I flouted the law, and the law won

I would love to kiss the hand of the traffic engineer who came up with the brilliant idea to prohibit left turns on busy thoroughfares during rush hour.

Because left turns are illegal on the eastbound stretch of Melrose Avenue that I take to get home from work, you can drive in the left lane and not have to stop, unless you hit a red light.

I always drive in the left lane when the ban on turning is in effect. And I was making good time on my evening commute on Friday until the motorist ahead of me decided to make a left turn, holding up me and everyone behind me.

I tapped my horn to get her attention and pointed to the "No Left Turns Between 4 and 7 P.M." sign.

No reaction.

I honked again, holding the horn a bit longer.

The driver continued looking ahead, and her left turn signal continued to blink.

Then I pressed my hand on my horn and held it there even longer. She looked at me in her rear-view mirror, and then extended her left arm out the window. She probably thought that her turn signal was broken, so she seemed to be hand-signaling to the drivers behind her that she was going to turn left.

Man, did that tick me off. So I just kept my hand on the horn. I made like Dizzy Gillespie and BLEW.

I could tell it wasn't going to change her mind about turning and I knew that I looked like a dork, but I couldn't shout "Move it, cupcake!" so blowing the horn like a six-year-old was my only option, short of being patient and accepting the fact that my arrival home would be delayed by 90 seconds or so.

Finally she turned. My eyes shot darts in her direction. With luck, one of them punctured one of her tires.

Sunday arrives, and I find myself heading west on Santa Monica Boulevard toward Century City for a work meeting.

All of the elements of Randy Newman's "I Love L.A." were present: the eternally shining sun, the mountains, the trees, the music blaring on the radio. OK, technically I was in Beverly Hills, not L.A., and I didn't see any bum down on his knees —did I mention that I was in Beverly Hills?– but in all other respects, it felt like I was starring in the video for Newman's musical valentine to L.A., just 25 years after the fact.

Then my video fantasy took an ugly turn and began to play out like "Beverly Hills Cop." I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw a Beverly Hills police car with all of its lights flashing.

The cop must need to maneuver around me, I thought, so I hastily turned right into a residential neighborhood. The police car turned right, too. Heart pounding, I pulled over to the curb and parked.

My tags were up to date; I wasn't texting on my cell phone; my seat belt was fastened; and I never speed. All I could think of was that the cops had finally caught up with me for blaring my horn on Melrose.

I reached for a note pad, and wrote "Can't talk" in shaky script. When the officer arrived at my window, I held up the pad.

Here's what got me on the foul side of the Beverly Hills Police Department: While my seat belt was fastened, lately I have been driving with the strap under my left armpit rather than over my shoulder. When the seat belt is over my shoulder, you see, it rubs against my trach, and I hate the sensation that causes.

The officer said he could see that my seat belt was fastened, but he said that it looked like it wasn't when he decided to pull me over. He also told me that wearing the shoulder strap below my arm was more dangerous than not wearing a seat belt at all.

Do you buy that? I don't. But I wasn't going to argue with him. I didn't have enough scrap paper in the car to explain how irritable a shoulder strap feels when it rubs against my breathing tube, and I wasn't about to communicate with him by Morse Code with my car horn.

Mr. Beverly Hills Cop let me go. I don't know if he couldn't justify writing a citation or if he just felt sorry for me, but he just told me to start using my seat belt the way that it was intended to be used.

If he had started writing out a ticket, I would have gotten out of my car and begged him to let me off the hook.

That would have completed the Randy Newmanness of my morning. That bum over there down on his knees would have been me.

Life is goof

As a guy in his 50s who is living with AIDS and cancer, you might think I'd be more circumspect about what I do with my time.

I mean, what if I'm in the caboose of my days? Other people in this position might spend their hours chanting or clutching their rosary beads to save their own skin, or burying their noses in medical journals in search of a cure for these diseases.

Can I help it if I like to goof off?

Don't think less of me because I admit this. Deep down, I bet you feel the same way.

Movies are great for goofing, and I'd rather watch them in theaters rather than at home. In a dark theater, I don't have to catch glimpses of all of my prescription bottles and cans of Isosource with my peripheral vision and I don't have to feel guilty about not scrubbing down the mildew in my bathroom every time I take a potty break.

First thing I do every Friday morning is flip through the pages of the L.A. Times Calendar section and plot which movies I want to see over the weekend.

You'd be horrified if you knew the dreck that I willfully pay good money to see on the first day of release, often bolting to the movies as soon as I get out of work.

July 10 has been circled on my calendar for months, because I'm very hot to see a movie that opens today.

Judging from the aggressive marketing campaign, this film may be the stupidest release of the year that Michael Bay did not direct.

I don't want to contribute to the marketing tsunami that has been building for this cinematic event by telling you its name, but I pray that this particular release is every bit as dumb as it looks.

Gordon Gekko said "greed is good." Paul Serchia says stupid is even better.

I'm not worried about throwing my money away on a first-run film that isn't even 90 minutes long. For weeks I've been carrying around a free movie pass in my wallet, and I intend to finally redeem it tonight.

In May, at my local Monstroplex, I snuck into one of the theaters where "Up" in 3D was playing after buying a ticket to see something else. They told me at the box office that "Up" was sold out but when I saw no one standing by the door checking tickets, I quickly snatched a pair of 3D glasses and scampered into the theater, where I fumbled in the dark until I managed to find an empty seat.

"Up" was a wonderful film. But the screen had a little smudge of dirt on it and I found it mildly distracting. So after the lengthy "Up" credits completed rolling, I put on my Angry Consumer mug and looked for someone to hear my complaint. Not being able to speak, I handed a note saying that the screen in Theater 13 was filthy to two kids at the customer service counter.

The kids stared at me, looked at each other, and then contacted someone on a walkie-talkie. And then they gave me a free pass. They probably felt lucky that I didn't club them over their heads with a walker with tennis balls for wheels.

Anyhow, by accepting that pass and cheating Hollywood out of 10 or 12 bucks, I probably gained momentum on my descent into hell.

It'll all even out. The summer is young and I have a lot of goofing to do. Chances are I'll catch the movie I'm seeing tonight more than once during its run in the theaters.

Especially if it's stüpid.

My lips are sealed

For six months and counting, no solid food or liquid has made it past my lips. But lately I've been stockpiling ChapStick at home, at the office and in my car, and I'm practically eating the stuff.

A few Sundays ago, after a morning at the beach, my lips started to chap and bleed. So I fished around in my drawer of forgotten beauty supplies —I have no idea where all of those bottles of gold nail lacquer came from— and discovered an old tube of ChapStick. After just a days of regular application, my lips improved.

I can probably lay off medicating my kisser with ChapStick, but I think I might have developed an addiction.

I use ChapStick when I drive, when I sit in the john and I wouldn't be surprised to discover I use it in my sleep. The other day at the office I spent most of my shift with my right hand on the computer mouse and my left hand digging blindly in my desk drawer for the tube of ChapStick.

I don't remember what riveting website I was looking at or what I was working on, but I didn't take my eyes of the monitor as I popped the lid to the tube and raised it to my lips.

The balm felt kinda gross and thick and it didn't smell at all like any flavor of ChapStick I've ever encountered. When I looked down at my hand, I realized that I was applying Glue Stick to my lips.

I hope no one at the office spotted me gluing my lips together. Rumors may start flying about what may be the real reason I'm unable to talk.

Not over yet

After an agonizing wait of 12 days –with only Sarah Palin's flameout and the Jacko shocker to distract me from my worries– my doctors at Kaiser finally delivered results from my PET scan.

The PET scan I had on June 25 was meant to determine if I have any cancer remaining in my body following the radiation and chemotherapy treatments that I had last winter and spring. I had hoped to hear the outcome from the procedure a few days later, but when I emailed my lead radiation oncology doctor about the results, he said that we'd go over them during my upcoming appointment.

That appointment was on Monday. And as much as I would like to announce that the PET scan showed that the barrage of treatments chased all of the cancer out of my body, I can't.

My doctor –actually, the first of several doctors who examined at me on Monday– showed a little reluctance in delivering the news. At first, he held up the PET scan and said that it was mostly good but that the test also showed "activity in my jawbone."

It was left to me to scribble a question in my note pad to clarify what he had just said.

"You mean, CANCER activity, right?"

He nodded.

He quickly added that the fact that there is no evidence of cancer in my neck, lungs or elsewhere in my head is a very good sign –cancer cells have not established colonies of Cancer Condos in my body– but that still leaves the stubborn cluster of cancer cells in my jaw to address.

Five doctors then took turns probing my mouth with their fingers, followed by lowering a fiberoptic camera in my left nostril and down my throat. Images produced by that procedure clearly showed the abnormal region near my epiglottis, which presented as an ominous white circle surrounded by pink and reddish tissue.

Monday's news wasn't all bad. The doctors said that my airway looks much improved, and that means –if my head-and-neck doctor concurs with that assessment– I may be able to shed my trach sometime.

But it's also clear that this cancer bout is going into overtime.

At the end of today's appointment in the radiation oncology department, one of my doctors said that "only time will tell" what the outcome of this mess will be. I sensed an apologetic tone in his voice; I think we both realized that he uttered those very words to me when I saw him a few months ago.

"I'm sorry I don't have better answers for you," he said.

I scribbled my response in my notepad. "I understand," I lied.

The fact is, I don't understand why there's not more clarity in what's going on in my body.

I just know I need to keep on fighting. To paraphrase John Paul Jones and Karen Carpenter, I've only just begun.

Beating the odds

I pounced on the opportunity to enter the lottery to get a pair of tickets to the memorial for Michael Jackson on Tuesday at Staples Center.

Whether I attend the event depends on two things: one, that my name will be one of the 8,750 selected to receive tickets –as of Friday evening, more than 500,000 names had been registered– and two, that my employer's bereavement leave policy will let me skip work on Tuesday.

Anyone with an email address and a phone number has an equal shot at acquiring a pair of tickets as long as they enter before 6 p.m. Saturday. The Jackson camp should have required lottery entrants to field a quiz question or two to separate bona fide fans from those who think "Billie Jean" is a song about tennis and that Captain Eo is a character in Moby-Dick.

I think my fan credentials are sturdy but not solid. I rushed out to buy HIStory: Past, Present and Future, Book One on the day it was released in 1995, but I never summoned the courage to pick up Invincible, not even when I saw it marked down to $2.99.

So in the unlikely event that I am randomly selected to score a pair of tickets to Tuesday's memorial, I'll have mixed feelings about sitting in a seat that might have been occupied by a more loyal fan.

I'll make up for that by making sure that my second ticket is used by someone who adores Michael but doesn't have a ticket of his own.

Anyone know how to get in touch with Bubbles?

Nobody likes a party pooper

This week has been more festive than most at my workplace.

On Tuesday, we threw a surprise party for somebody who is moving on after 29 years, and on Wednesday, there were two birthdays to celebrate in my department. A huge cake was served at the first gathering, and Tootsie Rolls and peanut butter cups were scattered around the room. For the birthdays, a smaller cake topped with strawberries was shared by about eight of my co-workers.

I could only lean against the wall at both parties and watch everyone else eat. Maybe I'll enjoy cake, Tootsie Rolls and peanut butter again –if I ever get rid of my G-tube and regain the ability to eat through my mouth– but all I can do for now is watch other people happily stuff their faces.

Today our HR department is hosting an ice-cream social to celebrate the holiday weekend. Everyone voted on the flavors to serve, and the winners were strawberry, cookies 'n' cream and chocolate.

But I'm not going to be a teetotaler for a third day in the row. I'm going to get in line with everyone else at today's ice cream social and when it's my turn to be served I'm going to take a scoop of each flavor and carefully wrap 'em in tin foil.

When I get home, I'm going to put the three wrapped scoops of ice cream in my freezer.

You can't blame a guy for wanting to have his cake -and ice cream- and eat it, too. What difference does it make if it sits in my fridge till I'm able to get it down my throat?

Ringing in the new year

Hey, did you have a happy Fiscal New Year's Eve last night?

Here's how the new fiscal year was greeted at the Serchia homestead: Three cans of Isosource at 7, jammies at 7:30 and curling up on the couch to watch a Woody Allen movie at 8 (if not for the credits, I would not have guessed I was watching a Woody Allen film. All of the men save one dated women their own age and the one who didn't got murdered).

I don't know what Dick Clark or Ryan Seacrest were up to last night, but if a fiscal new year's ball dropped anywhere in this time zone at midnight, I didn't stay awake to see it. (It was a chore to keep my eyes open till the credits rolled on Woody's movie.)

All things considered, however, my Fiscal New Year's Eve was far better than the real New Year's Eve six months ago.

Whoa, I was in miserable shape when 2009 began. My G-tube was less than a month old then, I wasn't talking and whatever was causing my problems was a complete mystery to me. I wasn't in much of a mood to shake a noisemaker or pour Champagne down my G-tube, and I still didn't feel like celebrating when the Chinese New Year arrived a few weeks later.

Things are a bit more stable today. My G-tube feels like a natural appendage, I'm learning how to get around the nuisance of speechlessness, and while I can't say that my cancer is in remission yet, I have a gut feeling that I'm moving in that direction.

So I'm going to go out on a limb and make a fiscal new year's resolution: I resolve to keep plugging away at fighting this disease.

I'm not going to resolve to beat cancer. I don't want to feel like I blew it if I'm still dealing with treatments and tubes and PET scans when the next fiscal new year rolls around. Besides, the fight is more important than victory.

Jeez, that sounds like something Vince Lombardi would have said. Well, you know what I mean.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to grab a noisemaker and go out and find a Fiscal New Year's Day parade.