Whines of Passion

It’s been brought to my attention that I haven’t butchered a classic country song for quite some time. So here goes. Once again showing my age, to the tune of Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”…



Fear that loathsome tan bed shill
C sounds too blue to try
The skin fright pain is whining low
I'm so molesome I can’t fry

I've never seen a fright so long
When hide shows mauling fries
This loon just went behind sun shroud
To hide from rays, can’t fry

Did you ever see a doctor cheap
When Beast began to fly?
Like me C’s got the will to live
I'm so molesome I can’t fry

The vi’lence of biopsy scars
Fired up from youthful fries
And as I wonder where U are
I'm so molesome I can’t fry

The Sunshine of My Life

Several Facebook melahomies shared some sobering melanoma survival statistics yesterday, which pegged my odds of living this long at 24%. And I’m planning on surviving The Beast a whole lot longer and doing my part to contribute to the insolvency of the Social Security and Medicare ‘trust funds’. So screw you, melanoma!

Just for grins, another song to melanoma to the tune of Stevie Wonder’s “You Are The Sunshine of My Life”…



You are the sunshine of my life
That's why you’ll always be around
You are the battle of my fries
Forever you'll stay in my parts

I feel like this is the beginning
Though I've fought you for a million years
And if I thought our ‘love’ was ending
I'd find myself frowning with my own fears

You are the sunshine of my life
That's why you’ll always stay around
You are the battle of my fries
Forever you'll stay in my parts

You must have known that I was molely
Because you came to my red hue
And I know that this must be heaven
How could so much ‘fun’ be inside of you?

You are the sunshine of my life, yeah
That's why you’ll always stay around
You are the battle of my fries
Forever you'll stay in my parts

The Cost Of Living

I recently stumbled onto a rather lengthy article about new cancer drugs that extend patients’ lives for an all-too-brief period of time at a cost of many, many thousands of dollars. Yervoy and the soon-to-be-on-the-market PD-1 inhibitors weren’t the centerpieces of the article but were mentioned as examples of breathtakingly expensive treatments. While the high cost of cutting-edge cancer treatment is hardly “breaking news” to residents of The Hotel Carcinoma, what struck me in the article is that some oncologists are reportedly beginning to rebel against the astronomical prices of new cancer drugs that provide marginal life-extending benefits. And even using words like “profiteering” to describe the pricing practices of Big Pharma. Check it out at The Cost Of Living

A healthcare economist I’m not, so I’ve no learned opinion about how to lower the price tag of cancer treatment without killing the needed financial incentives for drug companies to discover and develop new cancer drugs. My cynical recovering lawyer take on the matter is that Big Pharma charges sticker shock prices for new cancer drugs just because they can. Like, if I ever find myself in need of Yervoy or a PD-1 inhibitor to perhaps do no more than buy a little precious time I’m going to be price-sensitive? So my cap goes off (but only in the shade) to all of the oncologists who are working to “bend the cost curve” in cancer treatment.

For Big Pharma, the Hotel Melanoma rendition of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” from The Supremes…



Make it free, why don't cha babe
Stretch out my life, why don't cha babe
'Cause you don't really cure C
You just keep me hangin' on
You don't really treat C
But you keep me hangin' on

Why do you keep a stalling around
Playing with my heart?
Why don't you get savin’ my life
And let me make a new start?
Let me get over you
The day you've gotten over C

Set me free, why don't cha babe
Let me be, why don't cha babe
'Cause you don't really cure C
You just keep me hangin' on
Now you don't really treat C
You just keep me hangin' on

You say although C costs bucks
You still wanna be drug friend
But how can we still be friends
When paying you only breaks my heart again
And there ain't nothing I can do about it

Woo, set me free, why don't cha babe
Woo, get out my life, why don't cha babe
Set me free, why don't cha babe
Get out my life, why don't cha babe

You claim you still care for me
But your stockholders need to see green
Now that you've got your green bucks
You wanna still hold on to me
You just charge me more ‘or else’
So let me try some comp’ny else Hey!

Why don't you get a plan about it
And set me free
Now you don't care a thing about C
You're just using me
Go on, get out, get out of my life
And let me sleep at night
'Cause you don't really cure C
You just keep me hangin' on..

Very Superstitious

This little blog gets a fair number of hits from Google search queries like “melanoma hypochondria” and “melanoma paranoia”. I’m sorry to say that I’m quite familiar with these mental maladies, and I’ve proven capable of worrying myself into a frenzied state during the seemingly endless days of waiting for scan or biopsy results. Like last December when I had a suspicious lump removed and then waited almost two weeks for some extremely thorough pathology work to be completed and reported. The rational regions of my brain know that days of worried waiting don’t do me a dang bit of good and that I’d do myself a big favor to just chill until the medical facts become known. Will I ever learn?

To the tune of “Superstition” from Stevie Ray Vaughn…



Very superstitious....Waiting on the call
Very superstitious....Dagger's 'bout to fall
Thirteen tons of Ray C....Broke that looking glass
Near ten years of good luck....Bad things in the past

When you believe in things that you don't understand
Then you suffer....Superstition ain't the way.

Very superstitious....Watch your fate in scans
Rid me of sun problem....Get all that you can
Keep me in the ray screen....Keep me going strong
You just got to save me....Sad is my song

When you believe in things that you don't understand
Then you suffer....Superstition ain't the way.

Very superstitious....Nothing more to say
Very superstitious....Devil's on his way
Thirteen tons of Ray C....Broke that looking glass
Near ten years of good luck....Bad things in the past

When you believe in things that you don't understand
You will suffer....Superstition ain't the way.

For THE Bride

My Melanoma Diva friend Chelsea is getting married this weekend, and if she isn’t example enough that a bride-to-be needn’t visit a tanning salon to be beautiful on her wedding day, well, there’s just no help for you. With my best wishes to Chelsea and her beau for a long, happy and healthy life together, I’ll sign off with the Hotel Melanoma rendition of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding”…



Hey little sister what have you done?
Hey little sister who's the only one?
Hey little sister who's your superman?
Hey little sister who's the one you want?
Hey little sister not sunned!

It's a nice day to start again.
It's a nice day for a white wedding.
It's a nice day to start again.

Hey little sister who is it you're with?
Hey little sister what's your finest wish?
Hey little sister not sunned (oh yeah)
Hey little sister who's your superman?
Hey little sister not sunned!

It's a nice day to start again (come on)
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.

(Pick it up)

Make C black moan

Hey little sister what have you done?
Hey little sister who's the only one?
You’ve been a-pale for so long (so long)
You’ve been a-pale for so long (so long)
I bet you go for so long

It's a nice day to start again (come on)
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.
There is nothin' fair in this world
There is nothin' safe in this world
And there's nothin' sure in this world
And there's nothin' pure in this world
Look for something best in this world
Start again

Come on
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.
It's a nice day to start again.
It's a nice day to start again

The Midnight Rambler

A big shot of joy came this past weekend to my little corner of The Hotel Melanoma, in the fuzzball form of an eight-week old golden retriever pup named Palmer. I’ll be losing some sleep for a while, because this little guy needs to be taken outside in the middle of the cold, dark night; and then he wants to PLAY. It’s a hoot.

My old golden Jordan, who passed away in August, was the best therapist and personal trainer I could have asked for during some pretty tough and dark weeks and months of treatment. There’s just no better anti-depressant than a good dog, who will hang out and snuggle with you when you can barely move and then get you out of the recliner for a walk as soon as you show signs of life. I’m hoping Palmer won’t ever have to play a similar role, but who here knows what lies in their medical future. Maybe I’ll have Palmer trained as a therapy dog who can comfort others in need of the unconditional love that our canine pals bring to our lives. Could there be a better ‘legacy’ for Jordan?

For Palmer, the new kid in town, The Hotel Melanoma rendition of “Midnight Rambler” from the Rolling Stones…



Did you hear about the midnight rambler
Little buddy got to go?
Did you hear about the midnight rambler
The one that jumped the kitchen door?

He don't give a hoot of warning
Wrapped up in a golden cloak
He don't go in the light of the morning
He hits the time the cockerel crows

Talkin' 'bout the midnight rambler
The son you never seen before, yeah
Talkin' 'bout the midnight rambler
Did you see him jump the garden wall?

Playin’ in the night so madly
Listen and you'll hear him roam, yeah, well
Talkin' 'bout the midnight rambler
Little buddy got to go, dance

Did you hear about the midnight rambler
Well, honey, it's gold rock and roll show
Well, I'm talkin' about the midnight rambler, yeah
The son you never seen before

Don't you do that
Don't you do that
Don't you do that

Well you heard about the show dogs
He’s not one of those
Well, talkin' 'bout the midnight
The one that blows the bedroom door

He’s called a hit-n-run player, no anger…
Oh must a knife-sharpened puppy grow…
Or just a shoot-me-dead, ‘larm-bell jangler
Little buddy got to go

So if you ever meet the midnight rambler
Running down your bedroom hall
Well, he's pouncing like a proud black panther
Well, you can say I, I told you so

Well, don't you listen for the midnight rambler?
Oh, you all, play it easy as you go
He’s gonna smash down all your plate glass windows
Put a paw, put a paw through your steel-plated door

Did you hear about the midnight rambler?
He'll leave his pawprints up and down your hall
And did you hear about the midnight rambler?
And did you see him make his midnight call?

And if you ever catch the midnight rambler
He’ll steal your slippers from under your nose
I'll go easy with my old dang anger
He’ll lick the life right out your nose, baby, and he squirms

Surly White Boy

From the official Denver Broncos website...

"The Palms is extremely proud to be the official tanning resort for The Denver Broncos Cheerleaders!"

I’ve been in a pretty sour mood the past month. My best buddy and ghostwriter Jordan passed away in late August. ‘Tis the season to go see the witch doctors again to spin the diagnostic wheel of fortune, and I’m still getting oversized bills from the last go-round. And my geezer golf game has gone even further south—how does a guy get the yips with a sand wedge, anyway? Now it’s the first day of October, people are telling me I’m supposed to do that monthly inspection of my phosphorescent white carcass, and I don’t wanna. To top it off, it’s once gain time for the commercialized frenzy of Pinktober, brought to you by consumer products companies that don’t give a rip about any other brand of cancer, and featuring pink-clad NFL cheerleading squads sporting fresh glows from their sponsor tanning salons. GRRRRR!!!

To the tune of Foreigner’s “Dirty White Boy”…



Hey maties, I’ve been feelin’ down
I know what’s ‘good’ for blues all day

Am I’m worried what doc ‘friends’ see
Will it ruin their reputation treatin' me?

'Cause I'm a surly white boy
Yeah a surly white boy
A surly white boy

Don't hide those big ass scars
Don't like no Hollywood movie stars

You want me to be true to U
You don't give a damn what fries do to you

I'm just a surly white boy
Surly white boy, surly white boy
Surly white boy, surly white boy
Surly white boy

Well I'm a surly white boy
Surly white boy, surly white boy
Surly white boy, yeah, surly white boy
A surly white boy

I've been in trouble since I don't know when
I'm in trouble now and I know somehow I'll find trouble again

I'm a mole sir but I never check moles
Every night I get one step closer to the paler zone

'Cause I'm a surly white boy
Surly white boy, yeah, surly white boy
Surly white boy, I'm a surly white boy
Surly white boy

C'mon, c'mon boy
Surly white boy, white boy
Surly white boy, I'm a surly white boy
Surly white boy

Hey I'm a surly white boy
Surly white boy, yeah, I'm a surly white boy
(Surly white boy) boy, surly white boy, yeah