Pinky Penmark Blogs

My TV Remote - the Only Thing Left in My Life That I Can Control (and I'm pissed off about it)

noreply@blogger.com (Robert Shaffer) — Mon, 05 Feb 2018 05:30:00 +0000

by C Robert Shaffer

Human beings seek control--control of their fate; control of their careers and finances, and many times control of their peers or family. We crave it. Instinctually, we seek as much control of everything that we can. Actually, more precisely, we seek the maximum amount of control that society deems acceptable without being considered controlling.

There’s a point at which we seek too little control and society deems us weak. We grab too much control and we are deemed manipulative in our personal lives, and micro-managers in our work life. There’s a sliding scale that somehow determines acceptable control, weakness and being controlling. It’s a game we all play and want to win, and a dance we all learn and try to master, but none of us really have any idea what the rules of the game are or if we should follow, lead, or God forbid, correct our dance partner.

Collectively, society determines what is to be the appropriate amount of control in our lives, and society’s viewpoint is fluid, ever changing with the times. As individuals, we have no clue. We never really know what the acceptable levels should be. We never know exactly when its necessary for us to make a stand, draw a line in the sand and declare we are tired of lacking control in our lives. Nor do we know exactly when we need to pull back and rely on fate, God, astrology or whatever, if anything, we believe may guide us. We never know until after we take a position when society tells us if it is acceptable or not. It’s comical at times, but it’s such an unfair game we have to play.

When we are dealt a series of bad cards in life and feel control start to slip, we maintain our poker face for the next hand. And, then one day we might wake up and decide we have had enough of being nice, your poker face has caused wrinkles and the only thing you can do to stop your death spiral is stand up for yourself and declare, “Not fucking today, Satan!” and you plot a course to control your circumstances and shed yourself of the dreaded poker face because you’re not going to take it anymore. But, were you talking to Satan when you ask that question or was it Satan driving the question all along?

Recently, I reached a breaking point in having a lack of control of my life, and as I do, of course, with many things I took it to the extreme. Rectifying the final bad hand that I was dealt became my singular, laser-focused objective and if I didn’t succeed then I would be doomed to perfecting my fucking poker face for eternity.

2018 was having the nerve to treat me worse than 2017, and I was going to prove to myself that I was a man by changing my fate. As it turned out, whoever you believe in, because I don’t believe in much along these lines, was laughing at me. I was desperate to grab back the control of my life, but along the way, fate was still fucking with me at every turn until it nearly broke me.

This ridiculous game we play with control sent me on an obstacle course through hell this past Wednesday morning until yesterday. At times, I put myself, I am quite sure, on a path that I could have easily not survived. The catalyst for this seemingly, maniacal quest to gain control of my life was when I realized Wednesday morning that someone to whom I was loyal and had helped without question in the past, had stolen my cell phone and lied to my face about it We searched at home for it forever it seemed and then he volunteered to go retrace the path we walked to breakfast earlier in the morning to make sure it wasn’t dropped on the ground as we walked. I continued to look all over the house for the phone while he went to check the road.

He never returned.

My calls went unanswered and within 90 minutes I was able to track the phone by GPS with Verizon to an apartment complex in Clearwater--the complex at which my friend now lives. He had helped me search the house for over an hour for the phone all the while he had it on him. He offered to help and go check the path we walked only as a way to make his escape from my house with my phone.

I don’t know how to describe what went through my body and my mind. This person, and fate, thought I was so naïve that I was just going to keep taking this shit. "You have cancer, Mr. Shaffer". "You need to start chemotherapy immediately, Mr. Shaffer". "Oh sorry, Mr. Shaffer, the chemo has damaged your heart so we need to make a change in course". "But, no worries, Mr. Shaffer, just a little more of a different kind of chemo and we will have you all fixed up". "It’s ok, Mr. Shaffer, it’s just a phone."

None of it is fucking okay. I’ve never felt worse while lying to people that I feel ok—both physically and mentally. Every day for nine months when I wake up each morning there’s a new challenge or symptom to my body. This incident with my phone and someone I mistakenly called a friend was more than I could handle. All these challenges combined to make me believe again as I have a few times before in my life—that life would be so much easier if I did not have people in my life who gave a crap about me. Or, if I didn’t give a crap about anything. I hate more than anything to talk about things like my cancer, or feeling so sick that I could throw up while smiling through a meeting with you. Or, the disloyalty of a friend.

When people care they ask questions, they naturally want to know what’s going, what’s the prognosis, what did the doctor say this time. Oh, goddamn, I hate that more than anything. In order to make it end quicker, I maintain a bitchy smile and a little sarcasm and I lie through my teeth and say, “Oh I am feeling pretty good.” People that care about you will keep asking though. They learn a little more and then some more and then even more until I feel like I am no longer me. That I am defined instead by merely what is happening to me. I can’t tell them that I have been pissed off for about a year about this cancer, that life is so difficult for me lately that all I really want to do is sleep all day, every day.

Oh, why can't I find a way to be happy living a completely solitary life? I know it’s not nearly the norm for someone to say, but I have always thought my life would be so much easier if I could just exist without anyone even knowing my name. But, then there’s that collective will of society again determining that this is not acceptable and I may not live that way if I want to be considered normal, or even sane.

Every year is a little more difficult for me than for most I suppose because I struggle with this all the time. Don’t misunderstand, I love people, my friends, family and the things I do in my life, but there is still that nagging voice in my head saying, “If only, I could be completely alone, all the time.”

2017 made me sicker than I’ve ever been, more unsure of myself then I have ever been and this is a lot to say when considering I have been counting Christmases since 1989. And now when I’m feeling my worst the people around me, albeit with the best intentions, are bombarding me with questions at precisely the time in my life I want to talk less than ever.

You can read my previous post titled “From Cancer to c-a-n-c-e-r, but Back Again?” here for more details about how perfectly hateful I feel about my 2017, but I suffice it to say that it sucked, I felt like crap and I faked my way through most of it. I could lie to you and tell you that I faked my way through it in order to not burden my friends and family with how challenging it was, but the real reason was simply and only for my own benefit. I don’t ever want to feel like a character in a Nicholas Sparks novel with people huddled around me offering unending support. It will seem foreign to most of you, but exposing myself to that much intimacy is one of my greatest fears.

Now, go ahead, tell me that goes against what society says I should feel and that a good therapist can me help me to change that. Guess what? No thanks. This is the way I like it. This is the way I want it. This is the reason I packed a suitcase, a backpack, and a laptop and went chasing after my cell phone in a panic to get my life back. I just knew with my entire being that if I did not take a stand against my fate this time that I was doomed to a life of never-ending crap rolling downhill at me. It isn’t and wasn’t logical but it represents to me a life of smiling in people’s faces when I just want to choke somebody. Getting my cell phone back was going to change the rest of my life.

Before I packed my bags, I made a reservation at an unsightly motel that was going to be the sight of my plan to entice my previous friend to bring me my cell phone back. He’s an addict and I know addict behavior, and in another ironic twist this place would make him feel safe and romance him right onto its doorstep. Of course, the place was going to feed my desires for a previous life too. I knew that I would partake because not only was I going to save my life somehow by this journey, I was also going to escape my life for a while because for nearly a year, life has been pissing me the fuck off. I was going to do this successfully or I was going to do something far more sinister the next time I got the short of the stick.

The only way I had to contact the person with my phone was through my Google Voice number on my laptop. Once I was checked into this motel, I did just that. I dangled the bait and he responded. He claimed some outrageous story I didn’t care to listen to let alone remember. What I do remember is him telling me that I would have to pay for his ride down from Clearwater to me in order to bring me the phone. he seemed dismayed at how easily and quickly I was able to locate the phone. He was evidently not only disloyal but also an idiot.

This is the point at which he began to hold my phone for ransom. I had somewhat anticipated this would happen but nonetheless, it sent me directly to the liquor store. It took me four hours to get back from the liquor store because along the way back I was pulled into several parties going on at the motel that were oddly reminiscent of those in the Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman unnecessary sex movie “Eyes Wide Shut”, but without the artistic cinematography and filled with people not nearly so cleanly dressed and clean smelling. The escape portion of my quest had definitely begun, for better or worse.

My phone never was returned that night, and I never returned to my room either. I got there just as the sun was coming up, took a shower, saw on my laptop there was still no message about my phone, had breakfast at the delicious on-site restaurant(yikes) and hobnobbed around with Tom and Nicole the rest of the morning.

By the afternoon, I received a message that the phone ransom was now going up to $40 for his rides to me and $60 for his pocket for a total of $100. Dollar wise, I was still ahead. The insurance deductible for a replacement phone is $199.

By this time I had enough firsthand knowledge of how much “fun” the motel was that I began telling him about it. I knew he really could care less about returning my phone and probably wouldn’t without incentive. As I told him about the night before, I could feel him become captivated. He would show up now at some point with the phone. I know the romance of addiction and I selfishly used it against him because the only thing that mattered was the phone. The phone was what was left of my life and if I had to drag him to hell with me in order to get it then so be it.

Ironically, at this point, I realized how beautiful life was without the phone. No one could reach me. I didn’t have to answer it. For 24 hours I had gloriously been alone (except for Tom and Nicole, of course). Or, had I been selfishly alone? Phooey, it was glorious. Places like this are always glorious….until they are not.

At this point, I realized it was a day later than I thought it was. Somehow I had lost one of those so-called glorious days. I charged it to the game. I knew I was in danger of staying here too long and not being able to escape myself. Partially feeding an addiction is a dangerous game to play. I sped up the negotiation of the phone ransom. I got him to agree to the same $100 plus I agreed he could stay the night here in my room and experience the decadence of the place that I could feel him craving.

Five minutes later, he was there. Good move, buddy. You were already on the way while we were talking about the ransom because you wanted to catch me off balance. He left the phone downstairs with his driver in case I had people there to jump him. We went down to the truck and made orchestrated and simultaneous exchanges. The phone was in my hands and I felt exhilarated by it.

He immediately announced he would be right back and told me how much fun we were going to have during the night here. His next move I had anticipated early on as he negotiated his ransom. What else was an addict in a place like this with that much cash in his hand going to do? He was going to score something before he came back to settle in the room.

Now, as he left, it was time for the most thought-out but nerve-racking portion of the evening. I knew I had to turn and grab things quickly. The laptop and anything of value had to come out of the room ASAP because although I doubted he would attempt a break-in in such a public place, I wasn’t sure. He told his friend that drove him to head on home and that he was staying, and I secretly smiled. Here we go.

Twenty minutes later he returned and saw through the curtains, that I had purposefully left open, that my laptop and other valuables were gone. The neighbor in the room next to mine and whom I had watching out for his return after I rushed from the room said the look on his face was priceless. He knocked on the door and then looked into the window and suddenly realized he was stranded 15 miles from home and broke because he had just gone and bought drugs with the only money he had. I had my phone back and I had successfully fucked over the person that fucked over me. I excitedly gushed over it in my head as I ordered dinner at a restaurant a couple blocks away.

I rushed back to the motel two hours later just in time to wave goodbye to him as he was being head-ducked into a police cruiser. I shook my head up and down gesturing “yes” over and over again to him until he had his second realization of the evening. You see, Verizon had told me that even if he were caught with the phone in his possession, prosecution is difficult when the suspect is a known acquaintance. However, in researching his name to determine his exact address while using the online “Find Your Phone” feature, I stumbled across a web page indicating he had an outstanding warrant for his arrest. So while I ate my dinner and alerted the police to his whereabouts, Tom and Nicole kept him occupied in the room I told the police they could find him in.

It was late by this time and I was standing on the second floor outside my room smoking a cigarette when I saw a guy I had had several conversations with over the past couple days. He was pushing a shopping cart full of what looked like his belongings through the parking lot. I called out to him, and he came up and told me he and his wife had really gone at it and she threw him out. He was visibly humiliated by having to transport his clothes with a shopping cart and he had nowhere to go. In previous conversations with him, he was clearly a little high strung but in a goofy seemingly harmless way. I ended up telling him he could keep his belongings in my room for the night but that I was leaving first thing in the morning. Then I looked again and I didn’t see what many of you would see. Addicts are not fearful of or taken aback by people pushing their belongings in grocery carts. It’s merely part of our landscape, so I told him he could sleep in the second bed in my room for the night too if he had nowhere to go.

I slept like a baby for the first time since maybe, April. I fell asleep fast. I slept hard. I don’t think I rolled over once. I woke up late, around 10 am. I stretched and I felt incredible. Then, I saw it and I knew what I was about to discover. I looked at the bed next to me and it was perfectly maid, and the guy with the shopping cart was gone. I immediately reached for my wallet, and it was gone as well.

I was stranded with no wallet and it was check-out time. I had my phone back but it was still locked from reporting it stolen. The laptop I had with me didn’t have my contacts or anything else synced on it yet, and I didn’t know hardly anyone to call because who dials by number anymore?

What had I achieved? Did I change the trajectory of my recent fucked up life by taking a stand and getting my phone back? Had I dabbled around the fringes of my addiction on purpose? What day was it anyway? And what all did I miss? Who did I let down? And who have I left worried about me? Was this quest I was pulled into somehow so important that it trumped everything in my life? Was I making a stand to get my life back and grasp some control? Or, was I sabotaging my life in order to fulfill my belief of the voice in my head telling me that life would be so much easier without people who care about you?

I don’t have the answers to hardly any of these questions yet. And each one of them flooded my brain the instant I realized that now I was the stranded one.I have been home just about 24 hours as I write this. No magical answers have come my way. I still honestly feel empowered by turning around one bad deal of the cards out of many bad deals over the year, an overwhelming number of bad deals. Holding my phone now gives me a sense of it being a weapon or a shield, and in that moment my phone was gone my mind made exactly the decision it needed to make when I packed those bags and left because the alternative popping into my head would have not only been defeatist but left me unable to type this today. I certainly have regret over how I may have made people feel or over letting people down by being essentially AWOL, and for that, I apologize and will apologize. This writing, however, is not to be mistaken as an attempt to explain, discount, justify or apologize. I write today and most days as a way to understand myself, my actions, the actions of other people and my relationship to the world as a whole, but mostly I write because it makes me really think and analyze the feelings and emotions that I feel are often unique to only me. It doesn’t make me always get to an immediate answer, but it does always put me on the path to the answers I seek.

Note: My Cell Phone Is Now Back On After I Recovered It.

To Kill or Not to Kill Pinky Penmark's Twin Sister

noreply@blogger.com (Robert Shaffer) — Sat, 20 Jan 2018 08:09:00 +0000

(from contributor, C Robert Shaffer)

Get to know Pinky Penmark's alter ego and 'Pinky Penmark Blogs' contributor, Robert Shaffer, in his first post below (Well, technically Robert is Pinky's creator, and Pinky is the alter ego but we try not to mention this when Pinky is within earshot).

Suggested song to accompany this post,

'Time Warp' Scene w/ Lyrics | The Rocky Horror Picture Show

We bite our tongue (mostly) as we post this song as one of our previously favorite actresses, Susan Sarandon, in our eyes has poisoned all of her formerly historic work including "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" with her brand of spiteful, woman-hating politics that surfaced in the summer of 2016. More about that after we turn to topic on February13th...And now finally, Robert's blog post..

Take a quick glance at this embedded post and screengrabs, and then read on to learn about the #hotpinkmess that was happening at the time...

Now, refer back to them if needed and try to follow along with this hot mess of a timeline. It appears to be innocuous at first, right?--an average Facebook user sharing an average Facebook business page with another average Facebook user. But now look closer. Pay close attention to the number of people, or accounts, involved between the "Sharer", the "Sharee" and the "Shared".

Backstory: A few years ago Pinky Penmark’s Facebook account in its original form was a personal account. In many situations, Pinky lived and breathed as her own person, not an extension of or a creation of Robert Shaffer. This original Facebook account became caught up in Facebook’s sudden enforcement of its 'real name policy' and was deleted by Facebook. Read the headline-making controversy that affected what Facebook categorized as stage names here: http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-facebook-drag-queens-20141001-story.html.

The pictured post and shortened screengrabs are from February 16, 2017. The artwork in the page’s header that is being shared is accurate to today's date because that's what happens in coding. (While what you may have felt you were leaving behind in your post was a snapshot in time, it was not. The code doesn't point to time. It points to a 'living' object in time. As time moves forward what you left behind changes every day just like you do. If someone put lipstick on the object or switched it out altogether, as above, then what was dated February 16, 2017, looks completely different today then on the day you left it there for the world to see).

Anyhoo, (yes I said anyHOO), back to the number of people in this chain of sharing because it has confused and upset Pinky Penmark and she is mumbling something over in the corner about a long lost twin sister or some crap like that.

Do you see it? By name, there are two. But look closer, there are actually three. You, see, I am only two people, not three. Pinky + Robert = Me. This post is A Different Pinky + Pinky + Robert = Somebody entirely crazier than me. Pinky and I only learned of this Different Pinky tonight because of some sign-in procedures that Facebook had Pinky go through in order to secure her account after an app hijacked her account and was posting on her behalf.

This is where the backstory above comes into play. Back in the beginning, Pinky's account (see the original cover photo on that account? Who the hell approved that) was a personal account and some jealous hussy reported Pinky as not being a real person, and Facebook without warning shut down the account.

Pinky was devastated for about thirty seconds. Then, while looking in the mirror she said, “Screw you, Facebook. Pinky is an artist anyhow.” She made a beeline for her laptop and Pinky created herself a business Facebook account for an Artist by the name Pinky Penmark. In hindsight, she thanked Facebook for making her see the light and for forcing her to open the account that a person of her lofty standards deserved anyhow.

It was not clear to Pinky and I, after the hacking and restoration of her account, what we were looking at as we were clicking through Facebook. Something was off. Were we in a time warp? We were so confused that we wondered if people would even believe us so we took the photos below with our phone as proof that time warps are real. It soon became overwhelming and something told us that in order to escape this odd Facebook world we needed to not merely close the window, as usual, we needed to log the hell out of Facebook.

Note that the three above profiles are being viewed when signed on Facebook as Pinky's Twin Sister

And, that’s when we saw it. Suddenly, we were presented with two sign-in options—one for Pinky Penmark and one for C Robert Shaffer and the associated pages including Pinky Penmark that I manage. Pinky’s Twin sister was back. Pinky’s face went white while I was thinking “at least time warps aren’t real”.

Evidently and again without Pinky’s knowledge, Facebook had at some point re-activated her original and personal Pinky Penmark account. The thought bubble sticking out of my head now switched to (OMFG! I thought that bitch was dead. Remember that first cover photo? She’s gonna want money. I’ve got to kill her quick). Pinky went mumbling into the corner.

Click the profile with the picture of Pinky Penmark in the poodle skirt and you would see that it points to someplace completely different than when you click the Pinky Penmark in the page preview that was shared. See for yourself by clicking the two links in this paragraph for Pinky Penmark.

As I was looking for the delete account link on Facebook to kill Pinky’s twin, my mind started to wonder and my thought bubble again switched, “Should I really kill off and delete Pinky's long lost twin sister, or should I let her marinate a little longer in the internet until I can find a way to use her to our advantage?”

I am still considering the possibilities (and sleeping with one eye open).

Midterm Election Coverage From and For the LGBTQ+ Community Starts February 13th

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Mon, 15 Jan 2018 09:02:00 +0000

(We Welcome Allies, of course, too)

And to start the political mood around here how about 'DJ Pinky Penmark' spins us a little Schoolhouse Rocks!

And, you're right "Bill" it's not easy for a bill to become a law. And, it's even harder today.

Today, We Reveal Why We Are Here

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Sun, 14 Jan 2018 23:36:00 +0000

One Concept Drives Pinky to Speak, Blog and Simply Get Up in the Morning.

At Pinky Penmark Speaks, we exist to share this concept with others in our attempt to make our communities, our nation, and our world a better place for future generations.

This Is What Those of Us at 'Pinky Penmark Speaks' Know to be True:

When we embrace our diversity, we empower ourselves and a nation to seek a path of further inclusiveness.

Our diversity then becomes our biggest strength as it develops into our greatest learning tool. It forces us to recognize, confront and reject our inherent biases and preconceived notions about others.

Our diversity enlightens us to the importance of equality for ALL people, not just ourselves, and is the foundation of our sense of community.

When we have fully accepted the teachings of diversity, we come to understand the importance of our journey.

For our journey was our lesson plan; the process by which we learned the value in having respect for all people and gained a deep understanding of the importance of three simple words.......

"We the People..."

Blogger.com/Follow

Facebook Event to Send a Message on Immigration

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Sat, 13 Jan 2018 20:18:00 +0000

https://www.facebook.com/events/1968590553405606

United Shitholers of America. Send a digital image of yourself, or with family and/or friends holding a sign that says "I'm a Shitholer" or "We are Shitholers" to pinky@pinkypenmark.com. Another option is to email a FIVE-second mp4 video of yourself saying similar words. Your voluntary submission of an image or video acknowledges the release of reliability.

I will combine them into one long, looping animated image or video, hopefully, generate some media coverage, and then negotiate placement on a billboard along l-275.

It's time we remind everyone and especially our President that we are a nation of Shitholers, and that a nation of ever-changing and growing Shitholers is what we intend to remain.

Shitholers is clearly being allowed on the airwaves by the FCC, but watch any additional language you may say in a video. I'm sure the word Shithole and Shitholer are the only leeway the airwaves have been granted. Invite everyone you can and encourage them to do the same. Let's go viral and be inundated by #Shitholers.

From Cancer to c-a-n-c-e-r, but back, again?

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Fri, 12 Jan 2018 23:41:00 +0000

Beauty or the Beast?

C-a-n-c-e-r.

A short, simple word at first glance.

It’s a mere word representing my astrological sign. It’s the astrological sign that gives me carte blanche to be somewhat (or 'morewhat') of a moody bitch. The moody bitch routine in my case, and in most cases I believe, was my best attempt to cover up my bleeding heart. To many, it’s common knowledge that we Cancers have a big heart. Yes, we are over the top hopeless romantics with bulging hearts disguised in people that have no problem one day looking you in the eye after knowing you for twenty years and saying "For that, you are dead to me" and never look back. For yes, we have big hearts, but in order for us to access and display true compassion and empathy, there is normally a cost to everyone involved before we will publicly do something nice(and pathetic) like jump out of a cake or something sweet (and lame) like offering a toast and making a speech about a deserving person.

Cancers I know never want people to catch us being nice. We would rather cover the hearts on our sleeve with five layers of clothing, and we would typically prefer to be thought of as a complete jerk in front of a group, an asshole even in order to avoid people knowing that we feel constantly. Incessantly, we feel, I tell you.

I have dealt with the complications of this type of Cancer my whole life. It’s been a thorn in my side for 52 years and made my life more difficult than it had to be. But, I understand, that every bump in the road, every time you are told no, every little nuance in life is just a challenge, an opportunity to learn how to outmaneuver what’s in front of you, coexist with it or take a wide right around it.

I mastered control over my lifelong Cancer, my astrological sign, some years ago. Today, if you haven’t known me 20 or 30 years there’s a good chance you know little about my thought processes and how I am continually interrupting them, rerouting them and reminding myself that my brain works for me not the other way around. So, for many, many years I battled this astrological cancer I called it, and I felt damn good about learning my way around it.

And then one day in the early summer of 2016, I was told I had the kind of cancer that would surreptitiously divide the cells in my body into mutations that would divide even faster into more mutations and that its solitary goal was to divide fast enough that it would essentially eat me alive and kill me, thereby killing itself in the process. How fucked up is that?

Now, take a look at the image above again.

Do you think it’s beautiful? My answer to the question is, “Hell, No.” These pretty colors and spiraling lights you see are merely trying to disguise a cunning, ruthless, relentless little creature on a suicide mission that would force it to kill me in order for it to complete its own selfish mission.

The image above, that in a bitchy way resembles beauty, is cancer. It's not even a fancy cancer or a rare or unique cancer. If you were to simply type C-A-N-C-E-R into Google images,

(or just click here) it’s the first thing to display.

Cancer is a cataclysm of diseases mostly dissimilar from one another, but capable of killing nearly every male on my father's side of the family before they reached their 55th birthday. Except for my brother, that is, but he is a statistical anomaly for a whole host of reasons, all odder than the next, and my smart commentary on that subject is best kept to myself.

Cancer is cunning and smart. It plays to win and it always looks after its kind with fierce loyalty and determination to survive as it mimics, hides, teases and multiplies. Cancer doesn't tire or care if you do. It's intelligent and ruthless and filled with the ability to make us marvel at it as it simultaneously forces us to nurture a relationship with it as it consumes us, literally. Cancer is a lot of things but none of them are beautiful.

Oddly enough my years-long dance with my astrological Cancer left me with the skills I needed to cope with my cancer diagnosis, my symptoms and my side effects from chemotherapy in a manner that I feel allowed me to cling on publicly (to most) of my dignity. You see, yesterday I received my last chemotherapy treatment from a regiment that lasted nearly five months, and the majority of people were unaware that I had even had the first one let alone the last treatment.

I do not suppose that it should have been important to me during these months to not involve many people in the process, but it gave me great peace. It gave me peace because most of the time I did not feel 10 percent as well as I would present myself to feel to others. I was secretly and constantly panicked in the presence of others. Locked into a fear that someone would want to talk about it and I would break down and be revealed as a fraud. I didn’t want people to know that by the time I hit three steps outside my door that getting back inside my house was the foremost thing on my mind the entire time I was not there. At home, I could feel how I felt, both physically and emotionally, without anyone knowing and without pretending that I wasn’t. In short, my life was hell, but it was a story of hell no one, in my mind, really needed to know about until now. I suppose now that chemo is one could argue that no one still needs to know, but when I started writing this I could immediately feel there was going to be a great value in it for me. The act of writing it down, giving it away, sending it out into the universe is going to get it out of my head.

Chemo afforded me a number of firsts in my life. In fact, at my local Target store alone was the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and maybe sixth time in my life that my body simply relieved itself in my pants as I desperately tried to get to the men’s room in time. Then there was the time the same thing happened to me while driving and waiting for a traffic signal to change. I now keep backup clothes packed for whenever I leave the house.

There was the time on stage calling numbers at Bingo4Charity at Punky’s Bar and Grill that more than one patron walked outside of the restaurant to call the manager and say, “Do you see what is happening to his leg? Do you see his leg?” Turns out my leg had swollen up horrendously right before their eyes, and I was unaware of it until I stood up to try to walk. That was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, and I ended up spending the night at the ER that evening. Immediately, thereafter I changed my weekly chemotherapy appointments to the day after Bingo instead of the day before.

The chemotherapy has taken my sense of smell away and thus affected the taste of everything. Many things I used to love, I now can’t eat. Things I used to despise, I now crave. Red sauce, one of my favorites, I can no longer eat. No matter where or what kind I try, each time somehow it tastes spoiled to me now. Reddi-Whip, that previously disgusting can of chemicals and sugar that is supposed to take the place of whipped cream, is now heaven sent to me. I walk around the house doing chores holding a can and repeatedly shooting shots of it down my throat. I, literally, cannot keep enough of it at the house. There’s many, many more but I think you probably get the idea by now so I can spare you all the details.

Clearly, cancer fucking sucks, but to me, it would have sucked so much more if I would have involved everyone I know in it. For me, at least, someone sitting with me, holding my hand or giving me a pep talk like I was back in Little League afraid of the baseball, would have made it much worse. For the few that I had to involve and that helped me in situations when it became necessary, I both thank you and apologize to you.

Next week, I am having surgery for what they tell me is the final leg of the marathon I am about to complete to beat this thing. The doctors are confident that in a month I will be back to myself and awarded my cancer-free certificate, and I am serene and calm as I count down the days until it happens.

Yet, there is a nagging question in my head that is getting stronger instead of subsiding. And, that is, if they come to me in six months or a year or in five years or ten and yank that certificate away from me, would I do this all again?

I certainly and absolutely have no death wish, but I do not think I will be able to come up with the answer until, and, if or when, I am asked.

Pinky Penmark Blogs: Rat Returns: 81-year-old Beats to Death with Broom...

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Fri, 12 Jan 2018 11:39:00 +0000

Pinky Penmark Blogs: Rat Returns: 81-year-old Beats to Death with Broom...: After another recent sighting... Tonight, I am rethinking my faith because this happened two hours ago.... While relaxing in my bed I saw mo...

Dazed and Confused

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Tue, 09 Jan 2018 08:54:00 +0000

https://pinkytalkspolitics.blogspot.com/

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Middle of the night trying to figure out this whole RSS/Blogosphere stuff
Feeling like Pinky after Round One with Claire Eli and Project No Labels

"Look at me, Look at me, I'm so pretty, so pretty.....NOT!"
4am--I call that an early night for these past few weeks. Good night.

Three Phones, Two Ladies and the Remnants of a Man

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Fri, 05 Jan 2018 19:58:00 +0000

C Robert Shaffer "Before

Amanda Stern "Culprit A"

Pinky Penmark "Culprit B"

The Downward Spiral

There has been some confusion lately with my home (yes, I have one) phone, my mobile number, and my Google Voice number which doubles as a business line where Pinky's assistant screens Pinky's calls. Pinky's assistant (me), by the way, is grossly underpaid. The confusion started and has been building ever since Google started listing numbers for Pinky.

The final curveball in the phone number situation is that a seemingly bright and charming new friend, Amanda L Stern, evidently hijacked Pinky's line for unknown reasons because now every time a call comes to the Google Voice number the caller id reads that it is Amanda Stern calling. Pinky is not at all happy, and my greatest hope is that this situation could lead to a girl-on-girl fight. If it does, I promise I will broadcast it live and also upload a copy to the winner's YouTube channel.

At any rate, over the past 48 hours, a scientific poll has been underway, and the results are shocking. Keep in mind that these three lines are essentially mine, as in like solely mine, you know. Why, do you ask? Umm, because Pinky isn't actually real and Amanda doesn't live here. That's why.

In 48 hours, 34 calls were received, from 33 unique callers. Robert received two (2) calls from the same person, Aaron Horcha, because she was cold or some crap like that. In 14 of the calls, the caller asked for Pinky. Another 18 of the calls were identified as coming from Amanda Stern, and in those 18 calls from Amanda in 3 of them, the caller also asked to speak to Amanda.

Amanda's 18 plus(+) Pinky's 14 equals ( = ) what I call B*LLSHIT! Folks, there is not even a one-tenth sliver of the Kinsey scale within me that leans in their direction, and they have taken over my life. All one of them would have to do now is sprinkle a little "Me Too" movement my way, and you could stick a fork in me and call me done.

C Robert Shaffer "After"

You are welcome to check the math, but it is all correct and indeed adds up to exactly this, "For Christ's sake, WTF?" I cannot make this stuff up. I may indeed package it a little nicer, but, folks, it is not a product of my imagination. I think I will blame Hillary Clinton.

Rats? Is it Christmas again, already?

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Mon, 25 Dec 2017 16:08:00 +0000

Rat Returns: 81-year-old Beats to Death with Broomstick in my Bathroom

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Sat, 23 Dec 2017 05:30:00 +0000

After another recent sighting...

Tonight, I am rethinking my faith because this happened two hours ago...

While relaxing in my bed I saw movement on the floor near my bathroom. After running out my front door in hysteria and soliciting the help of an equally hysterical neighbor, I called my mother and exclaimed "Come get me immediately, I cannot sleep here tonight. It's in my bedroom". Thirty minutes later while I was still sitting in my front yard aghast with the front door swung open in order to keep a lookout, she arrived in my driveway, driven by her 81-year-old boyfriend, Norm. As he exited the car, his eyes darted at me as if to say "You are such a freaking pansy" but instead his mouth merely said, "Where is it?" I replied, "We last saw it scamper into my bathroom".

Thirty seconds later he emerged from the house still holding a broomstick and after which we had heard four or five thuds and watched an equal amount of swinging shadows dart from the entrance to my bathroom to simply ask, "Do you have a bag I can put it in?"

There is a God after all, and his name must be Norm..

Meet Ratslayer and Octagenarian, Norm

Rat Days Afternoon

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Tue, 12 Dec 2017 05:04:00 +0000

Click Play on the video and listen to Michael Jackson's "Ben", the theme song to the "Willard" series of movies about super rats as you read about my recent brush with the rodents which I feared was going to end in death by rat.

Last night about 3 am I was crawling back into bed when I saw something move at the foot of my bed. On second look I saw a tail, a long thin rat tail waving at me in the dark from the foot of my very own bed. For the 100th time in three days, Michael Jackson began singing "Ben, the two of us....." in my head and I began to scream out louder than I imagine a 6-year-old Pinky Penmark would have.

Then suddenly, I became energized. After three days of being uncomfortable in my own house, I was going to get my power back. Suddenly, I felt butcher than Butch Cassidy because I was the man that was going to fucking kill this rat that had reduced me to a gay stereotype. Dammit, this is my house, rat, and I am going to teach you a lesson. As these thoughts raced through my head, I reached for the broom and shovel I had been sleeping with for the past two days then I lunged at the rat.

That's when I realized it wasn't a rat after all but a piece of feathers from my comforter being blown back and forth by the ceiling fan. And, that's when I cried. The rat was still winning and it was all I could think about.

I managed to fake that everything was ok for the next nine hours when I walked around the corner of the hall and there on the carpet in the middle of my living room was a dead rat. I froze for 30 seconds then began to hyperventilate. Was it really dead? What do I do now? Oh hell no, I am not picking that rat up I said.

So I called my friend Gabriela and said to her, "You only live 45 minutes away. How soon can you be here to pick up this rat for me?" It ended up taking her twenty minutes to convince me that I was man enough to throw an old t-shirt over the rat, sit a flat end shovel next to the rat and then use a rake to pull the rat and t-shirt into the shovel at which point I would use the rake for a lid for the shovel and go running out the front door with everything together. That's exactly what I did, and soon as I stepped off the front porch I threw it all. The rat landed in the driveway looking at me with its cold dead eyes still open.

I literally said, "Man, fuck this shit" and went screaming to my neighbor's house yelling "Jarvis, Jarvis, I need your help." He came to the door carrying his six-month-old daughter, and I said, "Give me the baby! I need you do something right away for me." He was looking at me crazy and I suspect he had good reason to, but he actually handed me the baby as I told I needed him to get the rat to the dumpster in the alley out back for me. He is a kind man and did just that as I contemplated that this rat was about 12 hours away from destroying me. A couple hours later I took Jarvis a 12 pack of beer for his services.

Pinky 1

Rat Family 0

Let us pray there isn't really a family.

Pinky Penmark Blogs Coming February 2018

noreply@blogger.com (Pinky Penmark) — Tue, 12 Dec 2017 02:56:00 +0000

Pinky Penmark Blogs

My TV Remote - the Only Thing Left in My Life That I Can Control (and I'm pissed off about it)

by C Robert Shaffer

Note: My Cell Phone Is Now Back On After I Recovered It.

To Kill or Not to Kill Pinky Penmark's Twin Sister

(from contributor, C Robert Shaffer)

Get to know Pinky Penmark's alter ego and 'Pinky Penmark Blogs' contributor, Robert Shaffer, in his first post below (Well, technically Robert is Pinky's creator, and Pinky is the alter ego but we try not to mention this when Pinky is within earshot).

'Time Warp' Scene w/ Lyrics | The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Take a quick glance at this embedded post and screengrabs, and then read on to learn about the #hotpinkmess that was happening at the time...

Note that the three above profiles are being viewed when signed on Facebook as Pinky's Twin Sister

Midterm Election Coverage From and For the LGBTQ+ Community Starts February 13th

(We Welcome Allies, of course, too)

And to start the political mood around here how about 'DJ Pinky Penmark' spins us a little Schoolhouse Rocks!

Today, We Reveal Why We Are Here

One Concept Drives Pinky to Speak, Blog and Simply Get Up in the Morning.

At Pinky Penmark Speaks, we exist to share this concept with others in our attempt to make our communities, our nation, and our world a better place for future generations.

Facebook Event to Send a Message on Immigration

From Cancer to c-a-n-c-e-r, but back, again?

Now, take a look at the image above again.

Pinky Penmark Blogs: Rat Returns: 81-year-old Beats to Death with Broom...

Dazed and Confused

Three Phones, Two Ladies and the Remnants of a Man

C Robert Shaffer "Before

C Robert Shaffer "Before

Amanda Stern "Culprit A"

Pinky Penmark "Culprit B"

The Downward Spiral

Rats? Is it Christmas again, already?

Rat Returns: 81-year-old Beats to Death with Broomstick in my Bathroom

After another recent sighting...

Rat Days Afternoon

Pinky Penmark Blogs Coming February 2018

Pinky Penmark covers the 2018 Midterm Elections from an LGBTQ+ perspective--a point of view your news channels aren't giving you.