Those six words have likely never been said before. Certainly not in New Hampshire.
For the better part of two months I have been trying in vein to rid myself of two box televisions. They are fully functional and without much in the way of scuffs or dings so I thought surely someone would want them. Surely?
Surely not. Even though buying such a television would have cost a good chunk of change just a year or so ago at any Walmart or Target, with flat screens being the only thing any self-respecting American will have in their home these days I may as well have been trying to give away anthrax or a swift kick to the nuts.
None of my friends wanted them for free. No one on Craigslist wanted them for $10 or $20. None of the local thrift stores were interested. Even the local school district wanted nothing to do with them. They instead offered some box TVs of their own they wanted to get rid of! Argh, I'd rather have anthrax.
So I did what anyone would do in my situation. I took them out into the parking lot, doused them in lighter fluid, and set them on fire. I know of no other way to properly dispose of a television.
Actually I took them to Best Buy to get them recycled, but considering no one charged me the requisite $10 a television to recycle them I'm pretty sure they just took them back to the loading dock, doused them in lighter fluid, and set them on fire.
Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
The Death of Paper Bird
Dartmouth Hitchcock Memorial Hospital is a classy hospital. Between the pianos, artwork, gardens, more pianos, and periodic impromptu classical guitar concerts some would say it's the classiest of hospitals. It's so classy in fact that the class spills over into the stairwells. And that's where I first met Paper Bird.
In most if all not all stairwells the walls are lined with murals on most if not all floors. They are idyllic paintings of the native wildlife and pastoral farms of New England. Some are beautiful, some are clearly done by volunteers. For the first few weeks of work I enjoyed looking at them while running around the clinics and wards, but I didn't pay them much attention as I usually had places to go and Lyme disease to stomp out. One day, however, while walking up the same daily flight of stairs I always hike upon arrival I noticed something was different. A bluejay seemed to be out of place. No longer perched atop a picnic table, it was now sitting comfortably on a nearby collection of pumpkins. Or maybe I was just crazy -- probably too much chronic brain Lyme. The next day, however, my suspicions were confirmed when while again walking into work I noted that the bluejay was no longer perched above the pumpkins but now sitting outside the picture frame entirely, resting immediately above the upper right border of the painting. Clearly I wasn't crazy, the bluejay was alive!
Shortly I found out that, no, the bluejay was in fact not alive, but rather made entirely of tape when I discovered him one day lying flat on the ground and being, well, composed entirely of tape. He had fallen from his roost atop the painting and was now resting face down on the floor, lying in his own filth. It was very sad; a dark day for Paper Bird. Thankfully the following morning he resurrected and for the next few months led a good life sticking to the various walls of the various murals, sometimes sitting on picnic table, sometimes atop one of the gratuitously placed pumpkins, once hanging upside down like a bat from a branch in a tree. It was always a pleasure seeing Paper Bird and where he'd be sitting that particular day. Life was good for the both of us. Then, one day, he disappeared.
Although no one knows where he disappeared off to -- some believe he flew off to paper bird heaven -- it is understood that he will not be coming back. By most paper bird standards he had a good life. The average life expectancy of a paper bird is only two and a half months and most paper birds are born into relative poverty forced to adorn pediatric clinic offices and elementary schools to earn a working wage. Paper Bird on the other hand got to, well, sit on pumpkins. I'll never forget his permanent paper smile or... I guess mostly just that. He was a paper bird, and for that we'll miss him. Goodbye Paper Bird!
Memorial services will be held in Auditorium D after the holiday break.
In most if all not all stairwells the walls are lined with murals on most if not all floors. They are idyllic paintings of the native wildlife and pastoral farms of New England. Some are beautiful, some are clearly done by volunteers. For the first few weeks of work I enjoyed looking at them while running around the clinics and wards, but I didn't pay them much attention as I usually had places to go and Lyme disease to stomp out. One day, however, while walking up the same daily flight of stairs I always hike upon arrival I noticed something was different. A bluejay seemed to be out of place. No longer perched atop a picnic table, it was now sitting comfortably on a nearby collection of pumpkins. Or maybe I was just crazy -- probably too much chronic brain Lyme. The next day, however, my suspicions were confirmed when while again walking into work I noted that the bluejay was no longer perched above the pumpkins but now sitting outside the picture frame entirely, resting immediately above the upper right border of the painting. Clearly I wasn't crazy, the bluejay was alive!
Shortly I found out that, no, the bluejay was in fact not alive, but rather made entirely of tape when I discovered him one day lying flat on the ground and being, well, composed entirely of tape. He had fallen from his roost atop the painting and was now resting face down on the floor, lying in his own filth. It was very sad; a dark day for Paper Bird. Thankfully the following morning he resurrected and for the next few months led a good life sticking to the various walls of the various murals, sometimes sitting on picnic table, sometimes atop one of the gratuitously placed pumpkins, once hanging upside down like a bat from a branch in a tree. It was always a pleasure seeing Paper Bird and where he'd be sitting that particular day. Life was good for the both of us. Then, one day, he disappeared.
Although no one knows where he disappeared off to -- some believe he flew off to paper bird heaven -- it is understood that he will not be coming back. By most paper bird standards he had a good life. The average life expectancy of a paper bird is only two and a half months and most paper birds are born into relative poverty forced to adorn pediatric clinic offices and elementary schools to earn a working wage. Paper Bird on the other hand got to, well, sit on pumpkins. I'll never forget his permanent paper smile or... I guess mostly just that. He was a paper bird, and for that we'll miss him. Goodbye Paper Bird!
Memorial services will be held in Auditorium D after the holiday break.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Your GPS Cannot Save You Now
Scene: Small country store and gas station in Eastern Vermont at 7 o'clock in the evening. My friends and I have been looking for a local ski area where
presentations and pie would be dispensed on the subject of community ski
areas in the northeast. Going off of instructions that basically stated
drive to a fork in the road, bend right, and go 9.5 miles we, not
surprisingly, are now lost. I pull open the dusty, metal front door immediately across from the only two rusty gasoline pumps to find no one behind the counter but four men idly resting adjacent to it doing nothing in particular.
Surprisingly, or perhaps not, their instructions were entirely correct. Marty's garage, the bridge on the right, the dairy about a mile down the road; all were where they should be. We arrived just in time to hear about the lost ski areas of Vermont and just in time for coffee and pie. This was followed of course by a pie auction where the big winner sold for $18.50 and the biggest loser for $8.00. Just another crazy Friday night in New Hampshire.
Me: Y'all know where the Northeast Slopes is at?
Young guy in cap: Northeast Slopes?
Old man standing: Northeast Slopes in Cooksville.
Old man sitting: *Gibberish.*
Me: Cooksville?
Old man standing: Yeah, you know where Cooksville's at?
Old man sitting: *More gibberish.*
Young guy in cap: Yeah you go right down the highway....
Me: Right? That way or that way? *Pointing to my right and left.*
Young guy in cap: Right that away. *Point to his right and my left.* You go about... oh three miles...
Old man standing: 3.4 miles.
Young guy in cap: 3.4 miles till you get to the first road running off to the left.
Middle aged guy in overalls: Ain't it the second left?
Old man standing: Well the first left's right out of town and it's not really a left, more of a switchback in the other direction....
Young guy in cap: Well it's your first real left just past Marty's Auto Repair shop so look for that. Called Brook road.
Old man standing: Right.
Young guy in cap: You turn left past Marty's and you'll start going up hill for three or four miles. The road will twist and turn a lot and there'll be a lot of little roads going off to the right, but the right you want is about four miles down and it crosses a bridge. You cross that bridge.
Me: Okay. Left after Marty's. Go uphill about three or four miles. Take the right across the bridge.
Young guy in cap: Yep. Then you'll drive about another mile past a dairy and a farm and you'll reach Cooksville. Go the town hall in Cooksville and it's right across the road. That's where the Northeast Slopes meetin's at.
Me: *I reiterate the instructions, thank them, and turn to leave.*
Young guy in cap: *reiterates the exact same instructions and agrees.*
Old man standing: *chuckling* Good luck!
All: *laugh as if its the funniest thing they've ever heard.*
Surprisingly, or perhaps not, their instructions were entirely correct. Marty's garage, the bridge on the right, the dairy about a mile down the road; all were where they should be. We arrived just in time to hear about the lost ski areas of Vermont and just in time for coffee and pie. This was followed of course by a pie auction where the big winner sold for $18.50 and the biggest loser for $8.00. Just another crazy Friday night in New Hampshire.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
More C4
The real test of a medical unit's combat readiness comes not in their
mock platoon marches or field training exercises nor in their mastering
of the Advanced Trauma Life Support (ATLS) classes. It doesn't come in
the twenty-four hour hutment confinement due to training being cancelled
on account of freak San Antonio snow. It's not even whether they can go
to the communal showers and strip naked and wash and rinse all while
avoiding prolonged eye contact next to one another which successfully
tells whether they can successfully carry stretchers through mine fields
together. The real test of a real unit full of real men comes in the
commode.
An Army Strong platoon in today's Army of One can sit down, relax, and watch each other go number two. That's the short of it. That's the test of a unit's combat grit. And in light of that profound military truth, we, collectively, failed. The test as it was ingeniously crafted comes from the bathroom's design as all the stalls, which are for whatever reason already spaced unusually tightly together giving you little in the way of elbow room, were, to perhaps make you forget you had nowhere to place your elbows, also freakishly close to the opposing row of stalls immediately across the way. And lest you pause to think too long about the fact that you could probably touch knees with the guy across from you were he to be a particularly tall individual, you realize that in fact you could touch his knees -- and perhaps gently caress them -- because there are no doors to any of the stalls. There is nothing but open space seperating you from the guy and white cinder block walls of the toilet across from you. A real hero -- I believe the Army was suggesting -- will sit across from his battle buddy, stare him deeply in the eye, and engage in friendly banter while taking a dump. He may even whistle a patriotic tune. Discuss the latest tourniquet application techniques maybe. Thumb wrestle. Whatever exactly is supposed to take place while two dudes respectively sit across from each other in a race to finish their business first, the end result is inevitably a crisp salute and a new level of unit cohesiveness.
Finding this to be the worse of two options were the other option to be small bowel obstruction followed by colonic perforation from never using the restroom again, we collectively came to an unspoken modus operandi. As there were four stalls in each row of the livestock pen the first person would use one of the stalls closest to the far wall while the next person would use the stall furthest from the far wall. Each successive soldier could use neighboring stalls if facing the same direction and feeling friendly, but this was known to be discouraged. Under no conditions was it acceptable to sit immediately across or immediately diagonal to another toilet user, and it was punishable by death if you accidentally sat on someone else's lap. If you were to arrive and find the maximum occupancy of four out of eight stalls in use you would politely return later, you didn't need to go that bad. If you did need to go that bad, congratulations you now know four people who hate your guts. In the end it proved successful -- I never had to watch what God never intended for us to watch -- but our esprit de corps suffered as we lacked that I've-seen-you-poo level of commitment that only veteran, battle tested units ever possess. We may have technically passed the training but we failed each other. C4's most dangerous landmines were truthfully not the literal landmines but the I-don't-want-you-looking-at-me-like-that landmines deep inside ourselves.
We were then forced to do jumping jacks in gas masks and hazmat suits, which -- coincidentally -- is a good way to induce fainting and general claustrophobia-related freaking out.
An Army Strong platoon in today's Army of One can sit down, relax, and watch each other go number two. That's the short of it. That's the test of a unit's combat grit. And in light of that profound military truth, we, collectively, failed. The test as it was ingeniously crafted comes from the bathroom's design as all the stalls, which are for whatever reason already spaced unusually tightly together giving you little in the way of elbow room, were, to perhaps make you forget you had nowhere to place your elbows, also freakishly close to the opposing row of stalls immediately across the way. And lest you pause to think too long about the fact that you could probably touch knees with the guy across from you were he to be a particularly tall individual, you realize that in fact you could touch his knees -- and perhaps gently caress them -- because there are no doors to any of the stalls. There is nothing but open space seperating you from the guy and white cinder block walls of the toilet across from you. A real hero -- I believe the Army was suggesting -- will sit across from his battle buddy, stare him deeply in the eye, and engage in friendly banter while taking a dump. He may even whistle a patriotic tune. Discuss the latest tourniquet application techniques maybe. Thumb wrestle. Whatever exactly is supposed to take place while two dudes respectively sit across from each other in a race to finish their business first, the end result is inevitably a crisp salute and a new level of unit cohesiveness.
Finding this to be the worse of two options were the other option to be small bowel obstruction followed by colonic perforation from never using the restroom again, we collectively came to an unspoken modus operandi. As there were four stalls in each row of the livestock pen the first person would use one of the stalls closest to the far wall while the next person would use the stall furthest from the far wall. Each successive soldier could use neighboring stalls if facing the same direction and feeling friendly, but this was known to be discouraged. Under no conditions was it acceptable to sit immediately across or immediately diagonal to another toilet user, and it was punishable by death if you accidentally sat on someone else's lap. If you were to arrive and find the maximum occupancy of four out of eight stalls in use you would politely return later, you didn't need to go that bad. If you did need to go that bad, congratulations you now know four people who hate your guts. In the end it proved successful -- I never had to watch what God never intended for us to watch -- but our esprit de corps suffered as we lacked that I've-seen-you-poo level of commitment that only veteran, battle tested units ever possess. We may have technically passed the training but we failed each other. C4's most dangerous landmines were truthfully not the literal landmines but the I-don't-want-you-looking-at-me-like-that landmines deep inside ourselves.
We were then forced to do jumping jacks in gas masks and hazmat suits, which -- coincidentally -- is a good way to induce fainting and general claustrophobia-related freaking out.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
They're Practically Giving It Away!
It's time to get tough on aid.
Every year the United States hands out billions, probably trillions, of dollars freely to whoever asks for it. Want some cash, Greece? How's $25 billion sound? Need to build something, Morocco? Build a thousand of 'em, here's a million. Got problems, Nepal? Oh yeah don't we all, let's see what forty mill will do for ya. Surprise me. It is a well known fact that the US spends, like, what, at least 10% of our federal budget on foreign aid every year? Maybe even 20 or 30%, I don't know. It's just probably a lot. And what do we get for it? Nothing but nothing. It's time America got what's hers.
That's why I'm happy the GOP presidential candidates are finally standing up for fiscal responsibility. I appreciated it when Rick Perry stated that every year the foreign aid budget would start at $0. And I loved it when Bachmann demanded a song and dance from every ambassador requesting assistance while she would use the ambassador's attache as a foot stool. Gingrich's statement that he would respond to every aid request with, "explain to me why I should give you a single m---- f----- penny," was the kind of frank diplomacy we need in the world. That's always been the whole problem. We just give these guys a blank check, have them fill in the zeros, and then never talk to them again until the following year's aid dispensation party.
It would be one thing if these countries helped us out by, like, assisting with our antiterrorism efforts or making peace deals and cooperating with Israel, or even if doing good deeds like eradicating infectious disease was still it's own reward, but that's not happening and it's not. Pakistan hasn't arrested a single terrorist and I'm pretty sure their army and the Taliban probably totally hang out and watch cricket together on the weekend all the time. Plus as Senator Santorum pointed out, "if we solve all the world's problems then they'll never learn to solve them themselves. As the saying goes: If you give a man a fish he'll eat for a day; if you teach a man to fish he'll eat for a lifetime. And then cripple your domestic fishing industry so we probably shouldn't do that either." Plus it's not like the world's got a monopoly on poverty. I only make $32,000 a year breaking my back, putting in long hours. I don't even take all my sick days! I know as an American what's poor here ain't poor everywhere, but I bet that's not too far from the global average. I imagine I could kick back and watch a game with some dude in Ubeki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan while we share a few Buds.
Diplomacy isn't easy, but it ain't rocket science. Until we can get everyone to finally start wearing their "friend" and "enemy" badges liked we've asked -- and get them to stop trading the damn things around -- we should at the very least demand an accounting for our charity. And a return on investment. With a nice letter of thanks. And maybe a gift basket. Containing the hand written thank you notes of children and the drilling rights to offshore oil deposits. Just a small token of appreciation with cash value equal to or greater than that which we have so freely given.
In other news, despite the American public's perception that around 25% of the federal budget goes to foreign aid in fact only about 1% ($37 billion FY 2010) does which is less than the approximately 5% ($185 billion FY 2010) of the federal budget spent annually on national debt interest. Although a little over $1.5 billion went to Egypt last year, $4.2 billion was spent on assistance for refugee populations and $9.8 billion was spent on the President's Global Health Initiative started by former President Bush to help combat HIV and other infectious diseases in developing nations. The median US income in 2007 was $25,076 and placed one in the top 10% of global wage earners. Justin Bieber is set to marry Kim Kardashian in next year's wedding of the century.
Every year the United States hands out billions, probably trillions, of dollars freely to whoever asks for it. Want some cash, Greece? How's $25 billion sound? Need to build something, Morocco? Build a thousand of 'em, here's a million. Got problems, Nepal? Oh yeah don't we all, let's see what forty mill will do for ya. Surprise me. It is a well known fact that the US spends, like, what, at least 10% of our federal budget on foreign aid every year? Maybe even 20 or 30%, I don't know. It's just probably a lot. And what do we get for it? Nothing but nothing. It's time America got what's hers.
That's why I'm happy the GOP presidential candidates are finally standing up for fiscal responsibility. I appreciated it when Rick Perry stated that every year the foreign aid budget would start at $0. And I loved it when Bachmann demanded a song and dance from every ambassador requesting assistance while she would use the ambassador's attache as a foot stool. Gingrich's statement that he would respond to every aid request with, "explain to me why I should give you a single m---- f----- penny," was the kind of frank diplomacy we need in the world. That's always been the whole problem. We just give these guys a blank check, have them fill in the zeros, and then never talk to them again until the following year's aid dispensation party.
It would be one thing if these countries helped us out by, like, assisting with our antiterrorism efforts or making peace deals and cooperating with Israel, or even if doing good deeds like eradicating infectious disease was still it's own reward, but that's not happening and it's not. Pakistan hasn't arrested a single terrorist and I'm pretty sure their army and the Taliban probably totally hang out and watch cricket together on the weekend all the time. Plus as Senator Santorum pointed out, "if we solve all the world's problems then they'll never learn to solve them themselves. As the saying goes: If you give a man a fish he'll eat for a day; if you teach a man to fish he'll eat for a lifetime. And then cripple your domestic fishing industry so we probably shouldn't do that either." Plus it's not like the world's got a monopoly on poverty. I only make $32,000 a year breaking my back, putting in long hours. I don't even take all my sick days! I know as an American what's poor here ain't poor everywhere, but I bet that's not too far from the global average. I imagine I could kick back and watch a game with some dude in Ubeki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan while we share a few Buds.
Diplomacy isn't easy, but it ain't rocket science. Until we can get everyone to finally start wearing their "friend" and "enemy" badges liked we've asked -- and get them to stop trading the damn things around -- we should at the very least demand an accounting for our charity. And a return on investment. With a nice letter of thanks. And maybe a gift basket. Containing the hand written thank you notes of children and the drilling rights to offshore oil deposits. Just a small token of appreciation with cash value equal to or greater than that which we have so freely given.
In other news, despite the American public's perception that around 25% of the federal budget goes to foreign aid in fact only about 1% ($37 billion FY 2010) does which is less than the approximately 5% ($185 billion FY 2010) of the federal budget spent annually on national debt interest. Although a little over $1.5 billion went to Egypt last year, $4.2 billion was spent on assistance for refugee populations and $9.8 billion was spent on the President's Global Health Initiative started by former President Bush to help combat HIV and other infectious diseases in developing nations. The median US income in 2007 was $25,076 and placed one in the top 10% of global wage earners. Justin Bieber is set to marry Kim Kardashian in next year's wedding of the century.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Doctor I Have a Disease I Just Invented
The first few weeks of fellowship I saw a fair amount of Lyme disease which, being from Texas, was like a cool, exotic infection I'd only previously read about. Neat. The last few weeks of fellowship, however, I've been seeing a lot of chronic Lyme disease which, being a made up condition, has made me accordingly increasingly sad.
There are a lot of unfortunate, difficult to treat diseases that exist in the world: dementia, sciatica, fibromyalgia, the crazies; but for the most part there's little debate whether these are true disorders or not. Whether you believe the primary problem in management is organic or more pyschosocial isn't so important as in either case you can at the very least categorize it, label it, and provide a foundation upon which you can work with your patient. Fibromyalgia, the wackiest of them all, even has research proven therapies which can help, sort of, if anyone would ever cooperate with a physician's recommendations. Chronic lyme disease, on the other hand, is a disease that in all reality doesn't even exist. There is in fact no such thing as chronic Lyme. The patient may as well just tell me a woodland fairy placed a curse on them so I could at the very least reply with, "that's impossible. Woodland fairies don't know any curses. Only marsh fairies cast spells. Jeez." Instead I am left with either "get out of my office," or "interesting, tell me what's been going on."
The clinic appointments for these unfortunate souls inevitably becomes an endless list of various, mostly subjective complaints followed by a review of systems I wish I didn't have to go through. Everyone's abdomen will be tender. Everyone's joints sore. Everyone's blood work and imaging are completely normal. Sometimes they are at the very least a little creative with their complaints -- something I do appreciate -- but even if you can get a patient to admit that a particular symptom is getting better it is often quickly pointed out that it's only because it's about to get much, much worse. "Blue tongue you say? It doesn't look blue now." "Yes well it's not blue today." "So it's getting better?" "No! Why would you say such a thing?!" The worst part inevitably comes at the end when I must decide how I want to tell them they're full of it. Despite various approaches I have yet to find the reply that yields a grateful smile and gratitude for the visit. I am finding it is often enough easiest just to defer the conversation to my staff -- who I have to discuss the case with regardless -- who with his years of experience can tell patients there's nothing we can do for them in a very polite, scholarly, and time efficient manner.
If it weren't for the fact that most these people are otherwise good folks who are eagerly trying to figure out why they feel like crap literally all the time it would just be perversely funny. Because of their various personality disorders and tendency to believe whatever lunatic site they found on the internet over a trained specialist who can explain to them why chronic Lyme is nothing more than heavy metal induced insanity, however, I can often only extend so much sympathy. In the end the best solution may just be to give them what they typically want: an endless supply of medicine. That's why I am actively working on a cure with the Willy Wonka Pharmaceutical Company. We hope to have a twelve month supply of prescription strength Sweet Tarts Lyme Zapper! ready to go by winter. Due to the unforeseen tastiness of the cherry and green apple formulations leading to production shortfalls, however, it'll initially only be available in grape. Thankfully that's the strongest flavor. Unfortunately it's also the most expensive. And the kind that gives them cancer; I read it on the internet.
There are a lot of unfortunate, difficult to treat diseases that exist in the world: dementia, sciatica, fibromyalgia, the crazies; but for the most part there's little debate whether these are true disorders or not. Whether you believe the primary problem in management is organic or more pyschosocial isn't so important as in either case you can at the very least categorize it, label it, and provide a foundation upon which you can work with your patient. Fibromyalgia, the wackiest of them all, even has research proven therapies which can help, sort of, if anyone would ever cooperate with a physician's recommendations. Chronic lyme disease, on the other hand, is a disease that in all reality doesn't even exist. There is in fact no such thing as chronic Lyme. The patient may as well just tell me a woodland fairy placed a curse on them so I could at the very least reply with, "that's impossible. Woodland fairies don't know any curses. Only marsh fairies cast spells. Jeez." Instead I am left with either "get out of my office," or "interesting, tell me what's been going on."
The clinic appointments for these unfortunate souls inevitably becomes an endless list of various, mostly subjective complaints followed by a review of systems I wish I didn't have to go through. Everyone's abdomen will be tender. Everyone's joints sore. Everyone's blood work and imaging are completely normal. Sometimes they are at the very least a little creative with their complaints -- something I do appreciate -- but even if you can get a patient to admit that a particular symptom is getting better it is often quickly pointed out that it's only because it's about to get much, much worse. "Blue tongue you say? It doesn't look blue now." "Yes well it's not blue today." "So it's getting better?" "No! Why would you say such a thing?!" The worst part inevitably comes at the end when I must decide how I want to tell them they're full of it. Despite various approaches I have yet to find the reply that yields a grateful smile and gratitude for the visit. I am finding it is often enough easiest just to defer the conversation to my staff -- who I have to discuss the case with regardless -- who with his years of experience can tell patients there's nothing we can do for them in a very polite, scholarly, and time efficient manner.
If it weren't for the fact that most these people are otherwise good folks who are eagerly trying to figure out why they feel like crap literally all the time it would just be perversely funny. Because of their various personality disorders and tendency to believe whatever lunatic site they found on the internet over a trained specialist who can explain to them why chronic Lyme is nothing more than heavy metal induced insanity, however, I can often only extend so much sympathy. In the end the best solution may just be to give them what they typically want: an endless supply of medicine. That's why I am actively working on a cure with the Willy Wonka Pharmaceutical Company. We hope to have a twelve month supply of prescription strength Sweet Tarts Lyme Zapper! ready to go by winter. Due to the unforeseen tastiness of the cherry and green apple formulations leading to production shortfalls, however, it'll initially only be available in grape. Thankfully that's the strongest flavor. Unfortunately it's also the most expensive. And the kind that gives them cancer; I read it on the internet.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
I'll Save You!
About a year ago I partook in the military's Combat Casualty Care Course also known as "C4." A week long academic and field training course designed to prepare us for combat medical care as it is provided in the first and lowest echelons of care from the battlefield itself to the first triage and staging areas such as the Forward Operating Base (FOB). In summary: it was cold. The rest of the details I may or may not eventually get to later, but first a story.
Much of our practical field training consisted of forming up in our platoons (see below) and undergoing marches which would take us into various situations where invariably someone's legs would be blown off. Each platoon was broken down into four security teams (X1-4) which provided security and two litter teams (L1 and L2) which provided the actual medical care, collected blown off limbs, and carried the stretchers. All teams had individual leaders (marked by *.) The entire platoon itself was additionally headed by a platoon leader (P). A march would begin in two columns with two security teams in the back and two in the front, the litter teams dispersed somewhere in the middle. It would inevitably end with the litter teams running about in varying degrees of order or chaos while the security teams provided some degree of perimeter cover -- or, as in this last case, just watched the mayhem with an amused curiosity. The missions always changed in detail, but they always consisted of a march to an objective, an attack by our various training instructors (TIs) on the platoon, and people getting their legs blown off.
Much of our practical field training consisted of forming up in our platoons (see below) and undergoing marches which would take us into various situations where invariably someone's legs would be blown off. Each platoon was broken down into four security teams (X1-4) which provided security and two litter teams (L1 and L2) which provided the actual medical care, collected blown off limbs, and carried the stretchers. All teams had individual leaders (marked by *.) The entire platoon itself was additionally headed by a platoon leader (P). A march would begin in two columns with two security teams in the back and two in the front, the litter teams dispersed somewhere in the middle. It would inevitably end with the litter teams running about in varying degrees of order or chaos while the security teams provided some degree of perimeter cover -- or, as in this last case, just watched the mayhem with an amused curiosity. The missions always changed in detail, but they always consisted of a march to an objective, an attack by our various training instructors (TIs) on the platoon, and people getting their legs blown off.
X1 X1 X1 X1* L1 L1 L1 L1* X2 X2 X2 X2*
P
X3 X3 X3 X3* L2 L2 L2 L2* X4 X4 X4 X4*
Two columns of two security teams and a litter team each form a platoon. Or a bunch of random letters.
P
X3 X3 X3 X3* L2 L2 L2 L2* X4 X4 X4 X4*
Two columns of two security teams and a litter team each form a platoon. Or a bunch of random letters.
After the initial orientation and a few dry runs where we mostly just stared at each other in confusion, the majority of our exercises went off relatively well. The first where I was leader of litter team one was uncomplicated thanks to my impeccable leadership skills and, more likely, simple luck and good fortune. The latter exercises also went off without too many casualties save one surgical intern who had a helmet dropped on her head after stepping on a land mine. The helmet was real, the mine just covered her entire left side in red dust which would never come off. Our second mission, however, was a colossal failure, but for those who were there watching it all unfold as part of the perimeter security teams -- of which I was one of them -- it was like staring at a slow moving, never ending train wreck of comedic folly.
The mission as described was to find a downed C130, locate casualties, secure the scene, and evacuate the wounded. Pretty straightforward it sounds, but not so much in action. At least for us. After a short march we reached our designated stop point where our reconnaissance team was sent to evaluate the scene. After returning with the information of what they saw the team leaders and platoon leader collectively deliberated for a number of minutes before coming up with the simple plan of sending the two front security teams to secure the perimeter alone while everyone else just sat back and waited. That was it. No more plan than that. Not surprisingly it all started to fall apart when 5-10 minutes later we began to hear gunfire and explosions about a half mile down the trail where our forward security teams had so nobly previously wandered off to.
Not having any contingency plan for what to do in case of explosion we briefly fell back to the tried and true action of staring at each other in confusion for a few seconds before we all made the collective decision to simply get up and run as fast as we could towards the scene of the action. So off we ran, all sixteen of us in two rear security teams and two litter teams and all in various states of disarray, not entirely sure where exactly we were going or what we were to do when we got there.
We arrived to find a half erected security perimeter set up around a lightly smoking C130 and a few ramshackle cement houses all surrounded by the scrubby trees and dust which make up the majority of south Texas. Carrying only our plastic rifles, canteens, and the same Kevlar helmets and flack jackets that everyone else had, my rear security team passed by the column's litter team in an attempt to complete the half ass parameter that was already in place before they got there. This placed me immediately adjacent to the C130 and privy to all the action which was about to unfold.
The litter teams arrived shortly after we did to what was still a relatively unexciting scene of smoke, sound effects, and people lying around with rifles staring off into the trees pretending to provide cover. One litter team diverted off into a gully on the left to assist some wounded there while my column's litter team headed directly to the right to the downed C130 where, presumably, the bulk of the wounded would be waiting. This latter team, litter team 1, was composed of a motley crew of four: one young, fit, and tall male Army nurse; one young, fit, and tiny female Navy nurse; one older, overweight, and enthusiastic Army physician assistant (PA); and one very old, very huge, and very Colombian Army nurse. Together they approached the smoking aircraft in a disorganized run, but whereas most the team slowed on approach, the PA ran full steam ahead into the back of the craft GI Joe style yelling a heroic, "I'll save you!" This was followed by a loud bang from deep inside the dark aircraft and all went silent.
"I've been shot!"
"Who is it? Where are you?"
"It's me! I've been shot in the chest!"
"How do we know it's you? .... Who won the 2007 Super Bowl?"
"How the fuck would I know! Come get me out of here!"
So went the back and forth between the faceless voice in the front of the blackened plane and the skeptical litter team waiting reluctantly outside the ramp doors of the back of the craft. Finally, either sufficiently persuaded or for lack of anything they could think of better to do, they decided to go in after him.
*BOOM!*
Immediately after their collective decision to enter the C130 the two hundred pound Colombian Army nurse stepped on a land mind placed right outside the plane and was out of action. Within just a few minutes litter team one was down from four medics to two.
"Ahhh! My leg! I lost my leg!" screamed the Colombian clearly enjoying the opportunity to pretend to be wounded as he rolled around the loading ramp of the airplane. His comrades attended to him and began applying tourniquets as taught while he continued to thrash about as imaginary blood loss led to imaginary hysteria. Their task was not made any easier by an impressive size differential as the remaining medics had over a one foot and hundred pound size differential between them. The platoon leader who had been supervising attempted to instruct them towards cover while simultaneously seeking assistance from litter team two who had just recently secured their wounded in the gully. He had mixed results.
Treated but still lying exposed outside the airplane, the bulging Colombian Army nurse was left to wait while the two man litter team one went back into the smoking darkness to retrieve the rest of the injured. The explosions around the landing zone had mostly tapered off by this point, but the sporadic gunfire and incessant yelling from the TIs who offered mostly unproductive or entirely terrible advice continued. The platoon leader continued to shout instructions most of which were either unheard or unheaded. Around this time litter team two came to assist. Not sure of what was going on exactly and hesistant to act they loitered outside the plane.
*Crack!* *Crack!* *Crack!*
Fed up with the chaos and clear lack of command and control, the TIs decided to add to the situation by having one of the newly arrived litter team's legs shot out. Counting the PA still in the front of the plane, the Army nurse bandaged and bleeding outside the plane, and three more disfigured mannequins in the plane itself there were now more wounded than medics. What order there had been completely fell apart as the medics attempted to carry, drag, and pull whatever wounded they could to any semblance of cover available. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that the inside of the cargo jet had been heavily coated with fake blood for the fake bodies. When the medics emerged they would as often as not be covered in as much or more blood than the mannequins themselves, and frequent stops were necessary to reposition and regrip the slippery wounded. The inability to effectively move the heavily lubricated mannequins eventually earned them the term of endearment, "greasy Ken dolls." One more land mine went off, and the mission was over.
The post-mission debriefing was an unhappy and frustrated attempt to explain what exactly went wrong -- essentially everything it turned out -- and what could have been done better -- maybe not step on so many land mines? It was an excellent example of how not to execute a rescue mission which was not too much of a surprise considering none of us had ever done anything at all like it before. I'm not entirely sure if I was supposed to leave my post on security to assist with the moving of bodies, but it likely would have just led to my legs getting blown off. In either case it was an amusing story since in the end we all kept all of our limbs. "I'll save you!" became the catch phrase for our platoon and the battle cry for all further field training during the course.Thankfully no further mannequins had to lose their lives in rest of training.
The mission as described was to find a downed C130, locate casualties, secure the scene, and evacuate the wounded. Pretty straightforward it sounds, but not so much in action. At least for us. After a short march we reached our designated stop point where our reconnaissance team was sent to evaluate the scene. After returning with the information of what they saw the team leaders and platoon leader collectively deliberated for a number of minutes before coming up with the simple plan of sending the two front security teams to secure the perimeter alone while everyone else just sat back and waited. That was it. No more plan than that. Not surprisingly it all started to fall apart when 5-10 minutes later we began to hear gunfire and explosions about a half mile down the trail where our forward security teams had so nobly previously wandered off to.
Not having any contingency plan for what to do in case of explosion we briefly fell back to the tried and true action of staring at each other in confusion for a few seconds before we all made the collective decision to simply get up and run as fast as we could towards the scene of the action. So off we ran, all sixteen of us in two rear security teams and two litter teams and all in various states of disarray, not entirely sure where exactly we were going or what we were to do when we got there.
We arrived to find a half erected security perimeter set up around a lightly smoking C130 and a few ramshackle cement houses all surrounded by the scrubby trees and dust which make up the majority of south Texas. Carrying only our plastic rifles, canteens, and the same Kevlar helmets and flack jackets that everyone else had, my rear security team passed by the column's litter team in an attempt to complete the half ass parameter that was already in place before they got there. This placed me immediately adjacent to the C130 and privy to all the action which was about to unfold.
The litter teams arrived shortly after we did to what was still a relatively unexciting scene of smoke, sound effects, and people lying around with rifles staring off into the trees pretending to provide cover. One litter team diverted off into a gully on the left to assist some wounded there while my column's litter team headed directly to the right to the downed C130 where, presumably, the bulk of the wounded would be waiting. This latter team, litter team 1, was composed of a motley crew of four: one young, fit, and tall male Army nurse; one young, fit, and tiny female Navy nurse; one older, overweight, and enthusiastic Army physician assistant (PA); and one very old, very huge, and very Colombian Army nurse. Together they approached the smoking aircraft in a disorganized run, but whereas most the team slowed on approach, the PA ran full steam ahead into the back of the craft GI Joe style yelling a heroic, "I'll save you!" This was followed by a loud bang from deep inside the dark aircraft and all went silent.
"I've been shot!"
"Who is it? Where are you?"
"It's me! I've been shot in the chest!"
"How do we know it's you? .... Who won the 2007 Super Bowl?"
"How the fuck would I know! Come get me out of here!"
So went the back and forth between the faceless voice in the front of the blackened plane and the skeptical litter team waiting reluctantly outside the ramp doors of the back of the craft. Finally, either sufficiently persuaded or for lack of anything they could think of better to do, they decided to go in after him.
*BOOM!*
Immediately after their collective decision to enter the C130 the two hundred pound Colombian Army nurse stepped on a land mind placed right outside the plane and was out of action. Within just a few minutes litter team one was down from four medics to two.
"Ahhh! My leg! I lost my leg!" screamed the Colombian clearly enjoying the opportunity to pretend to be wounded as he rolled around the loading ramp of the airplane. His comrades attended to him and began applying tourniquets as taught while he continued to thrash about as imaginary blood loss led to imaginary hysteria. Their task was not made any easier by an impressive size differential as the remaining medics had over a one foot and hundred pound size differential between them. The platoon leader who had been supervising attempted to instruct them towards cover while simultaneously seeking assistance from litter team two who had just recently secured their wounded in the gully. He had mixed results.
Treated but still lying exposed outside the airplane, the bulging Colombian Army nurse was left to wait while the two man litter team one went back into the smoking darkness to retrieve the rest of the injured. The explosions around the landing zone had mostly tapered off by this point, but the sporadic gunfire and incessant yelling from the TIs who offered mostly unproductive or entirely terrible advice continued. The platoon leader continued to shout instructions most of which were either unheard or unheaded. Around this time litter team two came to assist. Not sure of what was going on exactly and hesistant to act they loitered outside the plane.
*Crack!* *Crack!* *Crack!*
Fed up with the chaos and clear lack of command and control, the TIs decided to add to the situation by having one of the newly arrived litter team's legs shot out. Counting the PA still in the front of the plane, the Army nurse bandaged and bleeding outside the plane, and three more disfigured mannequins in the plane itself there were now more wounded than medics. What order there had been completely fell apart as the medics attempted to carry, drag, and pull whatever wounded they could to any semblance of cover available. This was made all the more difficult by the fact that the inside of the cargo jet had been heavily coated with fake blood for the fake bodies. When the medics emerged they would as often as not be covered in as much or more blood than the mannequins themselves, and frequent stops were necessary to reposition and regrip the slippery wounded. The inability to effectively move the heavily lubricated mannequins eventually earned them the term of endearment, "greasy Ken dolls." One more land mine went off, and the mission was over.
The post-mission debriefing was an unhappy and frustrated attempt to explain what exactly went wrong -- essentially everything it turned out -- and what could have been done better -- maybe not step on so many land mines? It was an excellent example of how not to execute a rescue mission which was not too much of a surprise considering none of us had ever done anything at all like it before. I'm not entirely sure if I was supposed to leave my post on security to assist with the moving of bodies, but it likely would have just led to my legs getting blown off. In either case it was an amusing story since in the end we all kept all of our limbs. "I'll save you!" became the catch phrase for our platoon and the battle cry for all further field training during the course.Thankfully no further mannequins had to lose their lives in rest of training.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Uhoh!
Two weeks ago my parents came for a visit. Just a few days ago they left. I'm still finding random objects left behind. Whether to call them gifts or not varies depending on the object. Today's gift: two umbrellas in my closet! Awesome, I've been needing an umbrella for oh... about four months now? The black and white checkered dress shirt distinctly suggestive of a picnic table cloth on the other hand I thought I had disposed of before they left.
Their visit though somewhat lengthy by the standard of most visits to small town, middle of nowhere, went surprisingly well. There was the requisite major family argument about whether or not the October Nor'easter was going to end life as we knew it on the Eastern seaboard or not, but that aside it was a remarkably pleasant two weeks. Much of it was spent watching a great if not eventually disappointing World Series or making trips back and forth from Price Chopper with various things to stick in my fridge. Such as a six pack of Romaine lettuce heads which I will hold onto until the gigantic-salad-composed-of-nothing-but-lettuce craving kicks in. And when it does I will have two different flavors of salad dressing to chose from. Or A1 steak sauce. Or Worcestershire sauce.Or an industrial sized bottle of ketchup.
The rest of the trip was divided amongst road trips to Woodstock, VT; Burlington, VT; and Seacoast, NH. The only one of these worthy of note was the last as it was both scenic and complete with a trip to Markey's Lobster Pound where my parents reminisced about their prior visit some twenty years before by eating the largest lobsters they could find. My dad even somehow managed to come away with some vintage postcards from the time of their visit and a coastal New England restaurant guide all complements of Mr Markey who they chatted up as they are want to do. Woodstock and Burlington on the other hand, are worthy places to visit only if you have no other places worthy to visit.
Other highlights of the trip include my mom cleaning my apartment to a level of cleanliness it will likely never see again; my dad bumping, kicking, and karate chopping my coffee table sufficiently till one of the wooden rails broke off; and an early Christmas present consisting of a huge, new, flat screen television complete with swanky new stand which I am still not entirely sure what to make of. I think overall they had a pretty good time; I know for the most part I did. And I hope to eventually one day stop finding new bath towels in my cupboards, closets, and washing machine. Until then I gotta find a way to dispose of a dozen bagels and a half dozen apples before they go bad. Someone may be getting a pretty unique gift basket in the next few days here.
Their visit though somewhat lengthy by the standard of most visits to small town, middle of nowhere, went surprisingly well. There was the requisite major family argument about whether or not the October Nor'easter was going to end life as we knew it on the Eastern seaboard or not, but that aside it was a remarkably pleasant two weeks. Much of it was spent watching a great if not eventually disappointing World Series or making trips back and forth from Price Chopper with various things to stick in my fridge. Such as a six pack of Romaine lettuce heads which I will hold onto until the gigantic-salad-composed-of-nothing-but-lettuce craving kicks in. And when it does I will have two different flavors of salad dressing to chose from. Or A1 steak sauce. Or Worcestershire sauce.Or an industrial sized bottle of ketchup.
The rest of the trip was divided amongst road trips to Woodstock, VT; Burlington, VT; and Seacoast, NH. The only one of these worthy of note was the last as it was both scenic and complete with a trip to Markey's Lobster Pound where my parents reminisced about their prior visit some twenty years before by eating the largest lobsters they could find. My dad even somehow managed to come away with some vintage postcards from the time of their visit and a coastal New England restaurant guide all complements of Mr Markey who they chatted up as they are want to do. Woodstock and Burlington on the other hand, are worthy places to visit only if you have no other places worthy to visit.
Other highlights of the trip include my mom cleaning my apartment to a level of cleanliness it will likely never see again; my dad bumping, kicking, and karate chopping my coffee table sufficiently till one of the wooden rails broke off; and an early Christmas present consisting of a huge, new, flat screen television complete with swanky new stand which I am still not entirely sure what to make of. I think overall they had a pretty good time; I know for the most part I did. And I hope to eventually one day stop finding new bath towels in my cupboards, closets, and washing machine. Until then I gotta find a way to dispose of a dozen bagels and a half dozen apples before they go bad. Someone may be getting a pretty unique gift basket in the next few days here.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Everyday is Beautiful
Just about every day in New Hampshire is beautiful. Surprisingly, physically beautiful. Rarely does a day go by that I am not in some small way amazed by the natural appeal of the state. For the first couple of months I felt like I was at summer camp minus the frito pie. Now that the snow has come it's starting to feel more like the Mongolian Steppe, but I hear the Mongolian Steppe is lovely this time of year. In either case I still take great joy in daily looking at the San Antonio weather forecast, and smiling that it ain't super sweaty outside.
Here are some pictures of some colorful trees.
Here are some pictures of some colorful trees.
Monday, October 24, 2011
A Few Random Photos
A random assortment of pictures.
This is my apartment. As you can see it looks like every other apartment that has ever been mass produced in the standardized manner. You can tell my generic apartment apart from the others because it of all the dirt outside and the paneling which is a creamy beige, not the usual creamy toap. If you are wondering what the inside looks like, just think of your standard apartment and then put my stuff in it. It's really pretty boring.
A storm is a brewing! Long before Irene there were regular rain storms. They sometimes looked like this.
Here's the road and bike path leading up to the hospital which is, as so many things are up here, obscured by trees. Although I do not take this road to the hospital myself, it is the best looking of all commuting road options. Plus one day while biking it I saw a woodchuck running along the path. A gigantic woodchuck.
This is my apartment. As you can see it looks like every other apartment that has ever been mass produced in the standardized manner. You can tell my generic apartment apart from the others because it of all the dirt outside and the paneling which is a creamy beige, not the usual creamy toap. If you are wondering what the inside looks like, just think of your standard apartment and then put my stuff in it. It's really pretty boring.
A storm is a brewing! Long before Irene there were regular rain storms. They sometimes looked like this.
Here's the road and bike path leading up to the hospital which is, as so many things are up here, obscured by trees. Although I do not take this road to the hospital myself, it is the best looking of all commuting road options. Plus one day while biking it I saw a woodchuck running along the path. A gigantic woodchuck.
This is where I imagine the giant woodchuck lived. On a giant rock in one of the scenic clearings you can find mountain biking the wilderness.
This is just a picture of Megan running with sparklers on the Fourth of July. What could be better than two sparklers at once? Truly she is a lucky girl.
The road to my apartment. Old, cracked, and a major black bear thoroughfare.
The parking lot outside my apartment. Usually there're a lot more turkeys.
Here's comes the wintertime! And a frozen solid automobile.
And in conclusion here's a link!
When Casual Goes Amok
Boots and brown uniform or shiny shoes and blue uniform. Simple. Back when I was an Air Force resident I never had to decide what to wear, just had to make sure it was clean to wear it. Considering dress clothes are little more than expensive, uncomfortable ways of letting other people know how much money you make, I did not mind this situation. Now, however, I am a civilian and being a civilian physician I am also a professional. Time to don a wider variety of shiny shoes and an endless combination of pressed shirts, ironed slacks, and variably colored ties in order to instill confidence in my patients and trust in my medical decision making. A few hundred dollars later, I do not care for it.
Thankfully due to the inherent infection risks involved with ties doubling as improvised germ swabs, ties are optional and I have opted out. My wardrobe is thus about as comfortable as the uniforms I used to wear. The thought of paying $2 a shirt for a wash and ironing to maintain this wardrobe remains ridiculous to me, but I have accepted this reality and in reality it is better than the equally ridiculous alternative of wasting time doing it myself. The problem lies not directly in the wearing and caring for the clothes themselves, but in deciding which clothes to wear.
Being an infectious disease fellow I am compelled to do other things than just take care of patients and trend their blood sugars. I've got to research in order to maintain my infectious disease street cred. Traditionally this involves absolutely no patient contact, and considering our fellows' office is windowless it currently doesn't even involve human contact. I just sit in my room, in front of my computer, and make research magic. Occasionally if I'm feeling adventurous, or losing my mind from sitting all day in a windowless room, I will take my computer to a study area on the eight floor, but even there I don't interact with any human beings in any official capacity. One would think, therefore, that I could perhaps dress casually for such a job. Maybe try to make myself comfortable for something that is inherently tedious and uncomfortable. And one would be wrong.
Not entirely sure what the reaction would be I tried to slowly ease into a more casual form of dress. First I ditched the pressed shirts for generic collared shirts. Then the slacks for run-of-the-mill khakis. And, finally, khakis for jeans and tennis shoes. That's apparently when I got greedy. Based on the numbered of bewildered responses and frequency of exasperated double takes I had gone too far. Research casual, it turns out, ends somewhere between a casual pair of Dockers and a dress shirt with its sleeves torn off. Maybe corduroy pants and a bolo tie would be ok, I don't know. In either case after about the seventh startled, "oh, jeans!" I decided to return to the khakis and collared shirt look just to stay in good standing. Perhaps when I get enough publications under my name I can dust off the ball cap and sport coat look. Just in case I'm feeling a little douchey.
Thankfully due to the inherent infection risks involved with ties doubling as improvised germ swabs, ties are optional and I have opted out. My wardrobe is thus about as comfortable as the uniforms I used to wear. The thought of paying $2 a shirt for a wash and ironing to maintain this wardrobe remains ridiculous to me, but I have accepted this reality and in reality it is better than the equally ridiculous alternative of wasting time doing it myself. The problem lies not directly in the wearing and caring for the clothes themselves, but in deciding which clothes to wear.
Being an infectious disease fellow I am compelled to do other things than just take care of patients and trend their blood sugars. I've got to research in order to maintain my infectious disease street cred. Traditionally this involves absolutely no patient contact, and considering our fellows' office is windowless it currently doesn't even involve human contact. I just sit in my room, in front of my computer, and make research magic. Occasionally if I'm feeling adventurous, or losing my mind from sitting all day in a windowless room, I will take my computer to a study area on the eight floor, but even there I don't interact with any human beings in any official capacity. One would think, therefore, that I could perhaps dress casually for such a job. Maybe try to make myself comfortable for something that is inherently tedious and uncomfortable. And one would be wrong.
Not entirely sure what the reaction would be I tried to slowly ease into a more casual form of dress. First I ditched the pressed shirts for generic collared shirts. Then the slacks for run-of-the-mill khakis. And, finally, khakis for jeans and tennis shoes. That's apparently when I got greedy. Based on the numbered of bewildered responses and frequency of exasperated double takes I had gone too far. Research casual, it turns out, ends somewhere between a casual pair of Dockers and a dress shirt with its sleeves torn off. Maybe corduroy pants and a bolo tie would be ok, I don't know. In either case after about the seventh startled, "oh, jeans!" I decided to return to the khakis and collared shirt look just to stay in good standing. Perhaps when I get enough publications under my name I can dust off the ball cap and sport coat look. Just in case I'm feeling a little douchey.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Amazing Race for the Amazing Race
This week the Amazing Race started, one of the few television programs I've ever cared to remember to watch. Although never truly as good as the one, single season of Amazing Race: Family Edition, the Amazing Race: Vanilla is still a pretty good time. Especially if you enjoy strangers yelling at each other in taxi cabs. This series' first episode was relatively unremarkable, but I imagine it achieved what it meant to -- that being to identify the snowboarding dudes as dudes, the cocktail waitresses as bimbos, the grandparents as slightly senile grandparents, the Survivor couple as scheming soon to be scoundrels, the male flight attendants as the token gay couple, and the twins, apparently, as not having memories that can last longer than thirty seconds. I imagine the climax of the season will be when either of the brother-sister duo runs the other over in their brand new, special edition 2012 Ford Focus.
The episode reminded me, however, of a friend and I's amazing race last spring in an attempt to have the most amazing movie marathon ever: an Amazing Race amazing movie marathon. What could be better than spending a whole day watching a whole season of Amazing Race? The answer is a whole lot of things, but in San Antonio not much. Being the master planner of this party I was assigned the task of obtaining the videos, and so I devised a plan.
Plan A: Go to Blockbuster and rent it.
Genius in its simplicity. Unfortunately no Blockbuster admitted on their website to owning any Amazing Race DVDs in the entire San Antonio area, and sure enough none of them actually owned them when I visited their stores and demand they show me where they kept them. Blockbuster does own a surprisingly large number of Firefly copies, however, which is why I imagine they went into bankruptcy.
Plan B: Go to another movie rental chain and rent it.
Very similar to Plan A, Plan B was different in that it involved going to other movie rental chains. Not surprisingly it too failed. People do not want to watch Amazing Race in South Texas. Not when there's sweet Tejano music weekly at El Mercado at least! Seriously, what can compete with an accordion?
Plan C: Go to any other store I can think of and buy it.
This plan was admittedly devised on the fly while driving about in my fruitless pursuits of Plans A and B. I visited two separate Best Buys, a Walmart, a Target, and even a used booked store which for whatever reason also sold movies. The end result was no Amazing Race, but a decent book on the Soviet Union's war in Afghanistan and, somehow, a 2000 piece puzzle of a castle in Germany.
Plan D: Use NetFlix to rent the series.
Brilliant idea in that NetFlix has multiple seasons of Amazing Race for rental. Terrible idea in that you can only rent one of 3 or 4 DVDs in a season at a time. Not ideal for a one day marathon. Aborted.
Plan E: Use NetFlix streaming video via Laura's giant television.
Laura has a gigantic television. Its size is measured in yards and the weight of it has ruined the foundation on that side of her house. Assuredly inside of all that plastic and hardware there would be a means of connecting directly to the Internet. There was not.
Plan F: Use NetFlix streaming video via Paul and Rachel's Nintendo Wii.
Easy to obtain. Easy to hook up. Already wasted a whole heck of a lot of time previously setting up a NetFlix account for Plans D and E. It seemed pretty flawless to me. It was at this time that we noticed NetFlix does not stream any of the Amazing Race series over its streaming video.
Plan G: Screw it. Let's watch The Pacific instead.
Around back up plans five or six is generally when I consider giving up, and so way gave up after Plan F. Clearly someone, divine or otherwise, did not want us to have an Amazing Race marathon. It likely would have been too amazing. There probably wouldn't have been anywhere to go after that and the rest of our lives would have been lived in listless boredom and indifference knowing our best day was already in our past. In either case we watched The Pacific instead and it was confusing. Too many guys with dark brown hair and average height. Thankfully most of the difficult to tell apart characters got killed off early in the series so by the end I had some idea what was going on. It turns out the war with Japan was rather wet. Or at least that's what I believe the take home message was.
Our amazing race ended in failure, but in the process I learned a lot about Laura and together we learned a lot about ourselves. We didn't win the grand prize, but what we lost we more than made up for in friendship. I wouldn't have run the race with anyone else. Mostly because no one else has a love for the show and a gigantic TV. But also because of the friendship. It is its own reward, especially when you don't have a real reward. Or a television movie marathon to watch.
The episode reminded me, however, of a friend and I's amazing race last spring in an attempt to have the most amazing movie marathon ever: an Amazing Race amazing movie marathon. What could be better than spending a whole day watching a whole season of Amazing Race? The answer is a whole lot of things, but in San Antonio not much. Being the master planner of this party I was assigned the task of obtaining the videos, and so I devised a plan.
Plan A: Go to Blockbuster and rent it.
Genius in its simplicity. Unfortunately no Blockbuster admitted on their website to owning any Amazing Race DVDs in the entire San Antonio area, and sure enough none of them actually owned them when I visited their stores and demand they show me where they kept them. Blockbuster does own a surprisingly large number of Firefly copies, however, which is why I imagine they went into bankruptcy.
Plan B: Go to another movie rental chain and rent it.
Very similar to Plan A, Plan B was different in that it involved going to other movie rental chains. Not surprisingly it too failed. People do not want to watch Amazing Race in South Texas. Not when there's sweet Tejano music weekly at El Mercado at least! Seriously, what can compete with an accordion?
Plan C: Go to any other store I can think of and buy it.
This plan was admittedly devised on the fly while driving about in my fruitless pursuits of Plans A and B. I visited two separate Best Buys, a Walmart, a Target, and even a used booked store which for whatever reason also sold movies. The end result was no Amazing Race, but a decent book on the Soviet Union's war in Afghanistan and, somehow, a 2000 piece puzzle of a castle in Germany.
Plan D: Use NetFlix to rent the series.
Brilliant idea in that NetFlix has multiple seasons of Amazing Race for rental. Terrible idea in that you can only rent one of 3 or 4 DVDs in a season at a time. Not ideal for a one day marathon. Aborted.
Plan E: Use NetFlix streaming video via Laura's giant television.
Laura has a gigantic television. Its size is measured in yards and the weight of it has ruined the foundation on that side of her house. Assuredly inside of all that plastic and hardware there would be a means of connecting directly to the Internet. There was not.
Plan F: Use NetFlix streaming video via Paul and Rachel's Nintendo Wii.
Easy to obtain. Easy to hook up. Already wasted a whole heck of a lot of time previously setting up a NetFlix account for Plans D and E. It seemed pretty flawless to me. It was at this time that we noticed NetFlix does not stream any of the Amazing Race series over its streaming video.
Plan G: Screw it. Let's watch The Pacific instead.
Around back up plans five or six is generally when I consider giving up, and so way gave up after Plan F. Clearly someone, divine or otherwise, did not want us to have an Amazing Race marathon. It likely would have been too amazing. There probably wouldn't have been anywhere to go after that and the rest of our lives would have been lived in listless boredom and indifference knowing our best day was already in our past. In either case we watched The Pacific instead and it was confusing. Too many guys with dark brown hair and average height. Thankfully most of the difficult to tell apart characters got killed off early in the series so by the end I had some idea what was going on. It turns out the war with Japan was rather wet. Or at least that's what I believe the take home message was.
Our amazing race ended in failure, but in the process I learned a lot about Laura and together we learned a lot about ourselves. We didn't win the grand prize, but what we lost we more than made up for in friendship. I wouldn't have run the race with anyone else. Mostly because no one else has a love for the show and a gigantic TV. But also because of the friendship. It is its own reward, especially when you don't have a real reward. Or a television movie marathon to watch.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
One Hundred Pictures of Megan's Backside
Labor Day weekend I stopped laboring and went to the White Mountains with my good friend Megan. It was a three day, all-inclusive back country hike and mountain climb three months in the planning accomplished with, it turned out, essentially no planning. We didn't know who exactly was going till the night before, didn't know when or where we were meeting till the day of, had a map that was useless after the first day, planned to hike to a wrong pick up point to ride the wrong shuttle to the wrong parking lot, didn't have enough rain gear, didn't have any sun block, and didn't even bring batteries for some of our flash lights. It was, arguably, the least planned for anything I've ever done in my life. That said, it was a pretty good time. The Presidential Peaks are beautiful, and, her complete inability to plan aside, Megan's a pretty good time to hang out with. I did miss out on coffee cake the last day because of our early morning departure before breakfast, but who needs hot food and extra sleep when there's room temperature granola bars and a rainy hike to the bottom of a mountain at sunrise? I do. I need coffee cake and extra sleep before breakfast. And a back rub. And a piggyback ride to the bottom of the mountain.
The trip itself consisted of hiking to 2 different huts (Lakes of the Clouds and Madison Spring) each well provisioned with itchy wool blankets and a bountiful supply of warm food (molasses bread I learned is the tastiest of breads). We hiked from hut to hut with a brief detour to Mount Washington and spent most of the transit time in varying levels of fog or bright, sunburning sunshine. There were numerous slips and falls on the wet, rocky rocks (some bloodier than others), and regular visits from a mysterious ghost train which would periodically slowly shuffle from out of the fog carrying the departed souls of those it had just run over (or just senior citizens from atop Mount Washington). There were extended conversations with Canadians and extended conversations with New Yorkers, and multiple unsuccessful games of Nertz (Megan would not believe me that 2 man Nertz is not feasible) followed by one forfeited game of checkers. We saw a moose, a lot of fog, and an uncountable number of wet, rocky rocks. And to remember it all I took a lot of pictures. Chiefly of Megan's backside. Enjoy.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Drizzle Storm Irene
This weekend it rained. I am told it was a hurricane.
I was also told I'd lose power for an indefinite period of time during which society would slowly crumble into a dystopian chaos whereby men would be forced to live off of bottled Evian water, Quaker granola bars, and whatever turkeys they could pluck from the side of the road. The American dollar would be replaced with a gold ingot and gasoline generator based barter system where two gasoline generators would be worth roughly two gold ingots or one slightly larger gasoline generator. Trees and power lines would be uprooted and carried great distances by the wind and rain only to be deposited haphazardly across every bridge and intersection forcing people to walk from one side of their small town to the other, many dieing in the process. As events reached an apocalyptic crescendo days would be followed by night, cool temperatures by slightly cool temperatures, and periods of idle boredom by even longer periods of idle boredom. People would start doing puzzles, have thoughtful conversations, or perhaps go to bed early even. I was told things would be different come the storm, and they were. I couldn't get a haircut that day.
I also couldn't go to the gym. Or the grocery store. Or the library. It was raining everywhere so I couldn't go for a bike ride or a hike, and a man -- it turns out -- can only watch so much TV in a day. Especially when it's interrupted constantly with news updates reporting that, yes, it is still raining outside. Everything was closed, and there was no where to go. So lacking better things to do I did what any sane person would do and I cleaned. Vacuuming my apartment came far too easily so I pressed on to wash the shower, do the dishes, and fold a load of laundry. It was ugly and I'm not proud of it, but I did it. I also over turned some cars and a lit a tire fire in the middle of the city, but in truth I do that most weekends.
I got lucky. The storm was nothing more than a passing inconvenience for me whereas, from what I hear, the entire state of Vermont was covered in water which was only followed by mud which was only followed by, I would assume, raccoons and other varmints. And so I get to write this blog post now with full electricity, a full fridge, and pantry still full of Quaker granola bars and fresh plucked turkeys. That's two natural disasters down, bring on the volcanoes.
I was also told I'd lose power for an indefinite period of time during which society would slowly crumble into a dystopian chaos whereby men would be forced to live off of bottled Evian water, Quaker granola bars, and whatever turkeys they could pluck from the side of the road. The American dollar would be replaced with a gold ingot and gasoline generator based barter system where two gasoline generators would be worth roughly two gold ingots or one slightly larger gasoline generator. Trees and power lines would be uprooted and carried great distances by the wind and rain only to be deposited haphazardly across every bridge and intersection forcing people to walk from one side of their small town to the other, many dieing in the process. As events reached an apocalyptic crescendo days would be followed by night, cool temperatures by slightly cool temperatures, and periods of idle boredom by even longer periods of idle boredom. People would start doing puzzles, have thoughtful conversations, or perhaps go to bed early even. I was told things would be different come the storm, and they were. I couldn't get a haircut that day.
I also couldn't go to the gym. Or the grocery store. Or the library. It was raining everywhere so I couldn't go for a bike ride or a hike, and a man -- it turns out -- can only watch so much TV in a day. Especially when it's interrupted constantly with news updates reporting that, yes, it is still raining outside. Everything was closed, and there was no where to go. So lacking better things to do I did what any sane person would do and I cleaned. Vacuuming my apartment came far too easily so I pressed on to wash the shower, do the dishes, and fold a load of laundry. It was ugly and I'm not proud of it, but I did it. I also over turned some cars and a lit a tire fire in the middle of the city, but in truth I do that most weekends.
I got lucky. The storm was nothing more than a passing inconvenience for me whereas, from what I hear, the entire state of Vermont was covered in water which was only followed by mud which was only followed by, I would assume, raccoons and other varmints. And so I get to write this blog post now with full electricity, a full fridge, and pantry still full of Quaker granola bars and fresh plucked turkeys. That's two natural disasters down, bring on the volcanoes.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Losing Power: A Personal Experience and Powerful Metaphor for the Libyan Revolution and Fall of Muammar Gaddafi
Last week I did not expect for my power to abruptly be turned off. Last week I even less expected for it to be turned off for 5 days. But so it happened, and I lived to the tell tale!
My epic tale of adventure and pre-industrial era existence began quietly enough last Thursday with my going off to work as I am want to do not knowing that upon my return later that afternoon, none of my light switches would work. The AC was dead. The refrigerator was warm. The internet was kaput. I was sad but not terribly surprised as a few weeks prior the utility company had sent me a vague yet threatening letter to call them to set up my electricity under my name. I had promptly done so, but calling it appeared was only part of a process which was to include also obtaining a "notarized signed land lord statement" which was... well they didn't really tell me. They also didn't tell me when I needed to get this in by. Just that if I didn't I'd one day find my power taken away and my pets heads falling off. Unfortunately the threat was sufficiently vague that I was insufficiently motivated to aggressively pursue this "notarized signed land lord statement." I sent an email, made a phone call to a voice mail it seems no one listens to, and that was that. A few weeks passed by and there I found myself, at about 19:00 in the early evening standing in the front of my apartment with no lights.
The next day I knew I had little time to get the holy paperwork taken care of so I spent a sizable portion of my work day making repeat phone calls to a voice mail it seems no one listens to. Finally around lunch time I left a message presenting clear, specific instruction of what to fax and who to fax it to. This was not done. Finally around 16:00 I finally got a hold of someone in the apartment office and they agreed to do the fax. I called the electric people and they said, yeah, didn't get the fax yet but our fax people leave at 16:00 so it'll probably have to wait till next week.
So I was left to survive the weekend. I had to resort to trapping local small game, burning small scraps of wood to boil a pot of water to run a steam turbine to power my AC, wrapping myself in pelts to keep warm at night, and driving around town to find sufficient internet access. This was unfortunately a fairly rainy period of time in New Hampshire so it involved a fair amount of running to and fro from my car to the library and back again. While I still had left over hot water for my shower things weren't too bad.
Then came Monday; things started getting annoying. I had just been on call the whole weekend which limited some my sleep but also limited some the time spent staring into the darkness that had become my apartment. I once again tended to the phones this time calling the utility people who told me it sometimes takes four hours for the fax people to talk with the not-fax people to coordinate the resumption of services. I should call back around lunch to see if the fax had been received and processed. Lunch came and, no, the fax had not be received. In either case, I was told, my fax would have been deficient a number of very important pieces of information like my phone number. Which I had already told them numerous times over the very phone whose number I was providing them with. I nevertheless called the landlord, they said they did it, I said send it again.
The next day. More rain, less hot water. Today I learned they had received my fax! But it was deficient. Despite being told specifically what to have faxed over, I was not told sufficiently what to fax over as the list provided was missing, apparently, my move in date. Without this well the thought of giving a powerless person power was just plain ridiculous. I needed to send a third fax. Ok, the rules are rules and although it seems the people at both the electric company and my apartment are questionably competent at their jobs I had myself gotten into this mess largely because of my own laziness. I expressed my great dissatisfaction about being told a number of different fax requirements by a number of different reportedly fax-knowledgeable people who apparently all failed the fax portion of the standardized electric company customer service test. Anyway, send fax number three!
That night I was starting to get a little tired of my relatively boring existence (it seems there's not too much to do in an unlit apartment alone after dark) and a little frustrated with the process. The next day I would become even more frustrated when I would call once more and find, fax number four: lost in the universe! Once again the Great New England Fax Monster ate my fax and left me with nothing but tears and an uncooperative, inefficient system entirely indifferent it seemed to my plight. The solution offered, send another fax! I protested, asked why the hell did I need to send yet another fax, pleaded, begged, perhaps cried, and finally it was made known to me there was another way. Just say I'd take care of the billing issue myself -- which unbeknownst to me was apparently the underlying problem all along (dividing up which part of the bill I owed and which part my apartment manager owed) -- and they'd flip the switch. But not until the next day. Once more I protested, begged, pleaded, cursed the stars in the sky, and perhaps shouted a few profanities and after a brief placement on hold I was told they'd see if the switch flipper guy could fit me in that day. And, gloriously, he did. I returned home Wednesday evening to sweet beautiful power. Five days later.
I honestly did not much mind not having electricity for the better part of the week. The lack of internet was inconvenient but I enjoyed visiting other parts of town to obtain it. I certainly didn't like the lack of hot water, and a hot stinky fridge is not very kind to the pocket book or the senses, but all in all it wasn't too bad. I was nevertheless surprisingly happy by the resumption of electricity. Although one can get by in the darkness with the assistance of a head lamp for guidance, it is amazing the pleasure of getting by with just the flick of a switch. And a fridge fold of cold drinks is far more satisfying than a fridge full of lukewarm drinks. Fortunately there were no slap-stick falls in the night during the week and once I had light again my life resumed its usual humdrum pace. The moral of this story clearly being: if the electric company sends you a vague yet threatening message do what they say else they'll turn off your power and just generally not give a shit.
I think one of the worst parts of the whole experience, however, was the end of one particularly long phone conversation with the electric company which went something like this....
Customer Service: ... [finished explaining instructions] ... alright is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: ... [summarized the instructions] ... is that it?
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions] ... ok have I answered all your questions? Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: No I think I got it. I'll call tomorrow morning as instructed.
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions again] ... and that's it. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: No, I'm good. Thanks. I'll call tomorrow.
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions yet again] ... Have I answered all your questions? Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: No more questions. Thanks for the help.
Customer Service: ... blah blah blah [nonsense] ... Have I answered all your questions? Is there something else I can help you with?
Me: No.
Customer Service: ... [long boring goodbye thanking me for my business] ... [more scripted nonsense wishing me a good evening] ... [an insufferable amount of time later] ...
Me: *click.*
And that's how I survived the Great Energy Crisis of 2011. By mostly avoiding my home.
The end!
Or...
To be continued!
Hurricane Irene's churning up the Eastern seaboard, and she's angry I'm told. And bringing with her great storm surges, powerful winds, drenching downpours, plagues of locusts, the death of every first born. Although I am every bit convinced she will die out an unexciting death once fully over land as all hurricanes have ever done, I am nevertheless a bit concerned my beloved power will be leaving me again shortly. I'm told New Hampshire power lines are mostly made of bamboo kabob skewers taped together with discount duct tape. Let us pray. For my power.
Oh, and this has been a powerful metaphor about the Libyan Revolution and fall of Muammar Gaddafi.
My epic tale of adventure and pre-industrial era existence began quietly enough last Thursday with my going off to work as I am want to do not knowing that upon my return later that afternoon, none of my light switches would work. The AC was dead. The refrigerator was warm. The internet was kaput. I was sad but not terribly surprised as a few weeks prior the utility company had sent me a vague yet threatening letter to call them to set up my electricity under my name. I had promptly done so, but calling it appeared was only part of a process which was to include also obtaining a "notarized signed land lord statement" which was... well they didn't really tell me. They also didn't tell me when I needed to get this in by. Just that if I didn't I'd one day find my power taken away and my pets heads falling off. Unfortunately the threat was sufficiently vague that I was insufficiently motivated to aggressively pursue this "notarized signed land lord statement." I sent an email, made a phone call to a voice mail it seems no one listens to, and that was that. A few weeks passed by and there I found myself, at about 19:00 in the early evening standing in the front of my apartment with no lights.
The next day I knew I had little time to get the holy paperwork taken care of so I spent a sizable portion of my work day making repeat phone calls to a voice mail it seems no one listens to. Finally around lunch time I left a message presenting clear, specific instruction of what to fax and who to fax it to. This was not done. Finally around 16:00 I finally got a hold of someone in the apartment office and they agreed to do the fax. I called the electric people and they said, yeah, didn't get the fax yet but our fax people leave at 16:00 so it'll probably have to wait till next week.
So I was left to survive the weekend. I had to resort to trapping local small game, burning small scraps of wood to boil a pot of water to run a steam turbine to power my AC, wrapping myself in pelts to keep warm at night, and driving around town to find sufficient internet access. This was unfortunately a fairly rainy period of time in New Hampshire so it involved a fair amount of running to and fro from my car to the library and back again. While I still had left over hot water for my shower things weren't too bad.
Then came Monday; things started getting annoying. I had just been on call the whole weekend which limited some my sleep but also limited some the time spent staring into the darkness that had become my apartment. I once again tended to the phones this time calling the utility people who told me it sometimes takes four hours for the fax people to talk with the not-fax people to coordinate the resumption of services. I should call back around lunch to see if the fax had been received and processed. Lunch came and, no, the fax had not be received. In either case, I was told, my fax would have been deficient a number of very important pieces of information like my phone number. Which I had already told them numerous times over the very phone whose number I was providing them with. I nevertheless called the landlord, they said they did it, I said send it again.
The next day. More rain, less hot water. Today I learned they had received my fax! But it was deficient. Despite being told specifically what to have faxed over, I was not told sufficiently what to fax over as the list provided was missing, apparently, my move in date. Without this well the thought of giving a powerless person power was just plain ridiculous. I needed to send a third fax. Ok, the rules are rules and although it seems the people at both the electric company and my apartment are questionably competent at their jobs I had myself gotten into this mess largely because of my own laziness. I expressed my great dissatisfaction about being told a number of different fax requirements by a number of different reportedly fax-knowledgeable people who apparently all failed the fax portion of the standardized electric company customer service test. Anyway, send fax number three!
That night I was starting to get a little tired of my relatively boring existence (it seems there's not too much to do in an unlit apartment alone after dark) and a little frustrated with the process. The next day I would become even more frustrated when I would call once more and find, fax number four: lost in the universe! Once again the Great New England Fax Monster ate my fax and left me with nothing but tears and an uncooperative, inefficient system entirely indifferent it seemed to my plight. The solution offered, send another fax! I protested, asked why the hell did I need to send yet another fax, pleaded, begged, perhaps cried, and finally it was made known to me there was another way. Just say I'd take care of the billing issue myself -- which unbeknownst to me was apparently the underlying problem all along (dividing up which part of the bill I owed and which part my apartment manager owed) -- and they'd flip the switch. But not until the next day. Once more I protested, begged, pleaded, cursed the stars in the sky, and perhaps shouted a few profanities and after a brief placement on hold I was told they'd see if the switch flipper guy could fit me in that day. And, gloriously, he did. I returned home Wednesday evening to sweet beautiful power. Five days later.
I honestly did not much mind not having electricity for the better part of the week. The lack of internet was inconvenient but I enjoyed visiting other parts of town to obtain it. I certainly didn't like the lack of hot water, and a hot stinky fridge is not very kind to the pocket book or the senses, but all in all it wasn't too bad. I was nevertheless surprisingly happy by the resumption of electricity. Although one can get by in the darkness with the assistance of a head lamp for guidance, it is amazing the pleasure of getting by with just the flick of a switch. And a fridge fold of cold drinks is far more satisfying than a fridge full of lukewarm drinks. Fortunately there were no slap-stick falls in the night during the week and once I had light again my life resumed its usual humdrum pace. The moral of this story clearly being: if the electric company sends you a vague yet threatening message do what they say else they'll turn off your power and just generally not give a shit.
I think one of the worst parts of the whole experience, however, was the end of one particularly long phone conversation with the electric company which went something like this....
Customer Service: ... [finished explaining instructions] ... alright is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: ... [summarized the instructions] ... is that it?
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions] ... ok have I answered all your questions? Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: No I think I got it. I'll call tomorrow morning as instructed.
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions again] ... and that's it. Is there anything else I can help you with today?
Me: No, I'm good. Thanks. I'll call tomorrow.
Customer Service: ... [resummarized the instructions yet again] ... Have I answered all your questions? Is there anything else I can help you with?
Me: No more questions. Thanks for the help.
Customer Service: ... blah blah blah [nonsense] ... Have I answered all your questions? Is there something else I can help you with?
Me: No.
Customer Service: ... [long boring goodbye thanking me for my business] ... [more scripted nonsense wishing me a good evening] ... [an insufferable amount of time later] ...
Me: *click.*
And that's how I survived the Great Energy Crisis of 2011. By mostly avoiding my home.
The end!
Or...
To be continued!
Hurricane Irene's churning up the Eastern seaboard, and she's angry I'm told. And bringing with her great storm surges, powerful winds, drenching downpours, plagues of locusts, the death of every first born. Although I am every bit convinced she will die out an unexciting death once fully over land as all hurricanes have ever done, I am nevertheless a bit concerned my beloved power will be leaving me again shortly. I'm told New Hampshire power lines are mostly made of bamboo kabob skewers taped together with discount duct tape. Let us pray. For my power.
Oh, and this has been a powerful metaphor about the Libyan Revolution and fall of Muammar Gaddafi.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Would You Rather....?
Have diabetes or HIV?
The obvious answer to that for I'd say 99% of the country -- and 100% of San Antonio -- is diabetes. But on further thought I'm personally not so sure. One of my ID staff, however, is entirely sure that HIV is the far better way to go, and the more I think about it the less I think he may be crazy.
HIV, typically once a death sentence only a few years after diagnosis, is no longer the viral grim reaper it once us. Whereas everyone with rare exception would progress from HIV+ to full blown AIDS in an average of 8 to 10 years followed by a few years of progressive misery unto death today this happens in only the rarest of cases (at least in the United States.) Now we have medicines, and not only do we have medicines but we have combo pills, and not only do we have combo pills but we have once daily dosing, and not only do we have a single pill that you take only once a day but we have a single pill that has remarkably minimal side effects. For those prudent enough to take their medicines consistently the reward is an AIDS free life that, aside from a high frequency of medical visits and a slightly increased risk of developing a few chronic illnesses, is essentially indistinguishable from the HIV- life they may have otherwise had. People need not get AIDS any more and certainly need not die from it. Truly now it is in many ways simply one more chronic condition.
Diabetes, on the other hand, though curable is rarely cured. As the disease progresses the consequences accumulate as do the medical therapies. It may start painless, but as it progresses to heart disease, kidney failure, nerve damage, immunodeficiency, and vision loss the pain becomes irreversibly real. During this time often over years to decades the number of medicines progresses from one pill daily to a handful of pills throughout the day and finally to the routine injection of shots and pricking of fingers for samples of blood. The roads are different -- heart attack, dialysis, blindness, amputation, infection, and stroke -- but the destination is the same. People die from diabetes. Not all and not directly, but an appalling sum of morbidity and mortality every year is brought on in part or in whole from diseases which diabetes brings. People view it as only a chronic condition, some people almost taken as a given, but few such medical diseases will change your life as much as diabetes.
To say I'd prefer HIV over diabetes still sounds a bit brash, but I think it may nevertheless be the better choice of the two. Due to the stigma of the disease I imagine most people will always largely favor diabetes. Unfortunately this is probably a large part why we spends billions of dollars and lose thousands of quality adjusted life years annually to the latter. On a lighter note, though, would you rather live free or die? Share a bunk with Kathy Griffin or share a bunk with Carrot Top? Bare knuckle box an angry Michele Bachmann or an angry kangaroo?
The obvious answer to that for I'd say 99% of the country -- and 100% of San Antonio -- is diabetes. But on further thought I'm personally not so sure. One of my ID staff, however, is entirely sure that HIV is the far better way to go, and the more I think about it the less I think he may be crazy.
HIV, typically once a death sentence only a few years after diagnosis, is no longer the viral grim reaper it once us. Whereas everyone with rare exception would progress from HIV+ to full blown AIDS in an average of 8 to 10 years followed by a few years of progressive misery unto death today this happens in only the rarest of cases (at least in the United States.) Now we have medicines, and not only do we have medicines but we have combo pills, and not only do we have combo pills but we have once daily dosing, and not only do we have a single pill that you take only once a day but we have a single pill that has remarkably minimal side effects. For those prudent enough to take their medicines consistently the reward is an AIDS free life that, aside from a high frequency of medical visits and a slightly increased risk of developing a few chronic illnesses, is essentially indistinguishable from the HIV- life they may have otherwise had. People need not get AIDS any more and certainly need not die from it. Truly now it is in many ways simply one more chronic condition.
Diabetes, on the other hand, though curable is rarely cured. As the disease progresses the consequences accumulate as do the medical therapies. It may start painless, but as it progresses to heart disease, kidney failure, nerve damage, immunodeficiency, and vision loss the pain becomes irreversibly real. During this time often over years to decades the number of medicines progresses from one pill daily to a handful of pills throughout the day and finally to the routine injection of shots and pricking of fingers for samples of blood. The roads are different -- heart attack, dialysis, blindness, amputation, infection, and stroke -- but the destination is the same. People die from diabetes. Not all and not directly, but an appalling sum of morbidity and mortality every year is brought on in part or in whole from diseases which diabetes brings. People view it as only a chronic condition, some people almost taken as a given, but few such medical diseases will change your life as much as diabetes.
To say I'd prefer HIV over diabetes still sounds a bit brash, but I think it may nevertheless be the better choice of the two. Due to the stigma of the disease I imagine most people will always largely favor diabetes. Unfortunately this is probably a large part why we spends billions of dollars and lose thousands of quality adjusted life years annually to the latter. On a lighter note, though, would you rather live free or die? Share a bunk with Kathy Griffin or share a bunk with Carrot Top? Bare knuckle box an angry Michele Bachmann or an angry kangaroo?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Bliss
The problem with growing up is it tends to dull the imagination. The once boundless mind is progressively netted and tethered to our best guess at reality. The giant, gray realm of what may possibly be so is slowly divided into the blacks and whites of what is and what isn't. There are no super powers it turns out. No heroes, no magic, no mystery, no unexplored realms to explore or things to be discovered. The Tooth Fairy dies fairly early. The Easter Bunny becomes a silly notion not too long after. Santa survives for a whole but one day too becomes an embarrassing figure you used to believe in. And even science, the last frontier, starts to slowly plod along at a plainly predictable rate. In such a world it is perhaps remarkable the imagination survives at all, but it does in part, I think, thanks to nature's little miracles. And in this case: the firefly.
I'd admittedly almost forgotten they exist. I had gotten so used to the various stinging and poking bugs of South Texas and the unfortunate fruit fly holocaust I had to visit upon my own apartment, that my recollection of summers in the Ozarks began to fade. My move to New Hampshire, however, has thankfully brought all the memories back -- and with half the humidity. There's something magical about seeing the brief flicker of lightening floating lightly in the trees. Although they're often too small and few in number to be all that much to really, truly look at their mere presence pulls the dusty drape off the imagination switch in our brains and briefly makes one's mind young again. Free to dream about whatever it is you please to dream about. Tempered a bit by reality yes, but the passive day dream confined to times of listless boredom is replaced by the active, excited dream fashioned from one's own active imagination. The world, for a moment, doesn't seem so old any more. All because of a simple bug with a glowing green bottom. For these guys alone I gotta say New Hampshire's pretty great.
Between the fireflies, black bears running wild, deep green mountain forests, and small colonial towns I am beginning to believe maybe I have entered some realm of Old World make believe. What's next? A mossy glen full of hatted gnomes? Routine travel by hot air balloon and gyrocopter?
Oh snap, they're already doing it! Here's to hoping for a dark haired gypsy maiden. Or at the very least a not unpleasant looking divorcee with a friendly disposition.
I'd admittedly almost forgotten they exist. I had gotten so used to the various stinging and poking bugs of South Texas and the unfortunate fruit fly holocaust I had to visit upon my own apartment, that my recollection of summers in the Ozarks began to fade. My move to New Hampshire, however, has thankfully brought all the memories back -- and with half the humidity. There's something magical about seeing the brief flicker of lightening floating lightly in the trees. Although they're often too small and few in number to be all that much to really, truly look at their mere presence pulls the dusty drape off the imagination switch in our brains and briefly makes one's mind young again. Free to dream about whatever it is you please to dream about. Tempered a bit by reality yes, but the passive day dream confined to times of listless boredom is replaced by the active, excited dream fashioned from one's own active imagination. The world, for a moment, doesn't seem so old any more. All because of a simple bug with a glowing green bottom. For these guys alone I gotta say New Hampshire's pretty great.
Between the fireflies, black bears running wild, deep green mountain forests, and small colonial towns I am beginning to believe maybe I have entered some realm of Old World make believe. What's next? A mossy glen full of hatted gnomes? Routine travel by hot air balloon and gyrocopter?
Oh snap, they're already doing it! Here's to hoping for a dark haired gypsy maiden. Or at the very least a not unpleasant looking divorcee with a friendly disposition.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Live Free or Die
New Hampshire ain't for sissies. Here, if you don't live free enough, *real* free, they kill you.
Or at least that's the impression that I get. I have yet to see any public executions for those insufficiently free, but I imagine this is only due to my short time in the state. They probably got a special freedom center or freedom days where they due stuff like that. I should probably look at the town's calendar of events or maybe just ask where the guillotine is.
As an imperative it is unfortunate, however, as there's a certain amount of ambiguity to it. Although it is written on all license plates, quarters, most signs, and many times is even shouted mysteriously from the rooftops at night, the command itself is not very specific. I mean how free do I got to be? Are we talking like... super free? Like tree hugging, polyamory, grow my own Quaker oats free? Or is this a different kind of free, more like advocating the abolishment of the wage system free? Or maybe free to take phone calls and text messages at all hours of the day free? Or am I way off and it's just a simple instruction to go commando? In any case it's not clear and lacks a standard. There's got to be a freedometer somewhere. Or at the very least a conversion of freedom from the English to the metric because I'm pretty sure I've got a lot of freedom in kilograms. In the mean time till this is all sorted out I'm just going to make sure I always wear a flag t-shirt under my white coat. Just in case.
Here's a sign warning of the Freedom Master. He apparently shoots liberty snakes out of his motorcycle tires.
Or at least that's the impression that I get. I have yet to see any public executions for those insufficiently free, but I imagine this is only due to my short time in the state. They probably got a special freedom center or freedom days where they due stuff like that. I should probably look at the town's calendar of events or maybe just ask where the guillotine is.
As an imperative it is unfortunate, however, as there's a certain amount of ambiguity to it. Although it is written on all license plates, quarters, most signs, and many times is even shouted mysteriously from the rooftops at night, the command itself is not very specific. I mean how free do I got to be? Are we talking like... super free? Like tree hugging, polyamory, grow my own Quaker oats free? Or is this a different kind of free, more like advocating the abolishment of the wage system free? Or maybe free to take phone calls and text messages at all hours of the day free? Or am I way off and it's just a simple instruction to go commando? In any case it's not clear and lacks a standard. There's got to be a freedometer somewhere. Or at the very least a conversion of freedom from the English to the metric because I'm pretty sure I've got a lot of freedom in kilograms. In the mean time till this is all sorted out I'm just going to make sure I always wear a flag t-shirt under my white coat. Just in case.
Here's a sign warning of the Freedom Master. He apparently shoots liberty snakes out of his motorcycle tires.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
A Dream Dies
It is with great sadness that I must report that New Hampshire does not appear to have my brand of frozen tortellini for sale in its supermarkets. Thus ends my quest to, as my parents say, become a tortellini. In compensation I commit myself to eating more of my other regular staples to include donuts and sandwiches. With any luck and continued perseverance I can obtain my alternate goal; that of becoming a pizza. I counsel everyone in this time of trouble and hardship to evaluate their own lives and to each consider in their own ways what frozen tortellini means to them. We are a strong people, and together we can be a strong nation. This crisis too will pass. Just like the refrigerated tortellini and frozen chimichanga crises of the past. Thank you for your time and thank you for your compassion. And please, if anyone has any frozen tortellini with them; please send it to me. Good night, God bless, and God bless America.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Thirty-Four Hours Later (Mexico to New Hampshire)
Patrick and I drove for what very well may have been forever. I haven’t added it all up yet. We crossed over 2,000 miles and drove through what must have been 400 different states. The last few hundred miles of which, it should be noted, were on small town country roads which are not particularly suitable for overladen U-Hauls with trailers attached. For all the talk of America being a patchwork of different and distinct communities and environments it all seemed to run together to me. Texas was dry and flat. In Arkansas trees began showing up. Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio were just more trees. And in New York mountains were added. And I guess in Vermont we started seeing signs warning of moose crossing, but we saw no meese. We had no schedule to start with and it quickly became evident that even winging it would require a fair amount of improvisation. The end string of events which we’ll call a plan consisted of a late start from San Antonio followed by a late arrival in Little Rock where we stayed at my good friend Trent’s family’s place. After waffles for dinner and waffles for breakfast we had another late start and decided, heck with sleep and time tables, let’s just drive until we puke. Or fall asleep and drive off a mountain pass, whatever the typical end result of driving more than humans were ever intended to drive. This led to dinner in Nashville that same day, a semi-delirious midnight drive through Ohio on my part, a completely unarousable period of sleep where I’m told Beeders drove through more of Ohio, lunch in some random Vermont town whose name I can no longer remember, and, finally, a reasonable arrival into Lebanon about 54 hours later. It is conceivable according to Google Maps that if we had driven continuously without eating, worn spaceman adult diapers, received inflight refueling by military aircraft, and somehow pole vaulted over all the mountain towns of New York and Vermont we could have done it in 34 hours, but I believe that has only been successfully completed once before by people far more industrious than us. Perhaps the Japanese. So all in all I got to say not bad. If there’s ever a national U-Haul racing circuit I think Patrick and I just very well may place. Maybe go semi-pro.
And now for a Beeder photo montage...
Although the theme for this photo slide show adventure is "places Patrick ate," I felt we needed a picture of our crammed U-Haul + crammed MINI. In the sense that a MINI can be crammed at least.
And now for a Beeder photo montage...
Pre-trip. Patrick wanted nothing but the finest of food on this adventure. So I took him to Rudy's. I think he liked it. Or we should never trust his thumbs up ever again.
Although the theme for this photo slide show adventure is "places Patrick ate," I felt we needed a picture of our crammed U-Haul + crammed MINI. In the sense that a MINI can be crammed at least.
First stop. The Czeck Stop! I was never truly a full convert to the cult of kolache during my time at Texas A&M (I will always love myself some donuts), but I did have to admit these kolaches were pretty great. And so I made Beeders eat some.
Beeders has kolache poisoning. He later gained 5 lbs and then woke up.
In the middle of Vermont. (I think I lost my picture at Coco's Italian restaurant in Nashville, the best restaurant.) This place had "spiedies" which were... I guess messy sandwiches? It was connected to a tire shop so they may just have been heavily sauced, bread wrapped vulcanized rubber scraps for all I know.
Lou's in Hanover. Good hamburgers. I approve. Patrick approves. Everybody approves.
First night in New Hampshire: Ramunto's Brick Oven Pizza! Made by robots in cast iron baking vaults. Although it was attached to a building made of brick, the only bricks actually in the joint were placed there by accident. Or as props. That said our super garlic pizza was pretty good.
Lastly: breakfast at Ace's Diner in Lebanon. The inside of this place was great, like a giant classic diner stereotype, and the food was tasty. Patrick on the other hand was not amused. Or just not happy that I was about to ship his butt off to Boston on a bus.
In the end the drive was long, but not too long. It was boring, but not too boring. The trailer amazingly never unhitched and the truck amazingly never exploded. Patrick forgave me for the bus ticket, and I think overall he had a reasonable time. He tells me such at least. He may just be saying that to practice his diplomacy as an aspiring ambassador, though. Perhaps he's secretly developing a covert nuclear weapons program. In either case, I appreciated his help and I'd be more than happy to provide him with fissile material should ever the need arise.
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