Secret insight into my thesis chair's hopes and dreams...
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/48461
...and I swear I'll get back to the fireball story shortly.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
We Interrupt This Broadcast...
In a cruelly ironic twist, whilst writing this bit about the time I put myself in the hospital I actually ended up in the hospital per an entirely unrelated event. Last weekend, after enduring several hours of wrenching pain in my digestive track, I finally succumbed to my roommmate's will and took a trip to the hospital. I was therein informed that my appendix would have to be removed within the next few hours. Being unable to perform such an operation myself, I resigned to the doctor's knife and got down to business.
What a worthless organ the appendix is. What the hell is it? What does it do? Whence has it come? All worthy questions. Wikipedia defines it as such: "Currently, the function of the appendix, if any, remains controversial in the field of human physiology." In my body, however, the function of the appendix seems quite obvious: to fall victim to inflammatory, catastrophic failure (a failure of an aforementioned, unknown function) and render me susceptible to great pain and general physical misery.
Thanks to this wonder-filled, vestigial organ, I underwent a laparoscopic surgery, which means instead of one, big cut into my abdomen, they made several small ones. Then they pumped my abdomen full of gas so that they could fit more things than there already are in this overly crowded area. Little cameras, knives, and other surgical-type instruments. Then they cut up my appendix from the inside and removed it piecemeal, sort of like some strange male abortion.
I spoke with one of my friends recently who, in reference to the ER story I interrupted to tell this ER story, called me "Captain Hospital." I felt the title was a little unnecessary, being that two visit to the hospital in 30 years hardly seem worthy of giving me a Captain rank and insignia. Not to mention this one really was outside my control. On the bright side, my nurses were cute. On the other hand, they collected my pee bottle the morning I was there. Nothing says handsome and self-reliant like dumping out someone's pee bottle. I shared a room with this crazy Persian guy who kept telling me how good he felt in between fits of vomiting blood in the bathroom. I think he had e-coli or something, though he was confident he was healthy. He works at P.F. Chang's in La Jolla and promised me free drinks, if anyone wants to head out there. Assuming he isn't dead or something.
While I've been house ridden, recovering from surgery, I chanced upon a film of some doctors actually performing a laparoscopic surgery. They had all the tubes and cameras and knives inserted into this person's abdomen and they were going to town, wrenching things this way and that, jerking things around and really using little to no gentleness whatsoever. I wondered, had my doctor been so violent? Then I started to think about how even the nurses and everyone else in the hospital would just jab and poke me and go about their job like it was a JOB, not like there are real humans on the other end of the needles they prodded around. I guess they were hardened to it and just wanted to get on with their days, which meant sticking one needle here just to move onto another needle in another arm. Needless to say, I think a little bit of courtesy and gentleness would go a long way. I mean, it isn't like I asked my appendix to burst. In the long run, I guess all of this is good since it offers me further incentive to stay out of the hospital. I can only hope that "Captain Hospital" is not a foreshadowing of things to come.
Thanks folks, for taking the time to appreciate my coincidence filled moment, and I now return you to your regularly scheduled program...
What a worthless organ the appendix is. What the hell is it? What does it do? Whence has it come? All worthy questions. Wikipedia defines it as such: "Currently, the function of the appendix, if any, remains controversial in the field of human physiology." In my body, however, the function of the appendix seems quite obvious: to fall victim to inflammatory, catastrophic failure (a failure of an aforementioned, unknown function) and render me susceptible to great pain and general physical misery.
Thanks to this wonder-filled, vestigial organ, I underwent a laparoscopic surgery, which means instead of one, big cut into my abdomen, they made several small ones. Then they pumped my abdomen full of gas so that they could fit more things than there already are in this overly crowded area. Little cameras, knives, and other surgical-type instruments. Then they cut up my appendix from the inside and removed it piecemeal, sort of like some strange male abortion.
I spoke with one of my friends recently who, in reference to the ER story I interrupted to tell this ER story, called me "Captain Hospital." I felt the title was a little unnecessary, being that two visit to the hospital in 30 years hardly seem worthy of giving me a Captain rank and insignia. Not to mention this one really was outside my control. On the bright side, my nurses were cute. On the other hand, they collected my pee bottle the morning I was there. Nothing says handsome and self-reliant like dumping out someone's pee bottle. I shared a room with this crazy Persian guy who kept telling me how good he felt in between fits of vomiting blood in the bathroom. I think he had e-coli or something, though he was confident he was healthy. He works at P.F. Chang's in La Jolla and promised me free drinks, if anyone wants to head out there. Assuming he isn't dead or something.
While I've been house ridden, recovering from surgery, I chanced upon a film of some doctors actually performing a laparoscopic surgery. They had all the tubes and cameras and knives inserted into this person's abdomen and they were going to town, wrenching things this way and that, jerking things around and really using little to no gentleness whatsoever. I wondered, had my doctor been so violent? Then I started to think about how even the nurses and everyone else in the hospital would just jab and poke me and go about their job like it was a JOB, not like there are real humans on the other end of the needles they prodded around. I guess they were hardened to it and just wanted to get on with their days, which meant sticking one needle here just to move onto another needle in another arm. Needless to say, I think a little bit of courtesy and gentleness would go a long way. I mean, it isn't like I asked my appendix to burst. In the long run, I guess all of this is good since it offers me further incentive to stay out of the hospital. I can only hope that "Captain Hospital" is not a foreshadowing of things to come.
Thanks folks, for taking the time to appreciate my coincidence filled moment, and I now return you to your regularly scheduled program...
Friday, September 08, 2006
Paths to Maturity and the Role of Fireballs, part I
You know how musicians, over the course of their careers, tire of playing the songs from their early days? How authors stop talking about the same things they did when they were younger? How actors bore of answering the same old questions that they’ve been plagued with since they first hit the scene? You can feel the analogy coming, no? Well, for the umpteenth time I was asked, yesterday, to painfully relive the moments surrounding my now (amazingly) legendary two week trip to the Grossman Burn Center in beautiful Van Nuys, California. Sighing deeply as I launched into a spirited-as-possible retelling, I decided it was high time I recorded this tale in lurid and detailed fashion in hopes of warding off future tellings. Needless to say, with this only the fourth blog entry (and really just the second, thematically), such an early excavation of the memory archives is an ominous warning about its longevity. Alas, we will live in the moment. Err, the past moment…
But first, some background. Its early into my undergraduate years at UCLA and over one summer my pal Patrick and I were hanging out at my parent’s house wondering how on earth to entertain ourselves. We were, of course, still too young to buy alcohol, or this story never would have happened. Striving to cure our mental lethargy, Pat launches into hysterics (as is his style) over the revelation he had had at college concerning non-dairy creamer. I will summarize: Non-dairy creamer, in powder form, has unusually combustive properties.
Now, this isn’t in any way due to its chemical makeup, for if you throw an open flame into a pile of it on the floor, nothing will happen. However, its physical composition is another matter. When thrown into the air, the particular density of the particles of powder that disperse, slowly returning to earth, are highly flammable. This is also the case with other household items, such as flour, certain grains, and sawdust. In any case, Pat chooses to go with the creamer and the next thing I know we are standing in the middle of the street, him with a can of creamer and me with an improvised newspaper-torch thingy. It had all the makings of a dark ritual, so luckily nobody was driving on the road at the time. I light up My First Torch© and hold it out towards Pat in the way that kids hold road kill when they are carrying it home for their friends to see. In one swift motion Pat sends the 12 ounces of canned hell airborne in my direction. In what is a seeming blur of excitement and grandeur, a mini-fireball lights up the dark avenue and Pat and I run, laughing our asses off, back up my driveway, having dropped the still-lit torch in the middle of the road. Something is burning my arm, though, and as I look down I realize that some of the flaming matter has landed on my shirt sleeve and left a strange, chemical-like burning mass. I ditch the shirt and disregard this portentous omen (Nope, this isn’t the hospital story yet.). About five minutes pass before a police car shows up and while Pat and I observe from the shadows, he uses his fire-extinguisher-of-no-fun to douse the still burning flame and a shovel to move the mass into his trunk. Though Pat and I consider getting another can of creamer, the thrill is gone and one boring night succeeds another until the summer becomes the school year. Somewhere inside me, though, a memory of semi-controlled fire lingers...
Continued in Part II
But first, some background. Its early into my undergraduate years at UCLA and over one summer my pal Patrick and I were hanging out at my parent’s house wondering how on earth to entertain ourselves. We were, of course, still too young to buy alcohol, or this story never would have happened. Striving to cure our mental lethargy, Pat launches into hysterics (as is his style) over the revelation he had had at college concerning non-dairy creamer. I will summarize: Non-dairy creamer, in powder form, has unusually combustive properties.
The Burninator
Now, this isn’t in any way due to its chemical makeup, for if you throw an open flame into a pile of it on the floor, nothing will happen. However, its physical composition is another matter. When thrown into the air, the particular density of the particles of powder that disperse, slowly returning to earth, are highly flammable. This is also the case with other household items, such as flour, certain grains, and sawdust. In any case, Pat chooses to go with the creamer and the next thing I know we are standing in the middle of the street, him with a can of creamer and me with an improvised newspaper-torch thingy. It had all the makings of a dark ritual, so luckily nobody was driving on the road at the time. I light up My First Torch© and hold it out towards Pat in the way that kids hold road kill when they are carrying it home for their friends to see. In one swift motion Pat sends the 12 ounces of canned hell airborne in my direction. In what is a seeming blur of excitement and grandeur, a mini-fireball lights up the dark avenue and Pat and I run, laughing our asses off, back up my driveway, having dropped the still-lit torch in the middle of the road. Something is burning my arm, though, and as I look down I realize that some of the flaming matter has landed on my shirt sleeve and left a strange, chemical-like burning mass. I ditch the shirt and disregard this portentous omen (Nope, this isn’t the hospital story yet.). About five minutes pass before a police car shows up and while Pat and I observe from the shadows, he uses his fire-extinguisher-of-no-fun to douse the still burning flame and a shovel to move the mass into his trunk. Though Pat and I consider getting another can of creamer, the thrill is gone and one boring night succeeds another until the summer becomes the school year. Somewhere inside me, though, a memory of semi-controlled fire lingers...
Continued in Part II
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