digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005
sarah in the pity
digital rendering by veach glines, creative commons license 2005
more female-form composite art:
shrimpcheese
In homage to the wonderful art found at Fluffmuppet takes on NYC I decided to try my hand at MSpaint-based renderings:
Book recommendation
Just finished Steven Gould's latest: reflex. A relatively predictable sequel to Jumper, Gould re-visits the main character and his wife after a ten year sabbatical. This story is paced more like the problem-story of Harry F. Saint's 1988 Memoirs of an Invisible Man than the character-story of Jumper. Pick up a copy at your local library.
film reviews (early winter 04 - 05)
Assault on Precinct 13 (2005) directed by Jean-François Richet (De l'Amour, 2001); starring Ethan Hawke and Laurence Fishburne: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM-theme. Fans of the original, directed by John Carpenter, will relish the gritty violence of this remake.
The Machinist (2004) directed by Brad Anderson (Session 9, 2001); starring Christian Bale and Jennifer Jason Leigh: Snaprating=WFD, PROBLEM-theme. Fans of Memento will enjoy this dark whodunnit.
The Incredibles (2004) directed by Brad Bird (The Iron Giant, 1999); starring the voices of Craig T. Nelson and Holly Hunter: Snaprating=Keeper, MILIEU-theme [strong secondary PROBLEM theme]. Fans of Toy Story will enjoy this animated family action adventure.
The Motorcycle Diaries (2004) directed by Walter Salles (Central Station, 1998); starring Gael Garcia Bernal and Rodrigo de la Serna: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER-theme. Fans of 'coming-of-age' and 'based-on-a-true-story' films should enjoy this bio-pic.
Sideways (2004) directed by Alexander Payne (About Schmidt, 2002); starring Paul Giamatti and Thomas Haden Church: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER-theme. Fans of films that bump the funnybone while squeezing heartstrings are shure to enjoy this one.
Spanglish (2004) directed by James L. Brooks (As Good As It Gets, 1997); starring Adam Sandler and Téa Leoni: Snaprating=WFC, CHARACTER-theme. Fans of Punch-Drunk Love should find this appealing.
A Very Long Engagement (2004) directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amélie, 2001); starring Audrey Tautou and Gaspard Ullie: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM-theme [strong CHARACTER secondary theme]. Fans of Amélie may be slightly disappointed but will still enjoy this anti-war film.
House of Flying Daggers (2004) directed by Yimou Zhang (Hero, 2002); starring Zhang Ziyi and Takeshi Kaneshiro: Snaprating=WFD, MILIEU-theme. Fans of the 'Keeper': Hero will discover this film flawed by weak plot and poor editing but may enjoy it none-the-less.
In Good Company (2004) directed by Paul Weitz (American Pie, 1999); starring Topher Grace and Scarlett Johansson: Snaprating=WFC, RE-ORDER-theme [CHARACTER secondary theme]. 'Buddy movie' and romantic comedy fans may enjoy this one.
Polar Express IMAX 3-D (2004) directed by Robert Zemeckis (Forrest Gump, 1994); starring the voice of Tom Hanks: Snaprating=Keeper [non-IMAX3D version=WFD], MILIEU-theme [CHARACTER secondary theme]. Fans of Final Fantasy and virtual rollercoasters will love this every x-mas.
The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (2004) directed by Wes Anderson (The Royal Tenenbaums, 2001); starring Bill Murray and Owen Wilson: Snaprating=Cheaper, RE-ORDER-theme. Wes Anderson film fans (especially The Royal Tennenbaums) will consider this one of his best and add it to their list of 'Keepers'.
Kinsey (2004) directed by Bill Condon (Gods and Monsters, 1998); starring Liam Neeson and Laura Linney: Snaprating=WFC, CHARACTER-theme. Based-on-true-story movie fans will be disappointed by this bland and lackluster bio-pic.
Part 2: Jorge with a Cat
(Part 1)
Out the corner of his eye, Jorge saw the reflection of a ghost-pale woman gracefully entering the room. Her head was down and her feet were up. He looked back at the cat and guessed it was probably their head and ass pointing in the wrong direction. With recessed light-strips along every surface but the door, there had been no way to determine which was the ceiling.
The door shut behind the ghost woman. Jorge still watched the cat. It clutched the sock in it's forelegs and kicked it to death. He could hear clicks (she must be attaching her straps to his walls) and the puffing of cat breath (as it killed the sock). The cat was drifting toward the surface Jorge had previously selected as the ceiling but was the ghost woman’s floor.
Eyeing her reflection peripherally, Jorge noticed she had re-oriented to his floor and ceiling. How accommodating, he thought.
The ghost woman's reflection was blurry, but Jorge could see that she was wearing the same gray suit he was dressed in, that she had a man’s hair cut, and that there was nothing in her hands. He grinned (he enjoyed proving himself right).
"I was just playing with the cat." Jorge said. "I love how graceful she is and how she's able to get around so well."
The cat pushed off the ceiling with one paw and continued to mouth the sock as it roll-floated.
"Obviously she's been here a day or two longer than me." Jorge continued.
The ghost woman's reflection stared at his back.
Since they were now sharing a three-meter cube, he could hear the ghost woman’s breath almost as clearly as the cat's. And the ghost woman's was more rapid than someone of her diminutive size should sound, unless she just finished exerting herself (Jorge pictured her finishing a sexual-romp and rushing to get here). No, it was probably nervousness on her part; but why? He could smell her. It was a clean smell, no deodorant, no lotions, no sprays, and no sweat. Jorge posed a few mental guesses as he sized up her floating reflection.
Maybe the ghost woman was upset (unless stiff-stern was her normal posture). She probably was accustomed to people placing 'conversation with her' higher on their priority list than 'playing with a cat'. She might even think I'm being rude to expect her to talk to my back, he thought. Jorge decided she was a superior officer and possibly one of the vast majority he had met who relied primarily on the rank displayed on their uniform, instead of their personality or any semblance of an ability to lead, to command others.
Jorge's mind wandered...wonder if the ghost woman just needs to get laid? He began to fabricate a mind-movie. The elastic straps and lack of gravity added flavor to his fantasy as he imagined her contorted into a position similar to the cat's at the present moment.
He checked her reflection again. Still there, still not even a throat clearing. Jorge drew out the silence by slowly reaching down to unfasten a strap before trying to turn around.
In a soft, slightly-husky voice, the ghost woman said, "Your cat is male."
Pleased he got her to talk first, Jorge unhooked, pushed-off, turned and (after missing once) re-hooked. He decided not to respond to her "your cat" bait—just because he woke up with it didn't make it his—she wanted to make him start a line of defensive questioning: Oh sorry, did I say she? I didn't notice. Yes, I see. It has balls. My mistake, I usually refer to all cats as a ‘she’ and all dogs as a ‘he’. How are you today ma'am? Why did you say this was my cat? Blah blah Bullshit.
Looking the ghost woman straight in her scowl, he said, "Name?" While he gave her his most innocent expression: Eyebrows raised. Hands motionless.
"The cat has a National Serial Number. Names aren't assigned." She didn't smile as she said it and her brow said she had nothing more to add.
Jorge noted her eyes were the same color as her hair. Mousy brown; sparrow brown was more appropriate. Combined with the stark whiteness of her skin, it put her on the unattractive side of plain. Jorge gave her a 4 on his desirability scale. He always ranked women. He never admitted to it. Never told others—even close male friends—and didn't really like the trait. He just did it. Always. Jorge didn't think he was going to like her. He'd do her; he'd do anyone on his scale above a 2. But he was well on the road to hating her.
In slightly less than 1.3 seconds Jorge mentally ticked through a few of the various other answers ghost-woman could have given:
1. Major Mary Wickless, but you can address me as Ma'am (would have given confirmation to his previous mental guesses).
2. I'm sorry. You are Chief Warrant Officer Jorge M. Hayden; I wasn’t told you had amnesia (Taking the slight humor-offense and causing him to pause).
3. We call that ugly feline 'TB', short for ... oh, I hope that scratch on your cheek isn't from him? (Big humor—the best way to take command).
4. Yours, the cat’s or mine? (The checkmate response.)
"I didn't mean Jenny." Jorge replied, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "I meant you." He accented the word by bringing his hand back to point at the ghost woman before grabbing a strap (arm swinging had caused him to pivot). Jorge hoped anger would work. If his guess was right and she was upset, turning it into anger should be easy.
"Captain Susan Fortnoy. I’m the G3."
Jorge inwardly smiled (I really like being right).
She paused and scanned his face to see if her rank or position had sunk in, or if she needed to elaborate. No anger yet. Jorge guessed either his expression held or the captain figured anyone who would name a male cat 'Jenny' needed the full speech, because she continued.
"I am the Operations Officer responsible for foreign relations on the Minnesota."
Another pause, Jorge thought it was probably to see if he would show any confirmation that he had already figured out he was on the Minnesota (commonly referred to as the SS Minnow). He was certain Sue never referred to herself or the space station by nickname. Jorge hoped her use of 'foreign relations' hadn't caused him to change his expression, because he had no idea what was foreign about him that needed relating with (or to).
She kept going. "I'm here to provide a familiarization brief and welcome you to the station," with no emotion on her face or in her voice.
"Sue?" Jorge asked. "Captain . . . as in the Navy rank for Colonel?"
He was on the right track. Her eyes squinched and she folded her arms across her flat chest (impressively, without spinning against her straps). Jorge tried a little harder. Without hand gestures, he said, "I'm tired of the game Colonel. I want some answers: Why am I here? How did I get here? How did my last mission end? What are my present orders and what is a goddamned soldier doing in space?"
The Jorge Hayden Book of Rules listed: 'Referring to a Naval or Air Force officer by Army rank' as number one with a bullet, under the heading: successful ways to piss someone off.
"Anything else?" She asked. No anger.
"Yea." No. . .yes ma'am, Jorge went for broke. "Why is my roommate a cat? I've been locked in here with it for hours with nothing but six walls and a broken monitor. If I start bumping into cat turds or breathing piss, I'll kill and eat your station mascot."
"Mister Hayden, you are still a member of the US Army and will continue to handle yourself professionally. You will conduct yourself as an officer and representative of the United States on this multi-nationally operated station. As such, you will afford members of all forces, both US and foreign, with the respect due their rank and position."
The ghost-woman-captain was fairly good in her delivery. No stutters. She wasn't flushed. Worst of all she wasn't angry. She was stern. Her attitude was calm, but she still looked upset. Maybe she just didn't want to talk to him. In-briefing a lowly Warrant? Maybe that was the job of some Army Captain—what the Navy called a Commander or some shit. She hadn't even started a teeny-tiny sway against the straps.
She continued, "I am not here to answer questions. I will provide you with a short tour and point out the necessary facilities. The shower and bathroom for both you and (she paused) Jenny." As she said that she nodded at the wall opposite the monitor and said, “latrine open.”
A portion of the wall slid open to reveal odd-compact contraptions. Jorge had never seen a space latrine before and immediately wanted to ask how it worked. Instead he decided to keep on the track he had started.
"Look, I’ve got to hand it to you, Captain." Jorge chanced his infamous, 'eyebrows raised, lips pursed, shoulders hunched, and (the tricky part) palms upturned,' body posture. "My last memory, prior to waking up a while ago, was of a mission which ended negatively. . .the location and nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss." He added in case this conversation was being monitored or recorded by some US Department of Defense weenie who's job it would be to fuck him later.
Jorge knew no one was better at—or took more pride in—screwing their own, than the US DOD.
"I'm not dead," Jorge continued. "No...not in a hospital." Jorge let sarcasm enter his posture and voice, "Better yet, I have no memory of a free shuttle ride to the SS Minnow, where a person of my training and experience has abso-fucking-lutely no place to be in the first, middle, or last place." He started to sway and caught a ring above the monitor. He finished with the kicker, raising his voice for the effect, "I wake up, locked in a room with a cat? And you aren't here to answer questions?"
Looking at the cat, which Jorge referred to as 'Jenny' on the spur of the moment because it was the first pet name (his second wife's little kick-dog) that came to mind after the ghost woman said it was male. The cat was no longer occupied with his sock (which Jorge grabbed with a minimum of flailing and put back on his right foot with a twist-bounce against his straps). Jenny was now in the latrine; it’s orange head sticking out of a rubber-boot-looking thing near the ceiling (at least, the surface Jorge's head was closest to).
The ghost-captain said, "Hayden, the Minnesota's computer will answer your questions. Later." This accompanied a nod at the monitor. "Once we finish with a tour, you can come back here and ask. Ok?"
Two hours later, Jorge was finished with enough of a tour to make him certain he wasn't a prisoner of war.
"All your questions can best be answered by the computer," the captain had repeated every time he asked anything besides how to operate the exercise machine or how to flush the shower-toilet-cat box or what the lighted indicators in the gravity elevator meant.
"Your room monitor is voice recognition activated, turned on with the word Minnesota followed by your last name, and will open and lock your door."
"What about the cat?" Jorge asked as he finished thanking her and was returning to his room. They were standing in one of the workstations with gravity—false gravity—but when you were walking on a floor that was always a floor, Jorge didn't care if it was because down was down or down was spinning away from the center. Jorge figured the cat was a prank the crew played on newcomers.
"You mean Jenny?" The Captain asked, a hint of a smile restricted to her eyes. "He is yours." She was able to put an accent on both 'he' and 'is'. "Again, the computer will explain." She said and departed up a ladder that led to the central control room.
Jorge wanted to call it ‘the bridge’ but learned from the Captain that a bridge was for piloting a ship and this station was not piloted, but stationary in space—thus the name. He thought it was funny calling it the CCR, though. He may be the only person on the SS Minnow who knew of the music group, some ninety years gone, that went by that acronym-name. As he entered the gravity-elevator (the captain had given it a name he heard and immediately forgot) Jorge told the elevator to return to his floor and hummed a portion of a partly remembered tune, "Doot, Doot, Doot, walkin out my back door".
The elevator rose and so did Jorge, leaving the floor and beginning to drift.
Jenny greeted him when he returned. The cat seemed more attentive than when he left. Jorge didn't think cats acted like this; asking for attention like a dog. He never had a cat, so he just assumed they were loners. After insuring that the cat didn't need to use the latrine (waste unit was how the Captain referred to it) by opening the door and waiting to see if Jenny entered, the cat attached itself to Jorge's suit. It's claws were extremely uncomfortable. Jorge got them to retract only after he looped the cat and secured him with straps to his lap.
Jorge stroked the cat. Jenny began to purr.
...OK beulahs and beulnubbins, if the length of this spacestation's cruise isn't contorted in the minds of your fellow countrymen causing Jorge (pronounced whore-hey) to be mistakenly called Gilligan, then once this author hears what animal (from a 70's Chicago tune) Jenny is named after, he will continue with 'Jorge and the Cat part 3'...
Out the corner of his eye, Jorge saw the reflection of a ghost-pale woman gracefully entering the room. Her head was down and her feet were up. He looked back at the cat and guessed it was probably their head and ass pointing in the wrong direction. With recessed light-strips along every surface but the door, there had been no way to determine which was the ceiling.
The door shut behind the ghost woman. Jorge still watched the cat. It clutched the sock in it's forelegs and kicked it to death. He could hear clicks (she must be attaching her straps to his walls) and the puffing of cat breath (as it killed the sock). The cat was drifting toward the surface Jorge had previously selected as the ceiling but was the ghost woman’s floor.
Eyeing her reflection peripherally, Jorge noticed she had re-oriented to his floor and ceiling. How accommodating, he thought.
The ghost woman's reflection was blurry, but Jorge could see that she was wearing the same gray suit he was dressed in, that she had a man’s hair cut, and that there was nothing in her hands. He grinned (he enjoyed proving himself right).
"I was just playing with the cat." Jorge said. "I love how graceful she is and how she's able to get around so well."
The cat pushed off the ceiling with one paw and continued to mouth the sock as it roll-floated.
"Obviously she's been here a day or two longer than me." Jorge continued.
The ghost woman's reflection stared at his back.
Since they were now sharing a three-meter cube, he could hear the ghost woman’s breath almost as clearly as the cat's. And the ghost woman's was more rapid than someone of her diminutive size should sound, unless she just finished exerting herself (Jorge pictured her finishing a sexual-romp and rushing to get here). No, it was probably nervousness on her part; but why? He could smell her. It was a clean smell, no deodorant, no lotions, no sprays, and no sweat. Jorge posed a few mental guesses as he sized up her floating reflection.
Maybe the ghost woman was upset (unless stiff-stern was her normal posture). She probably was accustomed to people placing 'conversation with her' higher on their priority list than 'playing with a cat'. She might even think I'm being rude to expect her to talk to my back, he thought. Jorge decided she was a superior officer and possibly one of the vast majority he had met who relied primarily on the rank displayed on their uniform, instead of their personality or any semblance of an ability to lead, to command others.
Jorge's mind wandered...wonder if the ghost woman just needs to get laid? He began to fabricate a mind-movie. The elastic straps and lack of gravity added flavor to his fantasy as he imagined her contorted into a position similar to the cat's at the present moment.
He checked her reflection again. Still there, still not even a throat clearing. Jorge drew out the silence by slowly reaching down to unfasten a strap before trying to turn around.
In a soft, slightly-husky voice, the ghost woman said, "Your cat is male."
Pleased he got her to talk first, Jorge unhooked, pushed-off, turned and (after missing once) re-hooked. He decided not to respond to her "your cat" bait—just because he woke up with it didn't make it his—she wanted to make him start a line of defensive questioning: Oh sorry, did I say she? I didn't notice. Yes, I see. It has balls. My mistake, I usually refer to all cats as a ‘she’ and all dogs as a ‘he’. How are you today ma'am? Why did you say this was my cat? Blah blah Bullshit.
Looking the ghost woman straight in her scowl, he said, "Name?" While he gave her his most innocent expression: Eyebrows raised. Hands motionless.
"The cat has a National Serial Number. Names aren't assigned." She didn't smile as she said it and her brow said she had nothing more to add.
Jorge noted her eyes were the same color as her hair. Mousy brown; sparrow brown was more appropriate. Combined with the stark whiteness of her skin, it put her on the unattractive side of plain. Jorge gave her a 4 on his desirability scale. He always ranked women. He never admitted to it. Never told others—even close male friends—and didn't really like the trait. He just did it. Always. Jorge didn't think he was going to like her. He'd do her; he'd do anyone on his scale above a 2. But he was well on the road to hating her.
In slightly less than 1.3 seconds Jorge mentally ticked through a few of the various other answers ghost-woman could have given:
1. Major Mary Wickless, but you can address me as Ma'am (would have given confirmation to his previous mental guesses).
2. I'm sorry. You are Chief Warrant Officer Jorge M. Hayden; I wasn’t told you had amnesia (Taking the slight humor-offense and causing him to pause).
3. We call that ugly feline 'TB', short for ... oh, I hope that scratch on your cheek isn't from him? (Big humor—the best way to take command).
4. Yours, the cat’s or mine? (The checkmate response.)
"I didn't mean Jenny." Jorge replied, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "I meant you." He accented the word by bringing his hand back to point at the ghost woman before grabbing a strap (arm swinging had caused him to pivot). Jorge hoped anger would work. If his guess was right and she was upset, turning it into anger should be easy.
"Captain Susan Fortnoy. I’m the G3."
Jorge inwardly smiled (I really like being right).
She paused and scanned his face to see if her rank or position had sunk in, or if she needed to elaborate. No anger yet. Jorge guessed either his expression held or the captain figured anyone who would name a male cat 'Jenny' needed the full speech, because she continued.
"I am the Operations Officer responsible for foreign relations on the Minnesota."
Another pause, Jorge thought it was probably to see if he would show any confirmation that he had already figured out he was on the Minnesota (commonly referred to as the SS Minnow). He was certain Sue never referred to herself or the space station by nickname. Jorge hoped her use of 'foreign relations' hadn't caused him to change his expression, because he had no idea what was foreign about him that needed relating with (or to).
She kept going. "I'm here to provide a familiarization brief and welcome you to the station," with no emotion on her face or in her voice.
"Sue?" Jorge asked. "Captain . . . as in the Navy rank for Colonel?"
He was on the right track. Her eyes squinched and she folded her arms across her flat chest (impressively, without spinning against her straps). Jorge tried a little harder. Without hand gestures, he said, "I'm tired of the game Colonel. I want some answers: Why am I here? How did I get here? How did my last mission end? What are my present orders and what is a goddamned soldier doing in space?"
The Jorge Hayden Book of Rules listed: 'Referring to a Naval or Air Force officer by Army rank' as number one with a bullet, under the heading: successful ways to piss someone off.
"Anything else?" She asked. No anger.
"Yea." No. . .yes ma'am, Jorge went for broke. "Why is my roommate a cat? I've been locked in here with it for hours with nothing but six walls and a broken monitor. If I start bumping into cat turds or breathing piss, I'll kill and eat your station mascot."
"Mister Hayden, you are still a member of the US Army and will continue to handle yourself professionally. You will conduct yourself as an officer and representative of the United States on this multi-nationally operated station. As such, you will afford members of all forces, both US and foreign, with the respect due their rank and position."
The ghost-woman-captain was fairly good in her delivery. No stutters. She wasn't flushed. Worst of all she wasn't angry. She was stern. Her attitude was calm, but she still looked upset. Maybe she just didn't want to talk to him. In-briefing a lowly Warrant? Maybe that was the job of some Army Captain—what the Navy called a Commander or some shit. She hadn't even started a teeny-tiny sway against the straps.
She continued, "I am not here to answer questions. I will provide you with a short tour and point out the necessary facilities. The shower and bathroom for both you and (she paused) Jenny." As she said that she nodded at the wall opposite the monitor and said, “latrine open.”
A portion of the wall slid open to reveal odd-compact contraptions. Jorge had never seen a space latrine before and immediately wanted to ask how it worked. Instead he decided to keep on the track he had started.
"Look, I’ve got to hand it to you, Captain." Jorge chanced his infamous, 'eyebrows raised, lips pursed, shoulders hunched, and (the tricky part) palms upturned,' body posture. "My last memory, prior to waking up a while ago, was of a mission which ended negatively. . .the location and nature of which I am not at liberty to discuss." He added in case this conversation was being monitored or recorded by some US Department of Defense weenie who's job it would be to fuck him later.
Jorge knew no one was better at—or took more pride in—screwing their own, than the US DOD.
"I'm not dead," Jorge continued. "No...not in a hospital." Jorge let sarcasm enter his posture and voice, "Better yet, I have no memory of a free shuttle ride to the SS Minnow, where a person of my training and experience has abso-fucking-lutely no place to be in the first, middle, or last place." He started to sway and caught a ring above the monitor. He finished with the kicker, raising his voice for the effect, "I wake up, locked in a room with a cat? And you aren't here to answer questions?"
Looking at the cat, which Jorge referred to as 'Jenny' on the spur of the moment because it was the first pet name (his second wife's little kick-dog) that came to mind after the ghost woman said it was male. The cat was no longer occupied with his sock (which Jorge grabbed with a minimum of flailing and put back on his right foot with a twist-bounce against his straps). Jenny was now in the latrine; it’s orange head sticking out of a rubber-boot-looking thing near the ceiling (at least, the surface Jorge's head was closest to).
The ghost-captain said, "Hayden, the Minnesota's computer will answer your questions. Later." This accompanied a nod at the monitor. "Once we finish with a tour, you can come back here and ask. Ok?"
Two hours later, Jorge was finished with enough of a tour to make him certain he wasn't a prisoner of war.
"All your questions can best be answered by the computer," the captain had repeated every time he asked anything besides how to operate the exercise machine or how to flush the shower-toilet-cat box or what the lighted indicators in the gravity elevator meant.
"Your room monitor is voice recognition activated, turned on with the word Minnesota followed by your last name, and will open and lock your door."
"What about the cat?" Jorge asked as he finished thanking her and was returning to his room. They were standing in one of the workstations with gravity—false gravity—but when you were walking on a floor that was always a floor, Jorge didn't care if it was because down was down or down was spinning away from the center. Jorge figured the cat was a prank the crew played on newcomers.
"You mean Jenny?" The Captain asked, a hint of a smile restricted to her eyes. "He is yours." She was able to put an accent on both 'he' and 'is'. "Again, the computer will explain." She said and departed up a ladder that led to the central control room.
Jorge wanted to call it ‘the bridge’ but learned from the Captain that a bridge was for piloting a ship and this station was not piloted, but stationary in space—thus the name. He thought it was funny calling it the CCR, though. He may be the only person on the SS Minnow who knew of the music group, some ninety years gone, that went by that acronym-name. As he entered the gravity-elevator (the captain had given it a name he heard and immediately forgot) Jorge told the elevator to return to his floor and hummed a portion of a partly remembered tune, "Doot, Doot, Doot, walkin out my back door".
The elevator rose and so did Jorge, leaving the floor and beginning to drift.
Jenny greeted him when he returned. The cat seemed more attentive than when he left. Jorge didn't think cats acted like this; asking for attention like a dog. He never had a cat, so he just assumed they were loners. After insuring that the cat didn't need to use the latrine (waste unit was how the Captain referred to it) by opening the door and waiting to see if Jenny entered, the cat attached itself to Jorge's suit. It's claws were extremely uncomfortable. Jorge got them to retract only after he looped the cat and secured him with straps to his lap.
Jorge stroked the cat. Jenny began to purr.
...OK beulahs and beulnubbins, if the length of this spacestation's cruise isn't contorted in the minds of your fellow countrymen causing Jorge (pronounced whore-hey) to be mistakenly called Gilligan, then once this author hears what animal (from a 70's Chicago tune) Jenny is named after, he will continue with 'Jorge and the Cat part 3'...
100 words - (type 4 remnant)
On 6 Jan 2005, I submitted a story to:
On 10 Jan 2005, they published it.
I am feeling no small amount of pride that they liked it enough to post it.
Type 4 Remnant
Collins’s gloved hand tingled as he gripped the meteor cavern’s mouth. His other fist tightened on his blade when he heard the remnant.
The Hydrodem should have killed all eight, Collins scowled. He contemplated the cleanest means of extinguishing the survivor without fucking up his biospheronic suit.
In half an exhale, Collins realized it wasn’t a remnant. Since his sanction didn't extend to furry, yellow eyed, halfgets, he put his respirator to the survivor's mouth.
The cat inhaled.
"The licensed harvesters can't mine inhabited rock. You coming?" Collins asked.
Back in the cat's mouth, the respirator's translator said, "Iss choice?"
submitted by: Veach Glines
On 10 Jan 2005, they published it.
I am feeling no small amount of pride that they liked it enough to post it.
Type 4 Remnant
Collins’s gloved hand tingled as he gripped the meteor cavern’s mouth. His other fist tightened on his blade when he heard the remnant.
The Hydrodem should have killed all eight, Collins scowled. He contemplated the cleanest means of extinguishing the survivor without fucking up his biospheronic suit.
In half an exhale, Collins realized it wasn’t a remnant. Since his sanction didn't extend to furry, yellow eyed, halfgets, he put his respirator to the survivor's mouth.
The cat inhaled.
"The licensed harvesters can't mine inhabited rock. You coming?" Collins asked.
Back in the cat's mouth, the respirator's translator said, "Iss choice?"
submitted by: Veach Glines
Film Code (Thru My Eyes First)
Critique is to Conversation,
as Sweat is to Sex
as Sweat is to Sex
“Have you read the new..., tried the lunch specials at..., seen the most recent...?” Everyone is—and wants everyone else to be—a critic. It just makes economic sense.
If Julio has already bought, and read, the twenty-eight dollar hard-back copy and if he makes that scrunchy wrinkled-nose expression accompanied by a quick shoulder-shrug when describing it; you’ll wait for your sister to lend you her paperback once it comes out next spring.
When Julio learns you spent the same twenty-eight on two tickets and two large combo’s, stood in line for forty minutes, sat behind an obese man who afforded you the opportunity to hear his every inhale and exhale—even over the dialog—for the entire ninety minutes, he’ll wait for Enrique to being it home after it comes out on dvd next year.
My sister refuses to eat shellfish at Morrie’s on Eighth, because she heard that our Uncle Jim had a real bad night after a plate of oysters there, last spring.
I waited for the video release of the Madonna-as-dictator’s-wife musical, because JP, my musical-film-critic-neighbor’s-wife, tried to over sell me on it.
She exclaimed, “it’s the absolute best movie I’ve ever seen in years.”
I could tell from her tone and hand-movements that JP wanted to like it more than she actually did, couldn’t figure out why, and wanted me to see it and then clue her in (JP: Antonio fucked up the timing and your ability to stay in the story; sorry I didn’t tell you sooner).
Although JP didn’t know it at the time, she was saying — in her way — that it would not be a wise investment of my time and money to see the movie in a theater. I’ve since learned an abbreviated verbiage to use when discussing films, so as to quickly and accurately tell someone (you, at the present moment) if and when they should see what I’ve already seen.
”...Riiiggt...Yeaahh, Were Usin’ Code Words!”
KEEPER: Refer to a picture as a Keeper, and you are proclaiming this film is worth the price of first-run admission (currently, 2 person occupancy with snacks: thirty bucks).When I read reviews written by other film critics, I translate: 4 stars = Keeper, 3 stars = Cheaper, 2 stars = D movie, 1 star = C movie, O stars = T movie.
The word ‘keeper’ is film collector jargon; used when an auspicious film contains qualities the collector prefers and has been deemed good enough to be ‘kept’ in his collection.
CHEAPER: A film qualifies as a Cheaper if it is only worth the price of a matinee show or viewing at a second-run theater (costs can vary from ten to twenty bucks).
D – Movie: Refer to a film as a D movie and you are saying everyone should WFD, 'Wait For the DVD'. In six to nine months (more or less) it will be available for rent at your local video store (with gas, sno-caps and an occasional late-fee: six bucks). 2011 Update: Although Netflix has almost completely supplanted DVD stores (and they plan to completely make DVD's unnecessiary by 2013; every movie available on 'instant download') this category will remain. D movie works for Wait For the Download.
This term should not be confused with the term B - movie, a Hollywood slang term for “budget movies”.
C – Movie: Consider a film a C movie when you believe the viewing audience should WFC, 'Wait For Cable'. You are saying ‘it is no problem’ on the year-wait for it to come out on subscription movie channels. To determine the dollar value, begin with the amount you pay for the service. Subtract all the Keepers, Cheapers and D movies you already watched and you end up with the value of a C movie: around three dollars.
T – Movie: The remaining detritus are the T movies. Every film that qualifies as a WFT, 'waste of fucking time' ('wait for TV', for those who don’t speak French) is a T-Movie. These are all the movies you would never pay to see (if they weren’t full of T&A and included in your monthly subscription cable price).
I round 1/2 stars down; unless the written review grossly contradicts the number of stars or it is a Mileau film (my personal favorite of the four catagories).
Always Recruit From Outside
for the position of Umpire
for the position of Umpire
People are always testing the opinions of others against their own: “Bobby said the latest Stephen King sucked; boy, was he right.” “I know you said their Chicken Caeser Salad was dry, but I thought it was OK.” “You mean she said it smelled terrible? I really like that potpourri!”
Once you discover someone with tastes similar to yours, you allow their opinion to guide your future decisions. You decide to ‘hire them as your umpire’. Everyone needs an umpire for things they are less than expert in. Just be as discriminating for the position as you would be for the baby-sitter of your four-month old.
Here is why you should never hire your film-ump from within your family circle:
My mother said many years ago (after I had just seen the film) “Well, don’t waste your money on that new Pulp Fiction garbage; it was so confusing, I walked out.”
My Mother—like a four-year old to cartoons—connects herself umbilically to news and home-shopping channels. I absolutely, positively, never ask my mother about films and would never consider her to fill a film ump position.
But, I’d fallen into my own trap. I had foolishly commented, “I’m so busy, I haven’t seen a new film in months.”
A tale I was unsuccessfully weaving, to explain my lack of sitting down with things I once wrote with—pens—inscribing on processed dead-tree flesh—paper—and then providing their combination—letters—to a long parade of couriers, for a fee; so they would deliver them to Mom next week. During that conversation I asked if giving her my old laptop would entice her to obtain an Internet account and an electronic address.
“Mom, they call it e-mail; it’s NOT as hard as programming one of those VCR things so you can catch the fashion jewelry hour while at the dentist.”
“I Wore This Uncomfortable Chunk of Metal…”
I don’t have an old laptop. Saying I did, was just an innocent fib. If she had agreed, then I would have had a good excuse to refer to my laptop as my old one, which would (obviously) need replacing. My second fib was: that working with computer on the Internet is slightly harder than programming a VCR. But, goddamn it, that is only as simple as reading the manual, which got thrown away with the box, ten minutes after it was plugged in.(For those reading this who ‘walked out because you didn’t understand the film’): If you had given a small amount of attention to the Milieu (the setting and all the visible details in the film environment) you would have noticed the main character’s clothing change and the varying times of day provided sufficient hints to assist in mentally un-shuffling Quentin’s fantabulous job of editing. Which would have been no more difficult than, say, remembering your partner’s last two plays in Euchre.
I didn’t allow any of these comments to escape my brain and travel across phone lines all those years ago, which is probably why Mom still calls and asks when I’m going to write.
A few years back, one of my film umpires said, “You should make a list of films I need to catch-up on.”
I had just expressed shock at the number of quality films she had never seen. I think my expression of surprise was actually a combination of fear and sadness, which caused my face muscles to convulse so that they could prevent my skull, jawbone, and all my teeth from jumping out of my mouth. It wasn’t just that she had never seen It’s a Wonderful Life, or The Wizard of Oz (among other classics); but I was now probably going to have to fire another ump.
For a few years I had assumed the existence of film-umpire credentials based on her outstanding record of recommendations. Now, I had discovered her opinions were foundationless. I was afraid to learn what other films she had never considered renting. The idea of incessantly re-watching craft movies by John Hughes in preference to meeting Clarence the angel or the witches of Oz caused me to shudder.
“I’m the Dude, Man.”
My film ump and I had previously agreed on films like Jaws, The Big Lebowski, and The Blair Witch Project, and on movies made (and re-made) for the movie masses.
Here’s a simple test to see if you are part of the movie masses (the target audience of Hollywood movie producers who are in the money-making business and will spend millions on advertising and hope that your film-ump won’t tell you it’s a WFD, WFC or worst of all a WFT):
A few months after I learned that my film ump had poor credentials, she questioned my failure to see the last Stanley Kubrick film. I then made her aware of her status as my film-umpire, when I reminded her of her critique: D-movie.Movie Masses Test
Consider yourself a member of the movie masses if:
You think the film remake of The War of the Worlds, (H.G. Wells’ tale of Martians attempting to conquer Earth) was improved with computer effects, snappy one-liners and big explosions.
If you were unaware it was re-done or thought the Will Smith movie released on the 4th of July several years ago was an original script, then you are not only a member of the masses, but a full-fledged voting member (and every producer in Hollywood should include you on their Christmas card list).
I had been waiting for the DVD, as she had suggested.
She immediately recanted. Claiming she distrusted her initial impression, she said that she saw the FILM again (notice her intentional use of film instead of movie) and was now diligently waiving me around the bases and through the theater doors. Which, at the time, meant I should find it at a second-run theater.
I still waited for the DVD. My intuition told me to contemplate the reason she felt obligated to go see a D-movie again. I considered her credentials and flavored her latest critique with a peppering of: maybe there was too much of a desire to like it. Maybe a pinch of, “By god I didn’t like Kubrick! The director of Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket; I must be wrong.”
At the time I thought, Maybe this grand-master of film was trying to squeeze one last message from his addled-brain. Maybe he should have left the Cruise-Kidman intimacy off-screen, in it’s rightful place? Even if that’s not true, master artists and film-makers are fallible. Remember Kubrick’s three-hour, pretty, but tediously boring attempt at making a milieu film? The title, which was the main character’s name, was as forgettable as the film itself. You don’t remember it? There’s a good reason; the same reason I’ve not included the title here.
Steven King’s Laundry List is Worth About a Buck-Fiddy
I always laugh when I hear that someone believes a well known author could sell any worthless list. In one of Mister King’s latest conversations with himself, he quotes someone who said he was at the stage in his career where he could, “…publish his laundry list.” (I think he actually used grocery list, but I think laundry list reads better).
This farce makes good magazine print, which makes for publicity—of which there is no bad—but it is not at all the truth. Why? Because Steven King has written some godawful shit. Some so bad, I'm glad I borrowed and didn't pay for them. But, with that said, there are enough real gems which came out of his head that you can still check out his next one to see if it is a Keeper or a WFT. Which reminds me of:
Rule of Thumb #86: If the subject matter of the art work is the profession of the artist, it is a WFT. If the film is about film-making; if the painting shows a painting being painted; if the novel's main character is a novelist; if the song is about the music industry; if the poem is about poetry: they are unworthy of consideration. In all these cases, the writer, painter, author, musician or poet, ran out of ideas and decided to jump-start the idea machine by 'writing what he or she knows' (and what they know is boring shit). The exception which proves the rule (there's always one) is Adaptation a film about the writing of the film's screenplay by the screenwriter of the film.I thought about my list. Jotting down a quick list of films my film-ump should catch-up on became a bunch of catagories, like listing favorite foods or music: when in the mood for...; only when there’s time for...; if I’m alone or with..., (sometimes fast-food, other times a full-course, expensive restaurant).
Then I thought, "Why should MY list of films to catch-up on be considered? Why would I be a good film-ump?"
I came up with three reasons: experience, objectivity and my willingness to take the time and explain.
The Passage of Time is Experience,
My Bald Spot is Age.
My Bald Spot is Age.
1. I’m qualified to be a film-ump because of my considerably extensive film-watcher background. I’m old (not Roger Ebert old, but close) and I’ve been watching films and movies my whole life (something I’ve got on Gene Siskel, but, so do you). There may be millions of people just like me: aging, avid watchers of moving pictures, but only a small percentage have the experience to know what they prefer and why. And only a small number of those people can explain why you enjoy what you do. I have that ability.
Vincent's Paramour Didn't Have an Artist's Eye,
Just an Ear.
Just an Ear.
2. I possess the eye of an artist. I am not claiming to be an artist (nor am I claiming not to be, it’s irrelevant). I have the ability to see and evaluate things from an objective standpoint. Most people see (smell, taste, hear) things through a personal subjective-screen.
Here is a test to determine if you have the ‘eye of an artist’:
If you think there’s no need to sit through the entire Disney film Fantasia to know what you like or dislike about animation and classical music; or if you believe you don’t need to listen to an entire disc of trance music to have an opinion about it, you do not have an artist’s eye and should rely on someone with an artists eye to be your umpire.Artist's Eye?Pick something you strongly dislike to see or hear.
Now sit through it - all the way to the end.
Make a list of three redeeming qualities (with no influencing prejudice).
Without an artist’s eye, one claims, “I could do that,” when regarding a wall-sized rectangle of spill-splashed paint.
With the eye of an artist, one understands the painting is the culmination of a process which began with an idea, led to the combination of specific materials into a creation, and ended with it’s display (probably by someone with the eye of an artist). Willingness to embrace the unknown and anticipate that around the next corner or over one's horizon is something that might teach, thrill or excite, is an indicator of an artist’s eye.
A child’s unwillingness to try a new food, a xenophobe’s fear of foreign travel, and an egotist’s recalcitrance to read an unfamiliar topic are all refusals to experience life. Those willing to try new food (after someone they trust says it’s good), travel to a foreign country (with a tour group), or read an unfamiliar story (as long as the cover has an ‘Oprah’s Book Club’ circle on it) are relying on someone else with an artist’s eye to be their umpire.
"You talkin to me?
You must be talkin to me. I'm the only one here.."
You must be talkin to me. I'm the only one here.."
3. My purpose for this essay is the same as why any artist creates anything: because there is an inner drive—an inner flame—that needs quenched. The completion of this list is as much a personal discovery as it is a vehicle for others to use.
If the primary motivation to create anything is personal gain, the craftsman (movie-maker, journalist, lounge singer, advertising layout designer, short-order cook) is merely focused on the end product: cash. An artist, however, focuses on the process of creating and is pleasantly surprised with the final product. Michelangelo, the Renaissance painter and sculptor, has been attributed with the following quote:
“I begin with a block of marble, chip the not-statue parts away, and discover I am finished when all the not-statue parts are on the floor.”Conversely, Roger Corman, director of a large number of WFT movies, has been attributed with saying:
“Movie making would be a business I could enjoy if it weren’t for producers, actors, distributors and all the other fucks who turn it into a job.”
EVERY FILM FITS INTO A FOUR-SIDED BOX
There are only four film types: MILIEU, PROBLEM, CHARACTER and RE-ORDER. Most people prefer one type over the others.
MILIEU
A milieu film has one over-riding premise: show the audience an exotic, new location or one it's never seen. The viewer is introduced to the location and moved around until the director has finished displaying his created environment; then the film is done.
Examples of milieu films are: Baraka, The Last Waltz, and Waking Life. Some science fiction, fantasy and animated films, and a majority of adult films, are milieu films.
PROBLEM
At the beginning of a problem film a question, fantastic idea, or problem is presented. The film is finished once there is resolution, an answer, or the idea comes full circle.
Cube, The Seven Samauri, and The Exorcist are problem films. Mysteries, Horror, and some Action Adventures are problem films.
CHARACTER
A character film is primarily about the protagonist (or antagonist) trying to change his life. It begins when the main character discovers something intolerable in life and ends when he finds a new role, returns to his old role (which he discovers wasn’t as bad as he thought) or gives up trying.
Clerks, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Harold and Maude and American Beauty are character films. A large amount of comedies and many true-life stories and dramas are character films.
RE-ORDER
The focus of re-order films are on either restoring the old order or establishing a new order. The scale can be as small as the reorganization of inter-personal relationships to as vast as the establishment of a new world order. Re-order films begin when the main character becomes involved in restoring or healing the event which is bringing about a change (or initiating the re-order itself) and ends when he finally succeeds, utterly fails, or quits trying.
Twelve Monkeys, Playing by Heart, and Fight Club are re-order films. Romantic films, thrillers, and action-adventure movies usually fall into the re-order film type.
IDENTIFY THE SHAPE OF THE BOX
Determining a film’s dominant type is not difficult (if you try). Film-makers and screenwriters frequently apply more than one theme. Some use all four. Effectively incorporating two or more of these themes produces a multi-layered film - not, necessiarily, a better one.
The Matrix is a re-order film with a desire to be a milieu film.
These two films begin as character films and become problem films: Psycho, directed by Hitchcock, and Breaking The Waves, directed by Von Trier.
Apocalypse Now is a problem film that could easily be confused as a milieu film.
Bad Boy Bubby is a re-order film with a strong character film quality.
It’s a Wonderful Life is a character film containing elements of all four themes. Sixty years has provided the milieu film qualities, the problem film theme is integral to the plot, and the re-order film elements are evident in the alternate reality.
Consider The Wizard of Oz: a character film wrapped around a problem film that becomes a milieu film.
Catch up on films in your favorite film type, from my list:
MILIEUBaraka
Blade Runner
Clockwork Orange
Existenz
Fantasia
The Fifth Element
The Last Waltz
Metropolis (both the aname and Fritz Lang's silent)
Waking Life
Wizards
Hero
CHARACTER
A Boy and His Dog
Adaptation
American Beauty
Amiele
Bad Boy Bubby
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
The Big Lebowski
Breaking the Waves
Clerks
Eraserhead
Harold and Maude
Hedwig and the Angry Inch
High Fidelity
It’s a Wonderful Life
The Wizard of Oz
PROBLEM
Apocalypse Now
The Blair Witch Project
Brotherhood of the Wolf
Cube
The Exorcist
Jaws
Kill Bill 1&2
Memento
My Name is Nobody
Psycho
The Seven Samurai
War of the Worlds
RE-ORDER
Requiem For a Dream
13 Conversations about the same thing
Dark City
The Fight Club
Full Metal Jacket
The Matrix
Monsoon Wedding
Playing By Heart
Pulp Fiction
The Quiet Earth
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring
Twelve Monkeys
Vanilla Sky
Field Notes
One day, whenever and then some, zero-dark-thirty:
At sunrise I was rudely scolded out of sleep. Clacks and squawks erased my comfortable dreamscape. The noises originated from a nest, which I could see through the tent’s skylight. A pair of large blue, black and white birds. Magpies. In Southern Utah.
I had not seen a magpie since leaving Europe many months ago. Maybe they were recent transplants to the American southwest like me. I thought they were a couple of euro-magpies discussing who was responsible for breakfast, or he could be asking for a morning beak-job. Since I’ve been told they mate for life, I figured it was one or the other at this hour.
The magpies chatter made me regret being coerced by yesterday’s weather forecast into setting up under their tree.
Actually, that was untrue. I was happy to find the thicket of brush and scrubby cottonwoods on a riverbank which acted as a much-needed windbreak. That portion of yesterday’s weather forecast was certainly accurate; the tent was almost untouched by wind. Fully awake, I recall the wrong part of the forecast: my frozen ass (literally) waking me at zero-dark-thirty. The weatherwoman was right when she said, ‘35 mph SW gusts’. She was smoking crack when she said, ‘low in the 50s’.
Why did a lower temperature make a difference to me? Because I have a camp bed that folds to the size of a golf bag. Open, it holds an air mattress two feet off the ground. Early in my camping escapades, I learned (the hard way) to put the mattress on the bed only when the weather was above 50. Actually, above 55 was better. Cold air circulated under the bed, infused through the air mattress, then through the sleeping bag, and my skin acted as if I was naked in a hammock (but without an uncomfortable mesh imprint).
For the previous few weeks I had been further north where I kept the air mattress and sleeping bag on the ground (That was north in direction as well as feet above sea level). But, the temperature never dropped below 45 and was in the 50s for several nights. So, I decided to put the bed up. After all, the forecast called for 50s.
So, after a few toddies while watching falling and shooting meteorites, I fell asleep with my tent protected from the gusts as the 75-degree day slowly slipped into the 50s. My asshole.
Could have been used to chill wine.
The toddies had caused my internal rheostat to stop working; I woke only after my brain quit receiving signals from my ass cheeks and frostbite set in. I got up, put the mattress on the ground, re-inflated it (caused by a small hole which I patched the next day) and removed a ¼ inch crust of ice from the top of the water dish.
So, when I say, “low in the 50s, my ass,” understand I’m recalling a painful lesson in: “Give less credence to radio weather forecasts than cell phone commercials”.
I suspect the reason I lost sleep at this wilderness campsite is because I broke 'primitive camping unwritten rule number one': Never set up within visual proximity of other campers. And the magpies were there first.
Breaking that rule would be similar to breaking 'urinal unwritten rule number one': Never take the pisser next to someone. (Never step up next to someone on a wall of empty pissers unless every other slot is full. If you do? Bad karma, meat-gazer.)
Another day, more than two months; I think I lost a day besides:
Traveling to a nearby lake which was more like a puddle, caused me wonder: Is there an acreage-size that makes a body of water large enough to be called a lake? A mound of earth is a hill until it measures a certain height, then it can be called a mountain. Are there similar requirements for a pond to become a lake?
At this time I had been camping at a dispersed site in the Rim Lakes region of north-central Arizona for over a week. Exploring the area, I drove to a nearby lake-pond where I discovered they rented rowboats. Since I could check into a local hotel and take a much-needed shower for the same price they would charge me to sweat over a pair of oars for four hours, I opted to hike with Gus, my cat, instead.
Besides the price of boat rental there was one huge overriding fact I didn't go boating that day: I could drink the lake dry in four hours.
The Parks Department had fifty rowboats stacked on and moored to several docks. I could see seven boats presently in use on the water. Their occupants were being careful not to smack one another with their oars. I imagined all fifty in the lake-pond, making it possible to cross the water by hopping from one boat to another.
When I got back to my campsite, someone was setting up next to me.
O-oh.
They were violating primitive camping rule number one.
I muttered to Gus, "up to now, I was enjoying this spot."
Over eighty wooded sites scattered between three separate areas—covering hundreds of acres—and only ten were occupied (including mine and the site these dumb-fucks were putting-up a tent in, thirty feet away).
I turned my vehicle and backed to the side of my shade-tent. The woman dumb-fuck was clapping her hands, facing me, and shouting in the internationally recognizable ‘calling-the-dog’ gesture.
Double O-oh.
On a scale of O-oh’s, a dog in the next site falls somewhere between: three grade-schoolers and a van full of drunken thrash-metal freaks.
Grade-schoolers will normally have a bedtime and won’t eat my cat. The freaks won’t sleep and may only eat my cat if they run out of Scooby snacks.
Woman dumb fuck was shouting two names, “Logan. Nicky.”
Double O-oh, plus.
Stereo barking. Gus would now lose his roaming privileges of the campsite and wouldn't be leading me on walks (he follows when it’s hot, leads when it’s not).
Three hours of calling Looooogaaaan Niiiiiiickky and I have met the dumb-fucks as they search for their dogs. I help look. After five hours Gus is walking with me to “help search,” because it isn’t looking good for the dumb-fuck dogs.
Two days later the dumb-fucks leave without Logan and Nicky. The dumb-fuck dogs never returned. According to distraught woman dumb-fuck, “They bounded out of the car as soon as we got to the campsite, disappeared and never came back. They always came back in the past”.
I was awarded an air mattress leak, frostbite on my ass, and early morning wake-up calls for violating the rule and I just camped next to a pair of magpies; look what happened to the dumb-fucks.
A great day, climb back a few weeks, but then who’s counting:
I was camping in the vicinity of Natural Bridges National Monument. Wonder who’s idea it was to put both those words: natural & national, in the name of this place; what a snapperheaded mix of words. Try saying it with a few beers in your tummy.
Evening hikes are the best for Gus. The shadows are long, so he isn’t concerned with the heat of the sun and doesn’t walk from shade to shade like he does when the sun is overhead.
This evening our hike took us down over a hundred feet of canyon to a dry creek-bed where Gus became preoccupied with hunting small lizards. They always dashed away. Dozens of pounces and although Gus caught none he seemed to think the very next crack would result in a caught lizard. I stop to watch because the hike was stalled. Not just because Gus was slower than the lizards and didn’t know it, more because I was putting off the climb back to the campsite.
We eventually make it back before dark. The shadows were almost vertical and the orange sun was resting on the horizon. I plop my tired bones into a camp chair and complain to Gus about his unwillingness to climb back up (away from lizard-game). I even had to carry him for part of the return climb, which was not an easy feat because at certain points the climb required all my fingers and feet to grapple for the next higher ledge. I solved the reluctant-Gus problem at those points by throwing him over my head at the next ledge. He may be interested in lizards but when thrown up the rock face, he quickly got the idea to climb on ahead.
The camp chair I plopped into was intended for the beach. Sitting in it I had a comfortable headrest and armrests but my ass hung about two inches off the ground. At the beach, I would lay my legs in the sand. In the campsite, however, I look for something to prop my heels on (so the backs of my legs and short pants don’t get dirt and ants on and up them).
I rolled over a couple of old fire ring rocks. As I put my feet out in front of me I looked at the ground to see if any ants would actually be able to crawl up my pant legs. I see a small yellow scorpion and then a second smaller one next to it. Apparently, they were under one of the rocks before I moved it, about a foot or two from my feet (or, more accurately, the intended location for my outstretched feet. Since I immediately stood upon seeing the pair of scorpions, that was no longer an issue).
I examine them while I mull over my luck in not getting stung when I moved the rocks. I say to Gus (who was in the tent), “At least they aren’t those big black ones I’ve seen in movies.”
The scorpions tired of my examination and found where I moved their shelter and scurried back under the rocks.
I decide, now that the excitement is over, to research scorpion-bites in my handy little wilderness first-aid manual.
My manual relates to treat scorpion stings much like a wasp or hornet sting. It further relates,
I sometimes let Gus roam the campsite. This evening, because I was going to be building a dinner campfire and becaue it was already getting dark, I had put him in the tent immediately upon our return. I exhale in a sigh of good-fortune for me as well as for Gus as I poke and prod two small bits of fuel into the fire.
At sunrise I was rudely scolded out of sleep. Clacks and squawks erased my comfortable dreamscape. The noises originated from a nest, which I could see through the tent’s skylight. A pair of large blue, black and white birds. Magpies. In Southern Utah.
I had not seen a magpie since leaving Europe many months ago. Maybe they were recent transplants to the American southwest like me. I thought they were a couple of euro-magpies discussing who was responsible for breakfast, or he could be asking for a morning beak-job. Since I’ve been told they mate for life, I figured it was one or the other at this hour.
The magpies chatter made me regret being coerced by yesterday’s weather forecast into setting up under their tree.
Actually, that was untrue. I was happy to find the thicket of brush and scrubby cottonwoods on a riverbank which acted as a much-needed windbreak. That portion of yesterday’s weather forecast was certainly accurate; the tent was almost untouched by wind. Fully awake, I recall the wrong part of the forecast: my frozen ass (literally) waking me at zero-dark-thirty. The weatherwoman was right when she said, ‘35 mph SW gusts’. She was smoking crack when she said, ‘low in the 50s’.
Why did a lower temperature make a difference to me? Because I have a camp bed that folds to the size of a golf bag. Open, it holds an air mattress two feet off the ground. Early in my camping escapades, I learned (the hard way) to put the mattress on the bed only when the weather was above 50. Actually, above 55 was better. Cold air circulated under the bed, infused through the air mattress, then through the sleeping bag, and my skin acted as if I was naked in a hammock (but without an uncomfortable mesh imprint).
For the previous few weeks I had been further north where I kept the air mattress and sleeping bag on the ground (That was north in direction as well as feet above sea level). But, the temperature never dropped below 45 and was in the 50s for several nights. So, I decided to put the bed up. After all, the forecast called for 50s.
So, after a few toddies while watching falling and shooting meteorites, I fell asleep with my tent protected from the gusts as the 75-degree day slowly slipped into the 50s. My asshole.
Could have been used to chill wine.
The toddies had caused my internal rheostat to stop working; I woke only after my brain quit receiving signals from my ass cheeks and frostbite set in. I got up, put the mattress on the ground, re-inflated it (caused by a small hole which I patched the next day) and removed a ¼ inch crust of ice from the top of the water dish.
So, when I say, “low in the 50s, my ass,” understand I’m recalling a painful lesson in: “Give less credence to radio weather forecasts than cell phone commercials”.
I suspect the reason I lost sleep at this wilderness campsite is because I broke 'primitive camping unwritten rule number one': Never set up within visual proximity of other campers. And the magpies were there first.
Breaking that rule would be similar to breaking 'urinal unwritten rule number one': Never take the pisser next to someone. (Never step up next to someone on a wall of empty pissers unless every other slot is full. If you do? Bad karma, meat-gazer.)
Another day, more than two months; I think I lost a day besides:
Traveling to a nearby lake which was more like a puddle, caused me wonder: Is there an acreage-size that makes a body of water large enough to be called a lake? A mound of earth is a hill until it measures a certain height, then it can be called a mountain. Are there similar requirements for a pond to become a lake?
At this time I had been camping at a dispersed site in the Rim Lakes region of north-central Arizona for over a week. Exploring the area, I drove to a nearby lake-pond where I discovered they rented rowboats. Since I could check into a local hotel and take a much-needed shower for the same price they would charge me to sweat over a pair of oars for four hours, I opted to hike with Gus, my cat, instead.
Besides the price of boat rental there was one huge overriding fact I didn't go boating that day: I could drink the lake dry in four hours.
The Parks Department had fifty rowboats stacked on and moored to several docks. I could see seven boats presently in use on the water. Their occupants were being careful not to smack one another with their oars. I imagined all fifty in the lake-pond, making it possible to cross the water by hopping from one boat to another.
When I got back to my campsite, someone was setting up next to me.
O-oh.
They were violating primitive camping rule number one.
I muttered to Gus, "up to now, I was enjoying this spot."
Over eighty wooded sites scattered between three separate areas—covering hundreds of acres—and only ten were occupied (including mine and the site these dumb-fucks were putting-up a tent in, thirty feet away).
I turned my vehicle and backed to the side of my shade-tent. The woman dumb-fuck was clapping her hands, facing me, and shouting in the internationally recognizable ‘calling-the-dog’ gesture.
Double O-oh.
On a scale of O-oh’s, a dog in the next site falls somewhere between: three grade-schoolers and a van full of drunken thrash-metal freaks.
Grade-schoolers will normally have a bedtime and won’t eat my cat. The freaks won’t sleep and may only eat my cat if they run out of Scooby snacks.
Woman dumb fuck was shouting two names, “Logan. Nicky.”
Double O-oh, plus.
Stereo barking. Gus would now lose his roaming privileges of the campsite and wouldn't be leading me on walks (he follows when it’s hot, leads when it’s not).
Three hours of calling Looooogaaaan Niiiiiiickky and I have met the dumb-fucks as they search for their dogs. I help look. After five hours Gus is walking with me to “help search,” because it isn’t looking good for the dumb-fuck dogs.
Two days later the dumb-fucks leave without Logan and Nicky. The dumb-fuck dogs never returned. According to distraught woman dumb-fuck, “They bounded out of the car as soon as we got to the campsite, disappeared and never came back. They always came back in the past”.
I was awarded an air mattress leak, frostbite on my ass, and early morning wake-up calls for violating the rule and I just camped next to a pair of magpies; look what happened to the dumb-fucks.
A great day, climb back a few weeks, but then who’s counting:
I was camping in the vicinity of Natural Bridges National Monument. Wonder who’s idea it was to put both those words: natural & national, in the name of this place; what a snapperheaded mix of words. Try saying it with a few beers in your tummy.
Evening hikes are the best for Gus. The shadows are long, so he isn’t concerned with the heat of the sun and doesn’t walk from shade to shade like he does when the sun is overhead.
This evening our hike took us down over a hundred feet of canyon to a dry creek-bed where Gus became preoccupied with hunting small lizards. They always dashed away. Dozens of pounces and although Gus caught none he seemed to think the very next crack would result in a caught lizard. I stop to watch because the hike was stalled. Not just because Gus was slower than the lizards and didn’t know it, more because I was putting off the climb back to the campsite.
We eventually make it back before dark. The shadows were almost vertical and the orange sun was resting on the horizon. I plop my tired bones into a camp chair and complain to Gus about his unwillingness to climb back up (away from lizard-game). I even had to carry him for part of the return climb, which was not an easy feat because at certain points the climb required all my fingers and feet to grapple for the next higher ledge. I solved the reluctant-Gus problem at those points by throwing him over my head at the next ledge. He may be interested in lizards but when thrown up the rock face, he quickly got the idea to climb on ahead.
The camp chair I plopped into was intended for the beach. Sitting in it I had a comfortable headrest and armrests but my ass hung about two inches off the ground. At the beach, I would lay my legs in the sand. In the campsite, however, I look for something to prop my heels on (so the backs of my legs and short pants don’t get dirt and ants on and up them).
I rolled over a couple of old fire ring rocks. As I put my feet out in front of me I looked at the ground to see if any ants would actually be able to crawl up my pant legs. I see a small yellow scorpion and then a second smaller one next to it. Apparently, they were under one of the rocks before I moved it, about a foot or two from my feet (or, more accurately, the intended location for my outstretched feet. Since I immediately stood upon seeing the pair of scorpions, that was no longer an issue).
I examine them while I mull over my luck in not getting stung when I moved the rocks. I say to Gus (who was in the tent), “At least they aren’t those big black ones I’ve seen in movies.”
The scorpions tired of my examination and found where I moved their shelter and scurried back under the rocks.
I decide, now that the excitement is over, to research scorpion-bites in my handy little wilderness first-aid manual.
My manual relates to treat scorpion stings much like a wasp or hornet sting. It further relates,
‘they are more painful than hornet stings, but no more damaging and the pain and swelling will go away. With one exception: The small, wheat-golden-yellow, Bark Scorpion of the southwestern US (as I read this, my smile fades) this scorpion sting can be fatal to infants and small children and if stung by this scorpion, immediate transport to a medical facility is required. Treat as if bitten by a rattlesnake because anti-venom is required.’Whew and double whew.
I sometimes let Gus roam the campsite. This evening, because I was going to be building a dinner campfire and becaue it was already getting dark, I had put him in the tent immediately upon our return. I exhale in a sigh of good-fortune for me as well as for Gus as I poke and prod two small bits of fuel into the fire.
Decision Waffling
(the challenge: multiple character article; never identify genders; effectively use past, present and future-omniscient tenses. you be the judge.)
What would you like to see?” said Frap.“Oh, I don’t know…the suspense one might be OK. I’ve heard it’s really cool. But, whatever you want is fine,” replied Bandy, hoping Frap picked the suspense film.
Bandy wanted Frap to choose.
This was Bandy’s rationale:
- If the suspense film was bad then ‘Frap picked it’.
- If it was good Bandy could claim ‘it was my suggestion’.
Bandy thought Frap looked distracted. Maybe it was because of the earlier traffic. Bandy hoped it was because of rush hour and not that Frap noticed the tobacco smell.
Frap, however, had a strong desire to see the new action film and knew the suspense film wasn’t going to be worth the time to sit through. The trailer they watched last month gave the plot twists away and ruined any hope of suspense, Frap thought.
At this point Frap knew the best thing to do would be to say, “Why don’t you go to that one, I’ll go to this one and afterwards we’ll meet at the car, go get a vanilla shake and tell each other about our respective films?”
Instead Frap said: “Do you think the action film would be interesting? It’s got that guy in it that we both like. What do you think?”
Frap was playing Bandy’s game with a bit more spin hoping Bandy would acquiesce. It would certainly be nice if they both wanted to do the same thing at the same time for once, Frap thought. But if they went to different films—each ending at different times—Bandy wouldn’t have to work too hard to fabricate an excuse to disappear for ten minutes.
“You drove, so I’ll pay. You pick.” Bandy said—putting Frap’s guilt in play.
Instead, Frap said—with slightly tightened throat muscles, “You seem to want to see the suspense film, so I guess the suspense film is what we’ll see.” Frap was no longer smiling much and then let out a breath and turned to give a distant glance at the horizon.
Bandy noticed most of Frap’s unspoken communication (but didn’t understand any of it) and announced—with more breath per word than necessary, “Why do you have to turn this into such a big deal? Now you’ve got an attitude over a movie? Jeezz. We’ll see the stupid action one.” And, not to let Frap’s posturing go unmatched, Bandy muttered and groaned and sighed and waived around melodramatically.
Frap replied, “Attitude I didn’t give you any attitude! You’re the one throwing a fit, getting all angry and loud. All I said was, 'we’ll see the suspense film, because that’s the one you want to see'.” In Frap’s mind this wasn’t a lie because only Bandy used negative and condescending words and only Bandy let anger show.
Frap determined early in their relationship that Bandy was incapable of communicating effectively using body language. Only capable of simple mimicry—in an exaggerated manner—Bandy’s body expressions were without any subtle finesse or effective aplomb. So when Frap resorted to communicating with body language, Bandy’s normal recourse was to point out Frap’s use of foreign language and ‘claim foul’.
“So now your posturing was all in my imagination? It’s all in my head? It’s only me?” Bandy asked.
Frap stood mute. A slight eye-squint and forehead wrinkle silently queried—what ARE you talking about? Bandy only saw a scowl like the one Bandy’s mother used when someone was about to get punished for not doing as she had instructed. Disgusted, Bandy bought two tickets for the action film.
To push it further, Frap said, as Bandy handed the tickets to the doorman, “I’m not going sit next to you through a movie if you’re going to be angry for no reason.”
Now Bandy made an ugly face, which was supposed to say—I’m hurt, fuck-you; but only came off as a funny grumpy-grouch. Frap almost smiled but held it and said, “Go over and exchange them at customer service for the suspense one if it will make you happy.”
Bandy replied, “No way I’m sitting through the suspense one NOW. With you pointing out all the bad qualities? Even if it turned out to be a great film, you’d broadcast to the world that I forced you to watch the worst movie of the decade.”
Frap won the battle, but the war will be lost.
Bandy will forever be incapable of the subtlety necessary to effectively play this decision waffling game—which is never a game couples win as much as one which is poorly played. The game kills relationships over the course of a lengthy war, usually due to the minor infections it carries with it.
Unfortunately it will take the entire two hours of film for each to forget how the other played the game (and who cheated).
The next day Frap will tell a co-worker that Bandy, “…got all pissed off at the theater for an totally imagined affront; then fabricated a reason to yell and followed through with it, for no reason at all.” The co-worker will console Frap by saying, “It might be best if you left before things get too difficult to back out.”
That same day, Frieda, Bandy’s older sister will learn things are still questionable because Frap, “…gets moody over the most innocent things and when Bandy points out the attitude changes, Frap always says the accusations are groundless or imagined.”
“I don’t think I can keep staying with Frap if this continues. I’m beginning to question my own sanity. When I recognize something I’ve said had a negative effect on Frap—but it’s not an obvious thing, right? I try to make amends. I'll ask, ‘what’s wrong?’ And then I’ll get, ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Which reinforces my suspicions. There must be something, because if there was nothing Frap would say, ‘Why do you ask?’ Not asking, means Frap knows why, so doesn’t say that. Get it? It drives me crazy. Frap has some kind of emotional tizzy going almost every day. I can’t figure out why and when I attempt, I make it worse rather than better.”
Frieda will tell Bandy to try a serious conversation about the relationship. “Sit down and talk about all the things you’ve told me over the last months. Get it all out in the open. Tell Frap you’re aware of the body language even though you can’t decipher the messages.”
“Oh, I already did that.” Bandy will reply. “Frap never wavered. According to Frap there is never any body language being used and I’m merely pointing at imaginary postures as a crutch to support my outbursts and moodiness. Frap actually said I was the one who was on an emotional roller coaster. That I used, 'invisible ghosts of unspoken expressions' as an excuse for my manic-depression.”
Q: What are their genders?
Q: Were the non-use of pronouns a difficult hurdle for you as reader?
Q: Was the changing of tense done smoothly?
—Veach Glines, December 2004
love note
I love you. I miss you when I’m away the 6 to 10 hours that take up my life as I go to work to meander about the office and read over inconsequential issues that I will come home and bring with me to harp over until I shake them out of my system like a dog worrying a bone that is too large to comfortably carry but may be forgotten once all the juicy bits have been eaten. I wake up in the morning wishing that I could roll over and curl myself around you and just stare at your resting face as you doze; in and out of actually waking and sleeping. But eventually I push myself out of bed and into clothes. Everyday that I kiss you in the morning before I leave is a better day for me. Just so you know.
every read of this message from my paramour stokes a smile inside me...
All fun and games 'til someone gets their eye put out
a creative non-fiction story formulated over a decade ago and only recently completed (it still needs some polish)
MEMORANDUM THRU Commander, SHAPE Medical Clinic, SHAPE, BelgiumAFTER ACTION REPORT - AMBROSE PARE
TO Director, SHAPE Liaison Office, Ambrose Pare Hospital, Mons, Belgium
SUBJECT: Patient Comments/Suggestions
1. After breaking the bone in my upper left arm, I stayed four days in the Ambrose Pare Hospital. I was admitted the morning of 16 March thru the emergency room. I was out of the operating room (after receiving a metal bar with eight screws) and awake by mid-afternoon. I checked myself out, against my surgeon's request, on 19 March.
2. I was asked by SHAPE Liaison Personnel and by Dr (CPT) Shiltie to prepare a comment form, documenting my dissatisfaction. I list here, not only the reasons I refused to remain in Ambrose Pare, but positive aspects of my experience. My hope is this After Action Report is used as a basis for changing the changeable, informing future patients, and commending the commendable.
3. POC is the undersigned.
VEACH GLINES
CW2, USA
1. Situation - Contact with Patient Liaison: After a quick examination at the Base Medical Clinic, I was told my broken arm may require surgery and that Ambrose had been called. "They know you are enroute." A nurse said, as she handed me a form to provide to the Ambrose Pare admissions clerk as I walking out to my friend's vehicle.
Upon entering the Ambrose Pare's Emergency Entrance, I approached the admissions clerk who spoke only French. I gave her the form and filled out another, in English. I asked for SHAPE Liaison (SL) assistance. I was given words of affirmation and directed down a hall to an unknown location. Unable to understand where I was being told to walk I stayed put, waiting for SL. A doctor coming to work stopped when he realized my confusion and guided me to X-Ray.
Result: I never met any SL personnel in the Emergency Room, after X-Ray, while waiting for surgery, or in the recovery room. After I was in the hospital more than 7 hours, already in a room on the first floor, I met a SL member who asked if I had any questions. By that time all my questions were moot.
Solution: When the Admissions Clerk greets a foreigner with as poor a command of the French language as mine; it should be automatic that he or she calls the cell-phone or pager of SL and punches a code indicating they have an ER admission who is (as I was) disoriented, in pain, scared and unsure of what directions he is being given. The ER should be given highest priority by all SL personnel. If tied up with something of higher priority (e.g. translation of a conversation between a patient and his surgeon, on the table, seconds before going under the knife) then meeting the patient as soon as physically possible is acceptable. If this isn't SHAPE Liaison Standard Operating Procedure (SOP), it should be.
Comment: I realize the SL has a limited staff and they can only be in one place at a time. They also have only two hands and I know they are very busy. I met every member of the staff during their long (0800-2400) workday on the four days I was in the hospital. I greatly appreciated all their assistance and would not have stayed as long as I did if it weren't for them.
2. Situation - No Communication: Permission to operate on my arm was never asked for or given. Because I am familiar with the US's over-protective system it was quite a shock to be wheeled into surgery and have my body being prepared for operation when I had yet to be told why I was going to need surgery or authorize it by signing a waiver of any type.
Result: I met my surgeon two minutes before I was placed under anesthesia. He spoke enough English to answer my questions and calm me. If he had arrived any later I would have had the surgery with no idea what was happening other than the guess given to me by the SHAPE Medical Clinic personnel hours earlier.
Solution: Add to the SL SOP, the additional priority of having a SL member present prior to surgery.
Comment: This is not a criticism as much as a reminder. Anyone who lives at SHAPE knows as a general rule the local Belgians do not know much English. Just because they are working in a hospital doesn't change anything.
3. Situation - Drug Reaction: My known allergies were Penicillin and Erythromycin. I must now add to that an unnamed morphine-based painkiller. I was given an intravenous drip of painkiller every four hours or so following my surgery. There was no noticeable reaction to this drug all through the day and through the night and next day (other than I fell asleep and felt little pain).
Very early (approx. 0100) on the day after my surgery, I felt very uncomfortable and unable to sleep; I was given a big shot of painkiller. My allergic reaction consisted of extreme spasms to the muscles covering my abdomen. Those muscles affected my ability to breathe (diaphragm), my ability to keep my back and leg muscles straight, and my contortions caused more pain than the drug was able to mask, causing me to involuntarily move the un-protected broken arm.
Result: Unable to relax my muscles voluntarily I called the nurse. She interpreted my actions and hand/arm signals to mean I was in need of a bedpan. I indicated she misunderstood and I didn't need a bedpan. I tried to tell her I was having stomach spasms because of the shot. She brought me a laxative and had me take it, indicating it should take effect in 12 hours or so. I gave up and asked for the SL. The nurse informed me they would come see me after 0800 when they got to work. My drug addled (the drug was still doing it's job, just doing some other stuff too) brain quit trying and spent over two hours of sweating and pain before either the side effect wore off or the painkiller caused me to pass out, or both.
Solution: A booklet or laminated, reusable, pamphlet needs to be prepared that contains the English (and other languages that are needed) and French phrases which may need to be used on a "can not wait" basis. This should contain phrases like, "I am experiencing a bad reaction to a drug causing my (blank) to (blank)." Then include lists: stomach, head, arm; convulse, vomit.
Other phrases, for example: "Please contact my wife and allow me to talk with her." may be useful for a person unable to hold a phone. "Contact my surgeon, there is a emergency or problem with my operation," may be a sentence needed when there is no time to pantomime.
Comment: This seems like a common statement here at SHAPE: every time is the first time for every thing. But, it's all fun and games until someone pokes an eye out (or breaks a bone). I felt like I was the first non-French speaking person to reside in this hospital and have problems. An SL person told me that I wasn't the first person to have difficulties, just the first person to become so agitated and unpleased with the hospital to leave against my doctor's orders.
4. Situation - No Pain Medication (The pain problem continues): After informing the SL of my reaction to the pain shot, I was not given any more pain medication, ever. I requested the SL members to tell the nurses I needed more, just different, pain medication (as I had done the day before when the nurses were being typically stringent with their pain killers). The SL said all I had to do was 'tell the nurses' (not one nurse knew the word "pain", they must have thought my arm was baked bread). The SL also told them for me.
And I cornered the orderly who removed the drain tube from my arm. He knew he caused me much discomfort while removing the tube and he was as knowledgeable in English as I am in French. He told me I had to wait for the '12 hours to expire' then pointed at the medication drip.
Result: I never got any more pain medication (except aspirin and later an alka-seltzer-type dissolving medicine; neither medications touched my pain). From the time I woke from the "bad shot" on day three until I checked myself out the evening of day four, I received no pain medication (except my own aspirin).
Even then, I had to wait until sick-call Monday morning to get a prescription for painkillers from SHAPE. I was unable to sleep Saturday night more than 30 minutes at a time, total of about three hours. Not all caused by pain: a hospital is a busy place, I had a roommate, nurses have checks and no one whispers. Sunday night was home and quiet, but the discomfort caused me to sleep very little.
Solution: If this wasn't just miscommunication or an error in the way the Ambrose Pare's nursing staff normally conducts patient care, then either some direction needs to be given to the nursing staff or SHAPE should reevaluate utilizing this hospital as an authorized care providing facility. Doors to patient rooms should be left in the closed position unless it is visiting hours, allowing the normal hustle and bustle of the nurses, orderlies, and cleaning crews to be minimized.
Comment: My pain was minor compared to someone with burns or extensive trauma. In my opinion, miscommunication and error were not the reasons I was left without painkillers for over 30 hours. I think the nurses need instruction on nursing. As a layman, I would know enough to check on my patients and discover they seem to always be awake when I'm in the room. Then determine why.
Note: I should add here that I stopped requesting pain medication after about 12 hours. I'd asked five or six different people and gotten nothing that worked. I was afraid they would grow tired of my asking (if all six were going to one central person who was refusing each time, as I envisioned) and administer another "bad shot" possibly after SL departed for the evening again.
This paranoia was caused by many different things, some of which may have been drug or pain induced. Mostly, however, it was because I understood a small amount of the nurse's words (and all of their body language and facial expressions) to know one thing: they despised dealing with me.
5. Situation - Orderlies: Morning of day two and I was beginning my first sponge bath by two orderlies who were apparently college girls. Both were visibly embarrassed to be required to bathe a man. I was unable to leave the bed. My broken left arm had a drain tube running from a six-inch incision into a vacuum bottle under my bed; my right arm had an equally large bandage holding the IV needle into which ran two drips.
The orderlies had already begun and informed me the only areas of my body they were going to wash were my legs, arms, armpits, chest and face. No they were not going to wash my hair, back, genital area, or shave me. Before they could wet a cloth, my wife arrived. They asked if she would like to assist. I pictured her doing the parts they refused to do and holding up legs while they scrubbed, things like that. She agreed to help. They left and never returned.
Result: My wife spent over an hour washing and shaving me. Because my wife's complete body wash and shave was so much better than the orderlies' wipe-and-go program. I asked her to return the next day at the same time. She did. And the nurses related she could also return to wash me on day three, which she also did.
Solution: The orderlies are in need of guidance on how to clean a body. If that means having a male orderly wash all male persons and vice versa, so be it. The fact that a patient is using bedpans and bed urinals should be more reason to wash his genitals than any other. The hair and back of a person become so dirty from body oils and sweat that to not clean them leaves one's personal hygiene completely lacking. Again, I recommend a close examination of the patient care abilities of Ambrose Pare. If they are not able to make changes then I recommend placing the hospital "off limits" to all military and their dependents.
Comment: It is possible that other patients who have previously used Ambrose Pare have either not concerned themselves with orderlies abilities, they may have been able to wash themselves (which would preclude noticing this lack of hygiene) or they may not have been witness (as I have with an elderly family member) to the correct "sponge bath technique". Regardless of why, I can't be the only person who would have left with the same dirt on my buttocks that I came in with, if it weren't for my spouse. Prior to this, I was aware how most French-Belgians had a strong body odor and how, in general, they were unclean. I did not know that it extended to hospital hygiene.
6. Situation - Visiting Hours: After my wife finished cleaning me Friday morning, a nurse came and asked if my wife was done. When informed she was almost done, the nurse left. 15 minutes later a different nurse came and told us that visiting hours were from 1500-1930. This was the first either of us had been told of these hours.
Result: My wife left and returned at 1500. Between her (not normally allowed) morning bath and 1500 I had no one to talk with, nothing to do (TV is solely French, I couldn't hold a book or phone longer than two minutes) except concentrate on my discomfort and fail all attempts to go to sleep.
Note: The Solution and Comment portions of this paragraph are combined with those of the following paragraph, because these two problems have similar solutions.
7. Situation - Private Room: After waking in the recovery room, I vaguely remember answering questions from the bottom of a blurry well. One of those questions was (all being asked by my surgeon; I doubt if this is normal either) what kind of room did I want? My answer was a private one...except...also...within whatever the US Military was going to pay for (proving I was merely groggy, not delirious).
Result: I was put in a room with four beds and two roommates. A SL person asked me on Friday afternoon if I, "still wanted to be moved to the private room" and then she told me why it would not be her recommendation.
The SL person said the cost of a private room was about $150 US dollars each day above the cost of the 4-person room which was what is covered by the military; also the hospital and operation room/doctor fees could be increased anywhere from 100% to 200% (not determined prior to receipt of the bill) and all increases would be my responsibility. She used figures in the thousands of US dollars. I opted to remain in the room I was in.
Solution(s): Either military CHAMPUS coverage or Ambrose Pare Administration needs to change the allowable/charged room rates and the "undetermined increase of fees" to permit SHAPE personnel to have private rooms without any additional cost to the service member, because the visiting hours for persons in private rooms are 0800-2000.
Also needed is a "Welcome Letter" from the SL Office, to all arriving patients. It would benefit the most if it were automatically handed out by the admissions clerk (both in ER and at the front doors). This letter would outline all routine functions of the hospital including, but not limited to, visiting hours, room options, clearly defined costs for benefits not covered by the military, services provided and supplies needed. Note: Robes, towels, washcloths or slippers are not available or provided. No water or beverages are provided except during meals.
Note: The combination of alcohol and pain medication is not a concern. I was offered a beer with lunch on Friday. I declined because I was wary of mixing alcohol and medications.
Comment: If my wife were permitted to remain in a multiple-room during private-room visiting hours, the other members of the room could object. However, I witnessed first-hand how this rule was easily bent when it benefited the nurses by permitting them to do less work (not bathe me).
8. Situation - Incompetence: In the early morning hours of day three I observed my drip tube was no longer dripping (when you can't sleep, you look at anything to pass the time). I notified the night nurse. She tried checking the bag; it was operating all right. She attempted to force fluid into my arm by squeezing the small rubber boot attaching the tube to the "T connector" taped to my arm. This failed attempt caused fluid to move in and suck back out of my arm. She repeated this painful attempt two or three more times. The nurse then disconnected a tube from the "T connector", sucked fluid through it using a small syringe, determined the connector was working and then she attempted to force the fluid into my arm by squeezing the syringe. I came up off the bed with more pain in that arm than the other. She quit forcing the fluid and left glaring at me like it was my fault.
Result: She removed the IV. The swelling and bruising caused by the forcing of the fluid into a collapsed vein was very evident. She placed a large compress on the wound, covering the entire wound with some of the most fowl smelling black-tar ointment I have ever had the misfortune to have to breathe.
Solution: Again, if this is the normal practice of the Belgian Nursing community, then instruction and specifically Ambrose Pare's standards should be examined. If this was just a coincidence, and they normally don't cause undue pain to their patients, then that specific nurse should be evaluated as to competence.
Comment: Based on the fact the tube temporarily stopped prior to the bag being empty and other nurses and one orderly also squeezed the rubber boot causing me pain, I believe this is common practice. She just took it further.
9. Situation - Lax Nursing Staff: After removing my "ace bandage" wrap and all gauze bandages in the afternoon of day two, the orderly responsible for removing my drain tube left the room. He returned with a nurse. She examined the exposed arm and then asked me if my wife was returning at 1500. I told her yes and she asked if my wife was still going to wash me. I was not sure what she was asking (since my morning bath was already done for that day) but said yes. She told the orderly my wife would clean my arm later and left the room.
Result: I learned by stumbling through both his English and my French that he had asked the nurse to clean the dried blood, adhesive, and medicinal stains off my arm. The orderly was merely responsible for removal of the tube and then redressing the sutured area and re-wrapping the arm; the nurse was supposed to clean it. He then asked me if I wanted the arm to be cleaned under the bandage or if the bandage should be left off until my wife cleaned it. I asked him to clean it and re-apply the wrap.
Solution: Examine the Ambrose Pare nursing staff and their supervisors. Obviously, none are required to perform to any standard of patient care.
Comment: Again, the nursing staff is culpable of shirking their responsibility. The orderly, however, was quite efficient.
10. Situation - Cleanliness: On day three, in the late morning, I was able to leave the bed and go to the sink in the bathroom to bathe. Allowing my wife to clean me without having to use a pail of water. Some water got on the floor. She used a paper tissue to clean up the water. The tissue was so dirty after just wiping up a small amount of water that I would hate to see how much dirt would come up if a scrub brush and strong soap were used.
Result: I observed how the ladies, responsible for cleaning a room, performed their duties. They used a "Belgian broom" type instrument (sponge with a dry lint adhesive towel under it) to push-sweep the central areas of the room. Not under beds, not in the bathroom, not anywhere the half-meter-wide tool wouldn't fit. Then they used a buffer with an automatic wax applicator to raise a shine in the central areas of the room. Dusting was done on horizontal surfaces (table tops, headboards, etc) No one did anything in the bathroom besides run a brush around in the bowl and wipe the sink. I did observe some wetness on the floor of the bathroom, but it was only enough wetness to cause the dirt to become wet, not to pick up any of it.
Solution: A change is required. This change needs to come from within the hospital. A standard must be enforced and inspections made to insure they are maintained. Give a date to have the hospital "up to code" if they cannot pass the inspection of a chosen military official. Deny Ambrose Pare the SHAPE community's business. (I just hope St Joseph's hospital isn't a carbon copy).
Comment: A hospital is where cleanliness is expected. Allowing our military members and their families to utilize facilities that are below any acceptable cleanliness standards is unforgivable.
11. Situation - Urine Bottles: I was only able to urinate in a urine bottle until my IV was removed on the morning of day three. I quickly noticed that when I used the bottle, and a nurse or orderly dumped it into the toilet, they never rinsed out the bottle.
Let me re-enforce this statement: Not sometimes, not usually, not almost never. NEVER. Not one of the dozens of times that my bottle was taken by one of the Ambrose Pare nursing or orderly staff during my three days of constant IV fluids did the sink in my bathroom get turned on and my urine bottle rinsed after dumping the urine in the toilet.
Result: To use the bottle, I had to open the wet cap of the urine bottle and place the wet mouth of the urine bottle at my groin. Then after filling the bottle, I would place the bottle on my bed-table and wipe my hands and genital area on a towel or on the bed sheet.
Solution: This may be the easiest to fix. Ambrose Pare can make the general SOP change: All urinals are rinsed just like bedpans; I doubt that bedpans are returned coated with feces (although I don't know, I was unable to use a bedpan).
Comment: Common sense (forget hygiene and medical training) tells you to rinse out the urine bottle. My thirteen year old (not known for hygiene or common sense) would probably do it instinctually!
12. Situation - Bed Pans: I was constipated. It was possibly the food (a topic I will not critique here, if there is a gourmet hospital in this world no one I've known has been there). It may have been the drugs combined with lying horizontal for days. Regardless, I couldn't use a bedpan. No nurse commented that I needed to try (except the nurse who mistakenly thought I was asking for one) and, as far as I know, no nurse ever knew that I had gone a minimum of four days without a bowel movement. That added lower abdomen pain was the capper on my good humor.
Result: I requested the SL ask the nurse if I could use my own laxative from home. Initially, the SL person gave her opinion ("I don't think they want you to bring in your own medication") But I persisted and she agreed to ask the nurses. They permitted it. I used it. It also didn't work so I had to resort to the most uncomfortable means of forcing a bowel movement.
Solution: Is this enough "Nursing Failure" comments? The solution is simple. Insure the Ambrose Pare Nurses are not just ladies off the street with pink and white dresses that know how to read a thermometer, blood pressure gauge, and say 'no' to pain medication.
Comment: In the past, nurses I've interacted with the few times I've been hospitalized, were concerned with how much I was "passing my wastes". They also were strict about when and if I get out of bed for fear of dizziness and falling. I got out of bed on day two so the orderly could change my bed linen. Less than 24 hours after surgery and I was dragging the drain tube and bottle and IV's over to a chair without any assistance.
13. Situation - Bed Linens: My wife washed me on day two and since she was not very familiar with the technique, she got water on the sheets and pillowcases. I told her it was no big deal, I saw a stack of clean sheets sitting in a chair and watched through the curtain as one of my roommate's bed was changed, so I knew I'd get clean/dry sheets. But, when I was in the chair, the orderly did not change the bottom sheet (stretching the length of the bed). The only sheets that were changed were the top sheet and a "protection" sheet that was across the middle of the bed under my buttocks. They also didn't plan on changing any pillowcases (one of mine was very wet from hair washing) so he had to go get a clean one, which took ten minutes.
Result: My bottom sheet stayed wet and soiled. It was never changed the entire time I was in that bed.
Solution: Change the hospital's procedures. All sheets are changed every day and more often as hygiene dictates.
Comment: Is this enough "lack of hygiene" criticisms? I was only in one room of one ward for four days; I can't be but just scratching the surface. We need an in-depth investigation with the health and well being of our military members in mind. The focus needs to be on our choice of health care providers and their standards. If they can't bring theirs up, are we expected to lower ours? At what expense?
14. Situation - Duration of Stay: On day three I asked the SL to contact my surgeon and ask him to visit me. When asked why, I told her I wanted to leave the hospital. I saw no reason to remain. I was actually more tense, less comfortable and the hospital, in my mind, was possibly more of a danger to me in terms of possible germs and diseases as well as errant nurses and incompetent orderlies (I left this last comment off, as I had done the entire duration of my stay. It's been my experience that one doesn't stir the pot when one is part of the stew). All I told her was now that my tubes were removed I could conduct all future business with my surgeon on an outpatient basis.
Result: My surgeon told me he wanted me to remain 48 more hours. His reasons were vague, but centered around, "After surgery a body needs to be watched, the skin and nerves, blah, blah."
Follow-on Situation: Almost immediately after my surgeon departed the SL person came, reiterated to me what the Surgeon had just told me and added I was being moved to a different room. When asked why, she replied because I was supposed to be on the second floor. She didn't know why I was put on the first floor. I had been there for four days, but now it was time to move me.
Result: I was moved from a room with one roommate who I had no difficulties with in any way (the second roommate moved my second day) to a room with three roommates. At the time of moving, each of the roommates had 2-4 guests in the room (one guest per roommate is about all a full 4-man room can handle without bothering a neighbor; two, if one stands...this should be a note of guidance in my proposed 'welcome letter').
At this floor, the SL person took it upon herself to ask my 'new' nurses if they were aware my wife had been coming in at 0800-0900 each morning and cleaning me and if that would be permitted on this floor. (I never asked her to ask them if that was permitted). I had learned from the nurse herself (on the first floor) that they were willing to 'look the other way' as long as my roommate didn't complain. I would have handled that situation similarly. She reported to me that the visiting hours would not be broken on this floor and my wife was not permitted to come the next morning.
Solution: I readdressed my surgeon and as tactfully as possible told him that under no circumstances would I stay in this hospital another night.
SUMMARY COMMENT: The SL members are always well intentioned but they allow their own opinions to enter into their conversations. I am fully aware of the difficulty of dealing objectively at all times; but professionalism demands it.
I learned from further conversations that a Belgian Citizen only pays a little over 40 US dollars extra for a private room. The reason is something about the national insurance covering all but that amount. SHAPE members don't have the insurance, so only the minimum is covered and the hospital sticks a large amount of hidden fees onto the bill (because they can).
Further, I recommend the 'Welcome letter' include detailed information on what to do for follow-up care. If you have an outpatient appointment (which can be made through the SL office) you must go to the front desk/cashier (any one of the three) and tell them your name, fill out another form, and receive a sheet of stickers. Then (and only with the stickers) can you get your x-rays and your surgeon's meetings as well as make additional appointments.
A map of the hospital denoting the ever-changing remodeling, and how to circumvent it, should also accompany this letter (words need to be in both French and English on the map so you can relate the map to the signs on the walls in the hospital).
Post Script:
Many months later I learned why if I was touched, even lightly, my arm hurt. I experienced (under the scar as well as near the elbow) excruciating pain, caused by a simple bump or nudge.
An x-ray revealed the eight screws were "counter-sink screws" but the metal bar did not have counter-sunk holes. Therefore, all eight screws had their sharp, angled, edges exposed inside my arm above the bar. Also, three of the screws went completely through the bone and projected their points under my bone near the elbow.
Bump my arm on top and the meat of my arm muscle rubs along the tops of the exposed screw heads. Hit the bottom of my arm on a table edge and the points of the screws try to puncture their way through my muscle and skin.
And I'd thought it was only the nursing staff that was slip-shoddy and incompetent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
