ALAS, POOR THYROID, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

More fun and games with the bod. The last PET scan showed atypical cells on the left node of my thryoid. Not all that unusual, many people have them and they are almost always benign. But, given my history (see the Cancer Chronicles), we did a needle biopsy, which was "inconclusive." Bring on the cutters! May 5 found Loni and I at 0-dark:30 (that's 4:45am for you lubbers) at UCLA's admitting room to go through the drills for a 7:30 hemi-or-full thyroidectomy, depending on what they found. The best part, of course, is the always popular hospital gown that never seems to quite cover your butt, even a skinny one like mine. Why that indignity endures is a mystery. Surely there's a better design.

UCLA is a teaching hospital. Fortunately, May is a great month to be a patient. The newbie docs don't arrive until mid-summer, so you get the more experienced interns and residents who have had almost a whole year to practice on less fortunate others. I met three surgeons, none of whom was my Dr. K who promised me he would do the cutting himself (where were his fingers when he was saying that?). Three gas passers at separate times, so each wanted his/her own history. It looked like I was going to have either quite an audience or an awful lot of fingers in my throat. Dr. K was the last to look in, and was the most welcome. If you need head/neck surgery, folks, this is your guy.

This was a full-anaesthesia procedure, so after we confirmed this was not for a lobotomy, the mask went on and I went out. Next I knew I was in the surgical observation ward, gazing goofily around with a sore neck. "Hi," said Loni, so I figured they hadn't killed me. The surroundings were doing their best, however. The SOW is a large hall, with 3-wall alcoves for each bed, and a curtain across the front. That's about it. There's a little t.v on a big arm that had the worst resolution I've seen on any set since an old Muntz in the '50's. Nothing wrong with the sound, though. I could hear without any strain the blast from the guy in the bed across from me who, it would turn out, was partially deaf and addicted to "Greatest Cop Chases," which apparently runs on a continuous basis all day long. I had been looking forward to sampling a private room, as this is the new UCLA hospital, which just opened last year. Not to be. They finally told me, six hours later, the place was "overbooked" and they had no room for me. I'd either have to stay in the ward that night or, if I was up to it, check out. Adios.

The operation removed only the left lobe. While I was out on the table they did a quick pathology analysis of that tissue and found the lumps were not malignant. So they left the right side in and sewed me up. See the nice smiley scar! A week later, the final path report came back and it found a micro-cancer of about 2mm size. This, of course, had been cut out with the left lobe. For now, they don't plan to do anything except to monitor the right side with regular ultrasound to see if anything starts growing there. Hmmm. Nothing like a little uncertainty. Guess that's better than hearing, "It's b-a-a-a-c-k." I'll take it.

Scooter Mania

Anybody remember the "mods" and the "rockers" that duked it out it England in the '60s?

The Mods, or modernists, as they were known, were a sub culture that liked Scooters, ska music, parka jackets and were generally regarded as being the smarter dressed of the two groups.

The Rockers preferred motorcycles and had their own uniform which consisted of a black leather jacket, denim jeans, black leather boots with white socks which were rolled over the tops of the boots. A white scarf was regarded as a great fashion accessory.

Rockers and Mods were often engaged in brawls. BBC News stories from May 1964 stated that mods and rockers were jailed after riots in seaside resort towns on the south coast of England. Fights occurred where territories overlapped or rival factions happened upon each other.

Skip forward to the "oughts," and the dichotomy still exists, although without the attendant animosity. We went on an outing recently with the LA Scooter Club through the hills behind Malibu. First stop was the infamous "Rock Store" in the middle of the mountains, long a hangout destination for bikers. The scoots arrived, more or less en masse, and we slotted in with the hogs and the boy racers. That's us on the left in the lime green and red (pictures courtesy of "Scootz Kapboots", the rally organizer):

The scoots are a cheerful bunch, without the requisite posturing of the bad ass bikers:

After a couple of hours through the canyons and back roads, we met up with a group from Ventura
for a joint ride down the coast on Pacific Coast Highway (Hwy 1) to another biker hangout north of Malibu called Neptune's Net for a late lunch. There, the bikers had already occupied all of the real estate in front of NN on the land side of PCH, so the scoots were obliged to line up on the ocean side in a cross-highway faceoff. Shades of "TheWild One."
No fisticuffs ensued, and the only damage done was to our digestive systems. EVERYthing is fried. After this it was a straight shot for us down PCH to home. The others had to wander considerably further back across the mountains to home.