Saturday Funhouse – Fox Returns with Inventions

Ladies and gentlemen,

I am one handsome hunk of fox

Fox here. I’m back. Did you miss me? If you didn’t, you can kiss my furry butt. I’m Fox and my middle name is “polarizing.” There is no middle ground with me. So, for those who love me, keep reading. The rest of you? Well, you can all F-F-F-Fade away.

Now I know what you’re thinking: Where have you been, Fox? The answer you may be expecting is “I’ve been partying,” which is a good answer, but not correct. You see there’s a side of me most of you don’t know about. I’m an inventor. I have patents for all kinds of inventions. And for the last three months, I’ve been holed up on an island in the south Pacific with my assistants Malorie and Julie, who are both top-notch engineers and help with the math I chose to ignore back in my school days (party or math class? Not a hard choice.)

The three of us have been working on inventions to make the lives of those fighting cystic fibrosis easier, even that jerk-off bum of a CFer named Unknown, whiny loser that he is.  A little blood and he runs to the hospital. You didn’t see me passed out in a hospital bed after my four-day bender with Keith Richards had me spitting up blood in a bathroom in the south of France. Some of us can take it. But I digress.

During the past four months, my brainy assistants and I have come up with four excellent inventions. I’m here today to share them with you. They’ll be available soon to buy, but I’m giving you a preview because that’s the kind of fox I am – generous and sober with my 1-day AA chip, which I’m going to bet on red to win.

Pull back the curtain, please.

Stay out of my room. You're covered in Pa.

Bacteria-finder sunglasses. Wear these glasses and you can see all bacteria harmful to CFers. Pseudomonas shows up in orange. Cepacia in red. MRSA in Yellow. You name the bacteria, we have a color for it. Friendly bacteria show up in blue shades. These are great to wear in the hospital. You’ll look like a rock star to doctors and nurses, while knowing who’s been naughty and nice when it comes to washing their hands.  “Come back when you learn to use soap and water,” you’ll say to the nasty Respiratory Therapist fresh from the bathroom and covered in C-Diff. He’ll stare with a sad-dog grin as you bust his ass for spreading germs and almost giving you the world’s most dangerous case of the squirts.

Am I still alive? iPad/iPhone app. Ever wonder what your temperature is, your O2 sats, blood pressure, heart rate, and heart rhythm are — all at once? Simply download the “WTF is going on in my body” app from Apple and you’ll know in the time it takes you to set down your mojito grande and place two thumbs on your iPad or iPhone. The CF version of the app also tells you if your lung has collapsed or if you’re just a big hypochondriac like Unknown is. And as a bonus, the Fox version has a built-in breathalyzer. Just place your mouth on your iDevice and blow (just the fact you’d do that tells you that you’ve had enough to drink).

Ring of hemoptysis fire

Dragon Gum. Nothing worse than coughing up blood. It’s a drag unlike any other. Chew this new gum and blood turns to fire. It’s quite a trick and we’re still working out the kinks, like timing the combustion of when the blood turns to flame after contacting the gum. I had a hard time kissing my PhD’s for a week after I burned my mouth on the first stick. Plus, my mouth smelled like dead flesh, making me off-limits to the opposite sex. But when this sweet tasting gum works, hello, King of the Dragon Colony. You’ll be spitting fire balls across the room. Take that cystic fuckbrosis.

IV fluid Clothing Pads. If you’ve ever been on home IVs and used IV balls, then you know it’s a pain to wedge it under your shirt by your shoulder while you’re infusing it. Hey there, Jr. Hunchback. We have a solution to solve the IV geek look – IV Bra Pads for the ladies and IV Speedos for the men. Now instead of IVs making you look like a geek, you’ll look like a Goddess or God with amazing physical gifts. And you won’t mind when the zosyn dose runs three hours. That’s three hours you’re eye candy for the opposite sex. “Why is there a line running from your bathing suit to your arm?”

I’m glad to be back and contributing to the CF community again. No need to fill my comment box with Thank You notes. I know you love me and what I do. But, hey, if you have to leave a love note, it won’t hurt me. I am, after all, a sensitive Fox who only wants to fill the world with love and happiness. Or beer and Vicodin chasers. I forget.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Fox designs a line of hospital shirts

You can't keep a good fox down.

Fox here. I’m back. And better than ever. I spent the summer in Monaco with some of my Hollywood friends. I’d love to write about my adventures, but I don’t remember a lot of what happened. I do remember waking up face down on the water bed most afternoons, sometimes wearing the dress of the woman next to me. Crazy fox fun.

The entire summer wasn’t a complete inebriated waste of time. I came up with an cool idea for Unknown – a line of hospital t-shirts. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. What do you think? A different one for each day he’s in the hospital next time?

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Saturday Funhouse – My Ideal Hospital Room

[Adult language]

My good pal @seanset, http://seanset.posterous.com/, wrote a comment here moaning and groaning about me not writing a Saturday Funhouse for awhile. How the hell did that happen?  Thanks, mate, for reminding me. Here you go. This one’s for you. And yes, I know it’s Sunday Funhouse where you live.

My Ideal Hospital Room

No jumpers, please. The first thing I’d add to my room is a balcony. I’d like fresh air each day without having to gear up with a mask and gloves and endure the fearful looks from people in the elevator (yes, idiot person who moved to the back, as if that will really help, I have the Bubonic plague, but they let me roam the hospital to drive up revenues with fresh patients).

Each morning I want to pop out of bed, I.V in tow, and take three steps to the great outdoors, yelling: Hello, World, I’m still here, ha ha ha ha ha ha, the joke’s on you.

Imagine cooking outside your hospital room. Rocking. How do you like your steak cooked, Fox?

How nice would it be to sit on the balcony in the morning reading while doing treatments? I could wave to my fellow CFers on their balconies. We could have a contest to see who could make the funniest voice with the vest turned to max. Then we could see who could spit farther, which might be the reason they don’t have hospital balconies in the first place. Not exactly the image the hospital wants to promote with a bunch of us sitting in our underwear spitting on the roof or gardens below.

Imagine people driving up to the hospital watching patients on the balconies doing nebs. Might be too much for them to take. Not us, cause we’ve been to places no one should have to go. So there. Roll up your windows when you drive by, people. BTW, I’d hang some laundry on the railing just to give it that old apartment-building look. And I want the BBQ in the picture.

You can’t make me go in there. I don’t take showers in the hospital. I look at that dark, nasty chamber and connect it to the thought of how lazy the cleaning staff can be. You’d need a team of football players to force me in there (or two drunk Victoria’s Secret supermodels). The shower is bacteria heaven.

Let's torch some bacteria, friends.

I read that some gas stations, or petrol stations in England (you’re welcome for that translation, Sean), have self-cleaning bathrooms. Perfect. That’s how I want my hospital bathroom to work. I want to be able to press a button and watch the entire bathroom sprayed down in bleach. Then I want flames to light it up like the “Backdraft” tour at Universal Studios, killing everything the bleach missed.

Finally, I want test swabs done to make sure nothing is living in there that I don’t want living in me. After all of that, I’ll take my shower with confidence. Girls, show me that pose from page 27 again.

Trying living in the Material Girl’s laundry basket: I want a room bigger than Madonna’s smallest walk-in closet. It’s amazing what a difference an extra 20 square-feet makes when it comes to your mood and health, and where you put all of your shoes if you’re a woman. How about designing a CF room that doesn’t make me feel like a caged animal gone mad during two weeks in the hole?

Come on, hospital bed, let’s do the wave. Have you ever awakened covered in sweat because of the plastic hospital mattress? Plastic doesn’t make the best material for temperature control. However, and this is true, when I was 16 I got a waterbed. And it rocked – and rolled. It was AWESOME to sleep on. It had a plastic mattress with temperature control and heated water. That was the trick. In Winter I was warm and cozy and could sleep with only the top sheet of my Spiderman bedding.

Now this is a waterbed fit for a hospital

Now as there are a ton of needles in hospitals, waterbeds may not be the best idea. Can you imagine pressing the “I want my nurse now button and saying, “my water bed just popped. Oh, and can you bring in some towels and fresh scrubs because my wife and I are soaking wet.”

Let’s hang in Unknown’s room. I cannot tell you how many times I have come close to going “rock star” on the crappy TV with no good channels and fuzzy reception. I came this close to ripping it off the bracket at Cedars-Sinai once and tossing it out the window. Had I been a rock star, they would have just billed me. If I had done it, I would have been fighting back the cons in the L.A. Jail. So, for us time-share hospital patients, let’s load up the room with the finest entertainment center available.

I want a 52-inch HD, 3D flatscreen with every f***ing channel in the world. That’s right, in the world. I’ll even watch those crazy-ass soap operas from Brazil. I won’t understand what they’re saying, and won’t care because everyone looks tan and pretty.

I should have taken a photo of the remote last time I was in. Here's one that looks and functions just like it.

Don’t forget the sound system. I need to block out anyone yelling “nurse, nurse” from the other room. I want people to think there’s an earthquake and it sounds a lot like the battle scene in Avatar.

Lastly, give me a remote control that selects channels up and down and that doesn’t make me want to inject Drano in my IV because I just passed the channel I wanted and now I have to go through 20 crappy channels to get back to the one I passed. Whew, that’s a mouthful.

To the joker who invented that piece of shit remote, I’m still looking for you and will one day take the reverse gear out of your car. They’ll be no backing up for you after that.

Some of us work for a living. I’ve said this many times – give me a desk and chair. I work when I’m in the hospital. This ain’t no holiday, people. I have a family to feed and insurance to keep. Help me keep it, hospital room designers. That way I can come back and use my insurance again, as opposed to doing my IVs while pushing a shopping cart on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.

Design a desk and have it pull out of the wall like a Murphy Bed or something. Get with the program of the digital world we live in – the one that doesn’t go away just because you’re in the hospital.

Here’s one from Fox: Thanks, Unknown, for giving me one, you generous bastard. Fox here. Look, my fox friends, nurses have heard every line you’ll ever come up with. There is nothing you can say with your golden tongue that is going to catch one of these intelligent, caring women. Even though they wear pajamas to work, which is cool, you have zero chance of getting them to change into something more comfortable – they’re already comfortable in their nurse PJ’s and Crocs. So, you have to trick them in a different, more subtle way.

This is what I look like without the bag over my head

The water bed is a great first step. Nurses love water beds and will want to test it. When she gets on, bump up the wave action and wait for the fun to begin. You say: “Look who fell into my arms. Que romantico. My name is Fox, and I come from an exotic land called Brazil. I will kiss you now.”

Second, and this is the bait of all bait, put a stripper pole in your room. Always say it’s for exercise and the docs won’t barf all over the idea. When the doc is gone, the patient will play. No nurse can resist a pole in the room (except the one in Louisiana who’s going to write Unknown a nasty comment for this post).

Now gents,  you have to stay cool and subtle and say it like this: “What’s a little spin around the pole going to hurt? It’s a great way to get over the barf storm Mr. Wilson just coughed up all over his room?” Be encouraging. “There you go. That’s it. I’ll just be sitting here reading on my iPad. You go ahead and get crazy. Oh, yeah. Wait, let me crank the AC/DC on this awesome sound system. That’s it. Did they teach you that in college.” [the rest of Fox’s post was censored because, well, you can only imagine what happened next – out came the beer and dollar bills. Then all hell broke loose when the nurse twins came in. Oh, my, Fox. What am I going to do with you?]

Last words . . .

I’ll be playing the lottery tonight, hoping I win big and can have my hospital build a wing just for us. We’ll party like it’s our last and live the rock star lifestyle with IV’s in our arms, a neb in our mouths and a cold beer in our hand. It will be the hospital of choice for those of us who value partying. Let’s drink shots from our Flutters. What the worst that can happen? We’re in the hospital, damn it. Code Yellow, drunk fox peeing off the balcony again.

Live the high-rise life.

The Pebble Game

“Whether you think you can or can’t, you’re right.” – Henry Ford

Who has ESP in the family? I do.

I schooled my daughter in the art of non-verbal communication last night. We played a game where she hid a glass pebble in one of her hands and asked me to identify the hand with the pebble. I went six for six until she got mad at me and quit.

At the point I was three for three, I hinted at how I was doing it by reading her eyes, facial expressions, and white knuckles around the pebble. However, revealing the magic didn’t help her fool me. And she did try to fool me by looking at the wrong hand on purpose, which told me to choose the other one.

It took awhile to get to six out of six because she threw little tantrums a couple of times and tried to fool me with no pebble in her hands, which I guessed she was doing, even though she fibbed she did have it in one hand. Then she got mad because I guessed she was fibbing.

Once she calmed down, I went through the techniques I used. I also explained to her that at the beginning of the game I said to myself  “I can do it. I can guess the correct hand each time.” I was confident of success. I also visualized in my mind being able to guess the correct hand. Zip, right over her head that last point went.

I’ve used the Henry Ford quote with her many times when she says “I can’t.” I reply, “I guess you’ll prove yourself right then,” which makes her blow a gasket. She tries to prove me wrong by doing it, which makes me the Reverse Psychology King. (It’s always good to be king of anything, even when you make up the title yourself.)

The pebble game made me think about how clairvoyant I am at guessing which hand a pebble is in but how bad I’ve been at predicting the future. In the past, I have thought, my lung function is screwed forever, or I’ll never make it off this plane alive, or my bacteria will never be sensitive again. I have been wrong so many times.

Why is it easier to visualize the worst case scenario and not the best case? I need to do a better job of practicing my own advice by saying “I can” more often. I can handle what CF has in store for me. Oh, how I’d like to prove myself right on that one. We’ll see.


Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles: Malibu

Fox here.

I have some very hip friends in Malibu who invited me over for a Fourth of July BBQ. Here are a few pictures of the day.

For those of you who think California is warm in the Summer, it’s not. Well, it is and it isn’t. The day I went to Malibu was a “it isn’t” day. I froze my tail off. You can see from the pictures that it looks like a winter day. However, it’s July.

Some of the warmest beach days I’ve enjoyed in Los Angeles have been in October and November. Go figure.

Clouds fill the sky and turn the day gray

In the picture above, notice the rocks. The beach in this location washed away. The rocks protect the houses and will help bring the beach back – they hope.

The view of the south shows the bluff and Zuma beach to the left

The water was freezing cold to humans. My chocolate lab pal had no trouble with his oily coat.

Lunch for a Fox

There’s nothing I love more than free food and beer. My friends provided the beer and I caught the food. I ate three of these seagulls. They’re quite tasty with a rum marinade and Cajun seasoning.

Who got crazy with a paint brush?

The lifeguard shacks in L.A were getting run down. Kudos to the people who gave them a bold makeover.

Let's roll on down to the surf shack, dude!

Now this mailbox tells me someone with imagination and a love for life and the beach lives here. Nice choice, Malibu person I don’t know.

Living on a hillside overlooking the ocean is the high life. Reminds me of someone I know in England.

Here’s a shot of the hillside and some homes. There are a few gems up there I would like to make my habitat.

At night, the dolphins return to the ocean

Even the gas stations in Malibu sport artwork with an ocean theme. The Chevron near my house has a bus bench with graffiti on it, not spitting dolphins.

That’s a quick look at Malibu.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Theatricum Botanicum

Handsome me hunting in the theater's garden

Fox here.

A magical outdoor theater hides in the hills of Los Angeles. Though well-cloaked by the woods of Topanga Canyon, and unknown to many who live in L.A, Theatricum Botanicum thrives as a gem of artistic freedom and expression.

This outdoor theater hosts outstanding plays and music in the summer and fall. The area where it’s located is home to artists, writers and other successful L.A. humans. Foxes like me live throughout the surrounding hills, along with other mythical creatures who show up at night.

Here’s the web link.  http://www.theatricum.com/

I recently grabbed UC and his family and treated them to a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For a few hours, cystic fibrosis and the challenges of life faded away, and fun and mirth was had by all.

Thank you, Mr. Will Geer and Family. Thank you for maintaining this wonderful place and for sharing great art.

(CG, I hope to see you here one day with that crazy cat of yours. It’s your kind of place.)

Here are some photos from the day.

The year was 1973 and Theatricum started rolling. It gets better each year.

Buried deep in the woods, T.B. is a must see in L.A.

Strange creatures live here and hide themselves in plain sight during the day. At night, this gas meter man comes to life and roams the canyon, hissing and smelling of rotten eggs.

While you're sleeping, I'll be standing outside your house measuring your gas usage

Here is the man who started it all.

The great man himself. AKA Grandpa Walton. At night, he comes to life and tells great stories to the wildlife.

Theatricum has introduced thousands of kids across L.A. to live theater. They give back to the community. Here’s a small performing area for kids to practice. It includes this cool bridge.

A wood bridge in a smaller theater for kids

Botanicum refers to the nature that surrounds the place, including the special garden where the bust of Will Geer and other native plants live.

Arrive early and you can picnic in the garden or other hidden nooks.

All kinds of amusing and interesting things hide in plain sight here and fill one’s imagination and heart. Where does this staircase go? No one knows because all who have gone up it have never been seen again.

Do I hear Led Zeppelin playing?

Here’s the stage in all of its glory. I would have loved to show you the actors on stage, but they frown on that. Plus, I drop the camera a lot trying to hold it my paws. My pal, Josh, tells me it has something to do with me not having opposable thumbs. At least my middle one still works.

All actors are invisible to the camera lens. That's how magical they are.

Here’s where the forest creatures hide during the day. Notice that there is no door.

Only at night does a door appear. They say those who see look too closely at the creatures become a creature

What exists at the top of the hill is unknown. Clearly, this is a sign a fox can ignore. And I did. However, I cannot speak of what I saw.

You do not want to know what's up here. Trust me, I'm a fox.

That was my adventure in Los Angeles. If you live here or are visiting, Theatricum offers the finest entertainment and acting. Not only that, your worries and troubles will gently be absorbed by the surrounding nature and the wonderful performance. You’ll leave smiling and relaxed.

Fox out.

The Who’s Roger Daltrey Microphoned Me – A Fox Tell-all

[Not a post for a kit]

I'm never going back again. Creative Commons, Ulybug

It’s Saturday night. I’m having a shit time at the Hard Rock in Vegas, and down over 200K. The dealer’s treating himself to 21’s like Ginger’s been treating herself to hotel shampoos, soaps and robes – one for me, none for you, Fox.

Dealer Jack from Montana is beating the crap out of me with every faceless card in the shoe, 3’s, 6’s 2’s. I’m thinking, you better, you better not bet, Fox.

I sign for 100K in chips. I’m feeling angry. Ginger’s counting cards in her crazy nurse way, whispering 100ml, 5cc, 50mg. WTF? How does she do it? I don’t know.

Dealer man thinks she’s nuts, not the PhD she really is. But her method works. She’s up 70 or 80K, which only makes it worse that my lucky lady is showing me up. I know she’s smarter than I am, but don’t Einstein me in public, Kid. The real me is sensitive.

It’s another tricky day all the way around – my fox ego pounded and dying on the floor. I’ve had enough.

Who's next for a beating?

But guess who sits down at my high-roller’s table? Baba O’Riley himself, the thunder-god of Rock n Roll, Roger Daltrey. My pal CG would have jumped him right there cause she hearts aging rockers; and Unknown would have wet his pants like the yellow lab pup he is.

So, Roger D sits down in the last position with Ginger sandwiched between us. The dealer flips me two 8’s, Ginger a Blackjack, and Roger a 16. Dealer Jack shows a 5.

Roger’s making all cute and cuddly and using his rock-star lucky charms with nurse Ginger, who is jumping up and down yelling “code blue to you, sucka” at the dealer thanks to her big win. Woo F’ing who, I’m thinking. I’m playing cards here, not the dating game.

I slide another 50K forward with my paw, all cool and fox-like. No words needed. Happy Jack knows I’m splitting 8’s. The two 10’s he drops turn my 8’s to 18’s. It’s about F’ing time. Let him chat it up with Gin if he’s turning coal to platinum.

I look at his 16 and pray to Athena that he makes the right move and stays at 16. But wrong, I am.

I don’t know how they play blackjack in the UK, but the way we friggin’ play it here is the US of A is when you’re last position, and dealer Jack is showing a 5 to your 16, you plant your ass on your rock-star hands.

But no, that’s not what Sir Who does. He scratches his finger on the table and calls for another card.

I can’t get the words “Fuck no” out fast enough. Dealer Jack tosses him a queen of spades, clubbing my beating heart, and turning his 16 to 26. He busts, then laughs about it cause he owns mansions made of gold.

I can see for miles what’s coming next. Dealer Jack flips his hold card and shows 15. The 10 that Tommy Boy just asked for, that cost him 100K of his walking-around money, was supposed to go to the dealer to bust him. He took the dealer’s 10, damn it.

Tommy himself

Now Jack from Montana looks at me, the corners of his mouth raise like an alley cat’s, all wicked-like. Even he is clairvoyant enough to see my bad luck coming. He’s chuckling inside, knowing what Princess Pinball Wizard just did.

But I’m too late. Here comes the trick of the light, as the four of diamonds falls flat, giving the dealer a 19, beating my two 50K 18’s. I’m crushed by the man who sang Sister Disco.

That’s about when I hear Who Boy start singing “mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night” to Ginger.

One of the remaining Who geezers is singing the creepiest of songs to Gin thinking it’s the magic bus to her heart. He slides his room key across the felt all-stealth and old-guy creepy like.

I only know what happened next because the police were playing the tape when they paw-printed me. Laughed their asses off, they did.

In the video, I jump on the table and go mobile. I nail Roger right in the nose. After that, there’s five minutes of me hanging on to his face as he tries to shake me off. Tables, cocktails, everything goes over. He’s screaming just like he does in concert. Then he grabs my tail and uses his microphone twirling skills to whip me across the casino. I land against a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, where security takes me down.

I have blue eyes that are sad. Where's my billion dollars in royalties?

Ginger has seen this show before. I yell out that she led him on and there goes my bail money. She says she won’t get fooled again and runs out.

In court, he judge says, “Who’s next?” and looks like he’s ready to give me life. I want to give him the slip, Kid. I can’t explain my actions, but I can tell him what Sir Behind Blue Eyes did. And after hearing the story, the judge dismisses all charges. He agrees that’s it’s illegal to hit a 16 when the dealer is showing a 5. It’s a crime, he says, and lets me go.

I’m free.

That’s my side of the story. Ginger won’t return my calls. Unknown sits in a hotel room somewhere. I look in the mirror tonight and wonder, Who are you, Fox? Who are you?

Fox out.