So, I'm A Ham Now.

As in a ham radio operator, not a piece of meat. Although I suppose you could argue I'm both.

“WHAT THE HELL DRUGMONKEY!!!! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST LEAVE US FOR OVER SIX AND A HALF YEARS, COME WALTZING BACK IN HERE AND PRETEND EVERYTHING IS FINE?” says my imaginary fan. Fair enough. I suppose I owe you an explanation, or at least an update.

When we last left off Drugmonkey was a happy independent pharmacy owner, a pharmacy Jesus of sorts, crucified by the chains, resurrected, and sent to pharmacy heaven. A small town where people thanked him for coming there, where occasionally people apologized to ME when their insurance cards didn't work, and where I can set my own staffing levels.

One thing I learned. It is possible to have a sufficiently staffed store and still make money. I have been doing it for almost 10 years now. Chain store peeps, your bosses are fucking you over, which is something I suspect you are well aware of.

At any rate, I've always said happy people make crappy art, and being happy for the most part, I lost the writing bug that used to be a fire in my belly. I've spent my days in pharmacy heaven, running a store the way it should be run, treating my employees the way I would want to be treated, never working later than 6 PM, getting two days off most weeks, and picking up hobbies like putting radio waves in countries thousands of miles away.

Yet here I am, with a bit of a writing bug again. Uh-Oh.

Thing is, even pharmacy heaven can be tiring. I'm tired of Mr. Early Norco. Tired of Ms. Ask You For Something And Not Listen To The Answer. Tired of you not bothering to look at your label and not making an effort to understand it when you do.

Seriously, when you see “0 refills” Why do you act like you don't know what that means? Take a wild guess. What do you think it means Einstein?

Hold on. Just made a contact with Japan. Long story short, it's possible to hook up a radio to your computer and have it make contacts with other radios. Gotta put this in my logbook.

OK I'm back, and I can't take this much longer. I've been behind a pharmacy counter over 30 years now, and it's becoming increasingly obvious it's time for something else. I've been in therapy for chrissakes, and that's not normal. I don't want to be in therapy. I don't want to take meds to try to wring some extra norepinephrine out of my brain so I can face the workday. Even when it's as good as it gets, pharmacy sucks. A statement that will surprise no one who has ever tried it.

And so I'm thinking about selling out. To Rite Aid. Go ahead and laugh. If this deal goes through it'll turn out I've been working for them all along. But the money's good. I remember seeing an interview once with boxing promoter Don King, whose guts were supposedly hated by Mike Tyson, where he was asked if he could ever work with Tyson again. King said something to the effect of “I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM WITH MIKE TYSON, MIKE TYSON AND ME CAN HATE EACH OTHER ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK!!!”

It's kinda like that. Rite Aid and me can hate each other all the way to the bank.

So here I am, 53 years old and about to be bought out of pharmacy. It's like I'm out in a boat in the middle of the ocean and can sense the weather is changing. Changing to what I have no idea. But I can't go on like this.

Stay tuned. If you get nothing but silence you'll know it ended well.

But I have a feeling I'll be back.