...when you combine residual encephalopathy with lots and lots of pain meds, shake them up, and pour them into a man whose favorite story involves a mysterious personage known only as "The Mad Crapper" who once terrorized the dorm bathroom at Tulane with a turd the size and shape of a stevedore's forearm, laid across a public sink?
You get a man who calls you up at nine in the ay-em to request that you email three separate televangelists that you have never even HEARD of in order to gain their opinions on this book.
One doesn't necessarily follow the other, unless you happen to have met my dad. At any rate it makes the question of what he'll be like once he's all the way out of the woods a far more intriguing one.
Did I tell you they fixed his massive hernia, the other thing he was waiting to have surgery on? As of now he's had all the big surgeries he needs. Now he just has to, you know, regain the ability to walk.
Then what? Probably some sort of facility, I hope around here. (Thanks, Melissa, for passing along your recs!) When? Dunno.
Life. Somebody oughta sell tickets. Hell, I'd buy one.