending to play the guitar along with covers of pop music. I began to think that maybe I was feeling a little better, or maybe I was just hoping that I was better, and I drank a cup of tea and had some hard candies. Big mistake. I finally got to sleep, and then the pain kicked in intense after a couple of hours. It wasn't until about 3 in the afternoon the next day, after hours of cringing, crawling around on my hands and knees, and at times, even literally crying, that I wimped out, and called Sandor to ask him to take me to the hospital. He took a break from work and gave me a ride to UCLA/ Harbor Hospital in Torrance. Thanks so much, Sandor in case you're reading this. The reason I wanted to go to that hospital is because I knew it would be free and USC/LAC is more of a nightmare than even jail. I signed in, and thus begun one of the most miserable 11 hours of my life. Definitely in the top ten of all the most miserable moments of my life. That should be a show on VH1. Top Ten Most Miserable Moments of Tomatoes's Life. If that happens to come on, please Tivo it for me. Everybody was drinking sodas and juice and eating chips. I was so thirsty, so very thirsty, very very thirsty. This black guy sitting next to me had this big mug full of some kind of liquid and a bunch of ice, and every time he drank from that big mug, you could hear all the ice clanging away. It sounded so good. I unabashedly stared at him. I stared at him hard. I stared at him like I was in love with him. He pretended not to notice, but I know he knew. It just looked so good. I wanted some. a can of V8, orange juice, strawberry soda, Diet Mountain Dew, big glass of ice water, plain yogurt with blueberries, Orange Crush, salad with pecans, spinich, mandarin oranges, basil, tomatoes, mozzarella, sugar-free Jell-O There was a water fountain that I almost started to drink out of, but I knew putting myself through anymore agony would not necessarily push me up in line. They wouldn't let me lay down either. I had to sit in a chair, doubled over, grinding my teeth trying to look casual, embarrassed. Not letting myself cry, staring at the floor. somebody had stepped in dogshit and had tracked it in. I could see it, smell it. It wasn't helping matters one bit. I was scared. Was I ever going to be able to drink again? Is life worth living without alcohol? It was so hot, and everybody had babies and christian propaganda. I tried to distract myself from the pain by imagining them all dead, but it wasn't quite doing the trick. And there was a TV set mounted way up high that you couldn't hear, and you couldn't change the channel, and it hurt my neck to even glance at it. Just like jail. Jeopardy was on, but you couldn't hear the answer. I felt like I was suffocating. I went outside and laid on the cool concrete for a couple of hours. It was so chilly. The wind was swirling around. It soothed me just a little bit. There was a crazy lady running around the parking lot wrapped in a blanket. She looked like too much meth. It made me smile. I like it when people flip out on meth. It makes me feel not so alone in this world. straight out of the fridge: {oranges, apples, bananas (pronounced with a British accent), cantaloupe, strawberry, grapes (purple ones), watermelon) I went back inside. Nurses would call me every few hours. I couldn't barely walk. It hurt like hell to breathe. They would all ask me the same exact questions. One was telling me to go to AA meetings. I told her I was an atheist. She didn't even know what that was. With a few exceptions (such as Jenny) I think the amount of hours you spend talking on a cell phone is directly proportional to how intelligent you are. I was guessing this woman spent at least three hours on her cell phone a day if not more. Not that intelligence is all that much admirable. Anybody that had anything meaningful to say wouldn't waste those words blabbering into a cell phone. The first decade of the 21st century is the polar opposite of the seventies. At least for me. It's the Anti-Sexual Revolution. Women walking around talking around on their cell phones 24 hours a day equals me walking around with over-cooked spaghetti dick 24 hours a day. Besides trendiness, it's the ultimate turn-off. Maybe that's how they want it. "Wow, look at her. She looks really good," I think to myself, and then she takes out a cell phone and sticks it on her face. I want to go and find whoever invented the cell phone, and punch them in their fucking . . . , oh, I meant to say: thank them and shake their hand. Just kidding of course. This originally said something way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way more negative, angry, and violent, but I changed it because I've been trying to reinvent myself as a less hateful Tomatoes. Purely for my own sake. Hatred takes too heavy of a toll on me. I'm tired of it. I want to stick my face in the wind with rain pouring down over my head and take a big, deep breath and exhale and feel great. Not suffocating in hate and sunshine and "Good Morning" like usual. But, I just have this to say about cell phones: It's the worst thing to happen to human intimacy since AIDS. or maybe I'm just bitter because I used to have a cell phone and nobody ever called me. a dress with jeans under it. Paris Hilton wrap-around sunglasses. Being "punk". Hats. Starbucks. new Volkswagen bugs. Overtly heterosexual women. Tomatoes's Guacamole equal parts diced tomatoes and aguacates, one minced habanero, three minced serranos, ten minced jalapenyos, cilantro, salt, pepper, and lime juice to taste. Serve with tortilla chips. At about three in the morning, they called me and this white lady to the nurse's station. this woman had been cracking me up for the last 8 hours or so. She was convinced that she had anemia, and had been discussing the issue with the whole entire population of the UCLA/ Harbor waiting room. Not me though. I don't tolerate that. Crazy people always gravitate to me. They want to rub their fucking cooties all over me. It's mental leprosy. "Get the fucking hell away from me immediately!" That's my motto. So, they told us we were going in the back. I couldn't believe my ears. I was prepared to sit in that damned waiting room until the following day. The pain had become a close, personal friend. At this point, I had just learned to live with it. This lady guided me to an uncomfortable bed. Without being asked, I took off all my clothes, put the gown on, and curled up in the fetal position on the bed. "Oh yeah, I used to date a guy that got pancreatitis." the nurse told me. "What happened to him?" "He had to quit drinking." "Why'ld y'all break up?" "It just wasn't working out." "Hmmm." She looked like Punky Brewster, but not the grown actress that played Punky Brewster. She looked really good like Punky Brewster used to. She stuck a needle in my arm, and I bled a big puddle of blood all over the floor which she had to clean up. It was satisfying. I didn't have to masturbate that day. Not like I would've been able to anyway. The "Tomatoes" Sandwich (Shanti invented this with me. She was murdered a couple of years ago) 1. Make a slice of french toast 2. fry some bacon 3. make a grilled cheese On a plate, put the grilled cheese down, put some mayo on top, bacon, slices of tomatoes and lettuce, then put the french toast on top. Slice in half and serve with a pickle. Then, the doctor came to examine me. She was interrogating the shit out of me. I told her everything. About how I've been drinking since I was ten. That didn't seem relevant to me, but "whatever" I thought. She asked about drugs, and I told her everything. To my surprise, she seemed shocked. I thought people that worked in emergency rooms weren't shockable. I wasn't trying to shock her. I was just incapable of bullshitting. Too much pain yadda yadda yadda "Well, because of your history of intravenous drug use, can we have your approval to conduct an HIV test?" "Well, of course, but I don't understand your reasoning. I've never shared needles with anybody that I wasn't already having unprotected sex with anyway." Then, she proceeded to write notes in my charts or whatever, all the while tsking, shaking her head, and repeating the words, "Oh, . . . My, . . . Gosh, . . . Oh, . . . My, . . . Gosh, . . . " Then, she came over, putting on a pair of latex gloves. She pulled out the tub of Vaseline. "Oh shit, it's retribution-time in Tomatoes-land." I thought to myself. She let me know exactly what she was about do to me. I submissively rolled over. After she was done having her way with me, I told her that I didn't mind it one bit. "The last time that was done to me, it was a man doctor. It was horrible, but having you do it was not bad at all." "Yeah, they shouldn't have men doing that to other men." What a weird comment. A Nice Raw Vegetable Sandwich thick cut wheat bread, alfalfa sprouts, olive oil, raw jalapenyos cut length wise, lemon juice, lots of salt and pepper, avocados, tomatoes, cucumber, green pepper, zucchini with a bowl of whole mushrooms on the side This lady went nuts on me. She ordered a nurse to take my temperature rectally. She had me go do a cat scan. Chest X-rays. No wonder people had to wait in the waiting room for 11 hours before being seen. She brought out the sonography equipment to see if I had any gall stones and to see if I was pregnant. "What happens if I have gall stones?" "We have to do an operation to get them out." Oh hell no! "Have you ever had any surgeries before?" I began to list all of my surgeries. They're numerous. She cut me off. Why did she ask in the first place if she didn't want to know? I'm not going to bore you with all of the silly, waste-of-time human interactions that I went through. Basically, every half hour or so, someone new would come along and "examine" me, and ask me the same damn questions over and over. "Do you drink?" "Yes." "How much?" "A lot." "About how much would you say you drink a day?" What the hell does it matter how much? I started greatly exaggerating the amount. "Thirty beers a day!" I proclaimed. Now, leave me the hell alone and let me get back to nodding from my last shot of morphine. Tomatoes's Salsa 1. 10 Jalapenyos 2. one habanero 3. 5 serranos 4. cilantro 5. a teaspoon of cayenne pepper 6. cilantro 7. the juice of two limes and two lemons 8. at least, 10 tomatoes 9. the flesh of a couple of mangoes gently blend. not too much. serve with anything One doctor though I liked. I was telling him about how I wouldn't mind so much at least not drinking during the week. The compounded hangovers make me feel like I'm going too psycho. It's too much panic. I shake like a leaf, and I'm terrified of the world. It's crashing down on top of me. It's not fun. Well, maybe a little bit. He sent a substance abuse councelor to talk to me. That consisted of some fat white guy handing me a Xerox copy of a list of AA meetings (I'm not religious or even spiritual) and inpatient detox centers (I had already detoxed, I'm not rich, and I don't particularly like sober people. I don't want to be around them 24 hours a day). That was it. That was my counceling. Then, he left. Every four hours, I got a shot of Morphine. Not enough to make me high, but it was so luxurious not having to deal with the pain. And an adjustable bed, and one of those little TV's on an adjustable pole. And I got to wear a gown, I think that was the best part. Erika's Burritos (like my mom used to make for me) 1. put refried beans lengthwise on a whole wheat burrito; put slices of sharp cheddar cheese al gusto 2. microwave two minutes 3. put lettuce or spinach, tomatoes, alfalfa sprouts, avocado, and sour cream (optional) 4. fold in half like a taco or roll it like a burrito and serve with a couple of raw serranos There was this old man in a bed across from mine, and I think he was dying from cancer or something. He couldn't move around. The first night I was in there, there was this young black woman who was giving him what sounded like a blowjob, but I'm assuming it was more like a sponge bath, massage, and/or catheter change. I couldn't see. There was a curtain. Her voice oozed this intense sexuality. I'm sure you've heard that before. Some people, i don't know what it is, but their whole existence just seems coated with erotic sensuality. God damn, that sounds corny, but you know it's true. And then, the old decomposing cancer victim proceeded to have very loud diarrhea for the next five minutes. Complete with grunting and groaning and all of the usual delicious garnishes. "Oh, that's right. Let it all out," she said, provoking an erection underneath my gown. This old man, he was too vocal. He reminded me of some of the gross "hippies" my mother used to have sex with. "Oh yes! Oh yes! That feels soooo good." Shut the fuck up, man! Nobody wants to hear that shit. If you were female, it would be a completely different story, or than again, maybe not. I suppose I wouldn't want to hear a sixty-year-old woman carry on like that either. "Does that feel good?" she asked. My penis was about to explode. And then, he starts up again, "OOOOOOOOh, Oh, do it do it do it. Oh Yes! Just like that. Harder Harder Harder." God fucking damn it! I think I'm traumatized sexually now. Just kidding of course. I'm already too far gone. Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't tempt fate, huh? Debauchery Casserole (this one is going to take some experimentation) boil potatoes, cauliflower, brocolli, and a couple of diced habaneros including seeds. Fry a bunch of bacon. Fry up some pork chops or milanesas. Mix the vegetables with nine eggs and/or can of mushroom soup. Put a layer on bottom of casserole dish. On top of that, put a layer of pork chops, then a layer of large flat skinny slices of your choice of cheese like thick lasagna strips. Another layer of vegetables, then bacon, then cheese, then vegetables, etc. On the top, a huge gigantic pile of shredded cheese. Bake at 375 degrees , covered for thirty minutes, then uncovered for fifteen. This one morning this fucking asshole doctor came to see me. he asked me, "So, what are you here for?" I knew he knew. He was just being an asshole. I just stared at him. He stared right back, unflinching. It was very uncomfortable. He beat me. I answered. "Pancreatitis." "How many times has this happened to you?" "Numerous times." I wasn't playing his fucking games. "Well, I was reading your charts, and it seems that you were in here April of 2001 for the same thing." Fucking dickhead! Why did he ask me what I was there for if he already knew? That's a rhetorical question. Don't bother answering it. "Yes, I suppose I was." "You must be a really slow learner." "Yes, I suppose I am." "You know you're killing yourself, right?" "Everybody's killing themselves. You kill yourself just by living." "But, the way you're going, you won't even live to be forty." "So? People were never meant to live as long as they do. I didn't even want to get to be thirty." I'm a real smooth-talker. "Well, you need to stop drinking." "OK." He left. I applauded. Well, not really, but I wanted to. That was the head doctor of the floor. He didn't know shit. I don't respond well to being scolded. I don't think anybody does. On another occasion, there was this nurse walking by. She looked Mexican. She was fine. I knew that for sure because I asked her how she was doing. For a split second, I gave myself away. That unmistakable look in my eyes. I think it's an unconscious scan beginning with her eyes, then down to her lips, then scanning down to her ankles, then returning to her eyes. Whatever it was, she caught on to it, and came over and started talking to me. It was too late. At that point, no amount of nonchalantness could possibly save me. She caught me. "You see, it's not so bad." "I never said it was bad." "Everything's going to be fine." "That's terrific." "It's not so bad." She took her index finger out and was shaking it in my direction. I was beginning to get the impression she was from El Salvador. "Really?" "Yeah, really. It's not so bad. You just need to quit drinking." All the while, that stupid index finger wiggling around like a god damn boiled weiner with some joints missing in the middle. "OK, I think I understand now." "Are you kicking me out?" "Yes. I'm tired. I want to take a nap." She was just replenishing her ego with what she perceived to be my admiration of her but was in actuality, just horniness. White Trash Tacos fry up hamburger meat with salt and pepper; serve on flour tortillas or taco shells with cold diced tomatoes, cold chopped up lettuce, and shredded cheddar cheese. That's it! I was laying in my bed, and I had some terrible gas which was weird because I hadn't anything to eat or drink in days. I knew it was going to smell bad, and I knew that right after I did it, that really cute nurse that I liked was going to come by my bed. It's the laws of the universe. It had to come out though. And these people are medical. They deal with the disgusting mechanical aspects of the human body day in day out. My stinky farts would be of no surprise to her. And plus, I can always use more humility. Somewhere down the road, someone put it in my head that it's healthy to embarrass yourself, and ever since then, it's been a non-stop laugh riot at my expense. So, anyway, it came out like a never-ending God Damn It motorboat. The floor shook as if we were under the attack of an earthquake. What a relief, but oh man, did it stink. It smelt like rotting garbage. I was about to say it smelt like a rotting raccoon on an August afternoon in Austin, but I actually like the way that smells. They could bottle that and I would buy it. This wasn't in the least bit pleasant. She didn't come by. I sat there and watched the People's Court for the next fifteen minutes or so. I can't ever understand what they're talking about on that show, I just hear blah blah blah no matter how loud I turn it up. But it was either that or soap operas, and soap operas, they might as well be talking out loud in binary code. I got up out of bed to get my socks because my feet were cold, and that's when I noticed that there was a huge brown spot on the bed. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. I tore that sheet off, and there was the same brown spot on the sheet underneath it. All the way down to the mattress. The only reason the mattress didn't have the brown spot was because they had put down a plastic sheet in between the regular sheets and the mattress. People probably shit their beds a lot in the hospital. I twisted my neck around and saw that I had that same huge brown spot on my gown. I took my underwear off, the gown off, and put some pajama pants on. I stuffed all of the shit-stained garments under the bed. I didn't feel like dealing with it, but I eventually wanted more sheets. This pregnant Jamaican nurse came by and I asked her for more sheets, and of course, she asked where the old ones were. Well, I had to tell her. I didn't want to, but she demanded an explanation. "Oh, you were trying to hide them, huh?" She went away and came back wearing gloves and holding a broom handle with the broom part sawed off. She spent the next few minutes dislodging the feces drenched linens from underneath my adjustable bed. She threw them in a plastic bag and probably took them down to the incinerator. I was disgusted with myself, but whatever. According to the doctor, I'll be dead soon anyway and nothing will matter. To ride my bicycle naked through an endless thunderstorm into an endless horizon with an endless supply of Steel Reserve listening to really, really, really loud black metal going to visit my lover to be cradled in her million arms, the toughest woman to've ever existed with black hole hair that sucks me in and spits me back out at the beginning of that eternal lightning and pounding rain to make the procession once again between the wet, cloudy streets lined with impaled bodies instead of palm trees. Second Friday of every month, Midnight Ridazz, hosted by me, Tomatoes! Steel Reserve for everyone! Special Guests of Honor: Seung-Hui Cho, Khalid Almihdhar, Khalid Almihdhar, Majed Moqed, Nawaf Alhazmi, Salem Alhazmi, Hani Hanjour, Satam M.A. Al Suqami, Waleed M. Alshehri, Wail M. Alshehri, Mohamed Atta, Abdulaziz Alomari, Marwan Al-Shehhi, Fayez Rashid Ahmed Hassan Al Qadi Banihammad, Ahmed Alghamdi, Hamza Alghamdi, Mohand Alshehri, Saeed Alghamdi, Ahmed Ibrahim A. Al Haznawi, Ahmed Alnami, Ziad Samir Jarrah "So, I think it's time for you to try to drink some water." "Well all right. I'm thirsty. My mouth wants water." A few hours later, I got a little cup of water. Then, I graduated to some broth and juice, and before I knew it , I was eating a chicken leg, mashed potatoes, spinach. I was eating like a dog. People were talking to me. I wouldn't answer. I was too focused. I hadn't eaten in a week. I was trying to concentrate, damn it! The next day, they released me. I shaved, took a shower, and put on my stinky ass clothes. Once outside, it was sunny. Things looked dismal. I wanted to go back in the hospital and stay in there forever. Sitting at the bus stop, I gorged on candy. I swallowed a thing of Starbursts, some cookies, things that I had been craving while starving in the hospital. You're probably wondering about all the recipes, huh? I was so hungry in the hospital that my favorite thing to do besides sleeping was to work on my cookbook that I hope to someday publish. Fantasizing about food can be even more fun than actually eating it. Kind of like most stuff in life. So anyway, I thought I would include some of those recipes for your enjoyment. Bon appetite to your mind. Finally, the bus came. I got on, sat the fuck down and stared out the window. What the fuck ever. I've been in a great mood ever since.