My hard drive crashed, and until that's been fully addressed (probably the first week of January) I really have to spend what computer time I can get on my thesis. See you all in January!
- B
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wolfram's Rule 34 (XKCD)
If I understood it myself, I'd explain it, but here are a few spam-free links that discuss it:
http://stackoverflow.com/questions/302369/wolframs-rule-34-in-xkcd
http://fakerake.com/2008/282/wolframs-rule-34-for-xkcd-readers/
http://atlas.wolfram.com/01/01/34/01_01_1_34.html
The 1st includes the 2nd and 3rd, as well as some others.
The original comic: http://www.xkcd.com/505/
http://stackoverflow.com/questions/302369/wolframs-rule-34-in-xkcd
http://fakerake.com/2008/282/wolframs-rule-34-for-xkcd-readers/
http://atlas.wolfram.com/01/01/34/01_01_1_34.html
The 1st includes the 2nd and 3rd, as well as some others.
The original comic: http://www.xkcd.com/505/
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Head in the sand
Photo of statue at Stanford University, San Fransisco, showing a result of the 1906 earthquake. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Agassiz_statue_Mwc00715.jpg
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Change.gov
The office of the President-Elect has its own website. They've already begun. Check it out at: http://change.gov/
X-ray Chapter 6, part 5
First Post|Previous|Next
Five hours later they were still sitting there, having merely stepped across the sidewalk at one o'clock to get their lunch. Marcus's newspaper, open to the classified section, lay spread out on his lap; Marcus himself lay back on the seat with his eyes closed. Ian lay similarly situated, but the presence of the steering wheel meant that his newspaper spread onto the dashboard. His coffee, now cold, sat on the corner of the dashboard, but this did not save it from being knocked over when the computer beeped, jerking Ian out from a confusing dream and causing him to shove the rest of his newspaper onto the dash as he scrambled to pull up the dispatch: another shift was open, this one late in the evening. Ian passed this information onto Marcus, who had already read it for himself and who closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep. Ian turned his attention to the mess of cold coffee, paper cup and sodden newspaper on the dashboard, while the larger part of his mind tried to recapture and interpret his dream, which had something to do with Sara and her twin sister.
"Sara doesn't have a twin sister," Ian's mind protested after several seconds. "She has two brothers, neither of whom were her twin. At least the newspaper soaked up most of the coffee," he added aloud, albeit softly. He took the coffee cup (now all but empty, whereas it had been two thirds full when he had set it on the dashboard) and the newspaper and stepped around through the light rain to the trash can at the corner. Though he continued to try to recapture his dream for several minutes, he eventually had to acknowledge that its essence had dissipated entirely. He gave up and fell back to sleep.
Two hours later the shift was just about over, and Marcus leaned over the MDT to nudge Ian awake. "It's about time to head back, Ian," Marcus said.
Ian blinked his eyes in the light and regained his bearings. "We didn't have any calls," he said at last.
In response, the MDT beeped. Marcus shook his head sadly, and Ian remembered that one of the unofficial lessons of the Academy was to never say, never even think the call volume was light.
"Can't walk," said Marcus, reading the computer display. He read off the address and gave Ian directions.
First Post|Previous|Next
Five hours later they were still sitting there, having merely stepped across the sidewalk at one o'clock to get their lunch. Marcus's newspaper, open to the classified section, lay spread out on his lap; Marcus himself lay back on the seat with his eyes closed. Ian lay similarly situated, but the presence of the steering wheel meant that his newspaper spread onto the dashboard. His coffee, now cold, sat on the corner of the dashboard, but this did not save it from being knocked over when the computer beeped, jerking Ian out from a confusing dream and causing him to shove the rest of his newspaper onto the dash as he scrambled to pull up the dispatch: another shift was open, this one late in the evening. Ian passed this information onto Marcus, who had already read it for himself and who closed his eyes and immediately went back to sleep. Ian turned his attention to the mess of cold coffee, paper cup and sodden newspaper on the dashboard, while the larger part of his mind tried to recapture and interpret his dream, which had something to do with Sara and her twin sister.
"Sara doesn't have a twin sister," Ian's mind protested after several seconds. "She has two brothers, neither of whom were her twin. At least the newspaper soaked up most of the coffee," he added aloud, albeit softly. He took the coffee cup (now all but empty, whereas it had been two thirds full when he had set it on the dashboard) and the newspaper and stepped around through the light rain to the trash can at the corner. Though he continued to try to recapture his dream for several minutes, he eventually had to acknowledge that its essence had dissipated entirely. He gave up and fell back to sleep.
Two hours later the shift was just about over, and Marcus leaned over the MDT to nudge Ian awake. "It's about time to head back, Ian," Marcus said.
Ian blinked his eyes in the light and regained his bearings. "We didn't have any calls," he said at last.
In response, the MDT beeped. Marcus shook his head sadly, and Ian remembered that one of the unofficial lessons of the Academy was to never say, never even think the call volume was light.
"Can't walk," said Marcus, reading the computer display. He read off the address and gave Ian directions.
First Post|Previous|Next
How big is the White House?
During the Truman administration, the White House's original wooden skeleton was replaced by a steel one. This required gutting the house, leaving only the exterior walls. This photo was taken during that time. Note the construction equipment: it's inside the White House.That's a big house.
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Truman71-305-1.jpg
Monday, November 10, 2008
X-ray Chapter 6, part 4
First Post|Previous|Next
The next day was Saturday, the fifth and last day of Ian's first week. He met Marcus in the break room, having a discussion with a man whom Ian recognized as Andy’s partner. “Ian, this is Jeremy,” said Marcus, and the man extended his hand.
Ian took Jeremy’s hand and shook, looking him in the eye and nodding once. “You’re Andy’s partner,” he said.
Jeremy nodded. “He’s off today, though. Angie’s on.” He glanced at his watch, made a few remarks to Marcus from which it appeared that Marcus had asked his advice on a difficult-to-start car, and was collecting his radio from the table when a woman walked in – a rather striking woman, Ian thought, if perhaps somewhat thin. She had a face that nature had intended to be pleased or even jolly, but right now it wore a frown. “Are we ready?” she asked Jeremy, ignoring Ian and Marcus. “Dispatch gave us an EtOH down on Bourbon Street. Hi, who are you?” she said, suddenly noting Ian’s unfamiliar face, “I’m Angie. Are you coming?” She asked, already having turned her attention back to Jeremy. “¡Ándale! ¡Arriba!” she said, banging her knuckle against the table top for emphasis before turning to leave.
“It's probably only Bobby," Jeremy said, slinging the radio holster over his head and shoulder and following her out. Ian and Marcus continued to hear them squabble for another several seconds until they turned the corner into the garage and their voices cut off abruptly.
"Bobby's one of our frequent fliers," Marcus said in response to Ian's questioning look. "We see him several times a week."
Ian crossed to the sink, found a mug that looked to be clean, and poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. "Truck isn't in yet?" he asked.
"Truck? Oh, you mean bus. No. Not yet."
Ian nodded. A map of the area hung on the wall opposite the sink. Ian walked over and considered it "I don't see any Bourbon Street," he said after several minutes.
Marcus smiled. "It's Derben Street actually," he said, joining Ian and pointing it out on the map. "Several blocks are nothing but liquor stores, though. They're known as Bourbon Street. Erin and Smiley just walked past; we should get our narcs and radios."
Smiley, who also answered to the name of George, was a short, mildly obese man whose belly bulged out in front of him, pulling his uniform shirt tight. His face reminded Ian of Mikhail Gorbachev, less the port-wine stain. His name tag read Guinness. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He offered his hand Ian as he walked into the office, introducing himself ("I'm Smiley, three-five X tour one. You must be Steele.") and pumping Ian's hand vigorously.
"Uh, yes," said Ian, allowing his hand to be pumped, "yes, Ian Steele."
"Good to meet you. Marcus here giving you a hard time?" Smiley asked with a grin. "I guess I should be signing my morphine over to you. And here's your radio and keys. Are you driving today? You'll need to get fuel. Good to see you, [Marcus's last name]" shaking Marcus's hand. "You keeping out of trouble? Okay, I have to pick up my kid, I'll be seeing you. Good to meet you, Steele," he called over his shoulder, exiting the room and leaving Ian feeling slightly exhausted.
Out in the ambulance, Ian discovered the Smiley had been right: they did need fuel; the front tank showed just over one-quarter full, and the rear tank showed even less. Once they checked their gear, Marcus directed Ian over Station 16 for fuel.
Once they had refueled (this involved an ancient fuel pump whose mechanical display squeaked as the number-bearing wheels spun) they drifted slowly over to 199 and Maxwell streets, where they parked next the fire hydrant at the corner, locked the ambulance, and stepped into the bodega part way down the block.
When they returned, the computer was beeping, and Ian's heart jumped -- they had missed a call. Marcus seemed unperturbed, though, as he calmly called up the dispatch info. "They want someone to cover a tour three shift, starting at five," he said as he folded back the plastic tab of his coffee cup's lid. "Standard overtime rate. Time-and-a-half," he added, seeing mild confusion on Ian's face.
"But we get off at six," Ian said, "why are they asking us?"
"They're asking everyone, Ian. And sometimes they'll let you do it, if they're really stuck."
Ian considered this. "What's standard overtime?" He finally asked.
"Standard overtime is time-and-a-half for the first 16 hours, then it's double-time after that. If you're mandated, though, you multiply that by one half. There are also differences -- well, increases for low staff levels, very low staff levels, and extremely low staff levels. If the situation was right, Ian, you can make five times your base pay. I don't think anyone's done that."
"Five times," Ian repeated.
"Five times," Marcus nodded.
First Post|Previous|Next
The next day was Saturday, the fifth and last day of Ian's first week. He met Marcus in the break room, having a discussion with a man whom Ian recognized as Andy’s partner. “Ian, this is Jeremy,” said Marcus, and the man extended his hand.
Ian took Jeremy’s hand and shook, looking him in the eye and nodding once. “You’re Andy’s partner,” he said.
Jeremy nodded. “He’s off today, though. Angie’s on.” He glanced at his watch, made a few remarks to Marcus from which it appeared that Marcus had asked his advice on a difficult-to-start car, and was collecting his radio from the table when a woman walked in – a rather striking woman, Ian thought, if perhaps somewhat thin. She had a face that nature had intended to be pleased or even jolly, but right now it wore a frown. “Are we ready?” she asked Jeremy, ignoring Ian and Marcus. “Dispatch gave us an EtOH down on Bourbon Street. Hi, who are you?” she said, suddenly noting Ian’s unfamiliar face, “I’m Angie. Are you coming?” She asked, already having turned her attention back to Jeremy. “¡Ándale! ¡Arriba!” she said, banging her knuckle against the table top for emphasis before turning to leave.
“It's probably only Bobby," Jeremy said, slinging the radio holster over his head and shoulder and following her out. Ian and Marcus continued to hear them squabble for another several seconds until they turned the corner into the garage and their voices cut off abruptly.
"Bobby's one of our frequent fliers," Marcus said in response to Ian's questioning look. "We see him several times a week."
Ian crossed to the sink, found a mug that looked to be clean, and poured himself some coffee from the machine on the counter. "Truck isn't in yet?" he asked.
"Truck? Oh, you mean bus. No. Not yet."
Ian nodded. A map of the area hung on the wall opposite the sink. Ian walked over and considered it "I don't see any Bourbon Street," he said after several minutes.
Marcus smiled. "It's Derben Street actually," he said, joining Ian and pointing it out on the map. "Several blocks are nothing but liquor stores, though. They're known as Bourbon Street. Erin and Smiley just walked past; we should get our narcs and radios."
Smiley, who also answered to the name of George, was a short, mildly obese man whose belly bulged out in front of him, pulling his uniform shirt tight. His face reminded Ian of Mikhail Gorbachev, less the port-wine stain. His name tag read Guinness. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He offered his hand Ian as he walked into the office, introducing himself ("I'm Smiley, three-five X tour one. You must be Steele.") and pumping Ian's hand vigorously.
"Uh, yes," said Ian, allowing his hand to be pumped, "yes, Ian Steele."
"Good to meet you. Marcus here giving you a hard time?" Smiley asked with a grin. "I guess I should be signing my morphine over to you. And here's your radio and keys. Are you driving today? You'll need to get fuel. Good to see you, [Marcus's last name]" shaking Marcus's hand. "You keeping out of trouble? Okay, I have to pick up my kid, I'll be seeing you. Good to meet you, Steele," he called over his shoulder, exiting the room and leaving Ian feeling slightly exhausted.
Out in the ambulance, Ian discovered the Smiley had been right: they did need fuel; the front tank showed just over one-quarter full, and the rear tank showed even less. Once they checked their gear, Marcus directed Ian over Station 16 for fuel.
Once they had refueled (this involved an ancient fuel pump whose mechanical display squeaked as the number-bearing wheels spun) they drifted slowly over to 199 and Maxwell streets, where they parked next the fire hydrant at the corner, locked the ambulance, and stepped into the bodega part way down the block.
When they returned, the computer was beeping, and Ian's heart jumped -- they had missed a call. Marcus seemed unperturbed, though, as he calmly called up the dispatch info. "They want someone to cover a tour three shift, starting at five," he said as he folded back the plastic tab of his coffee cup's lid. "Standard overtime rate. Time-and-a-half," he added, seeing mild confusion on Ian's face.
"But we get off at six," Ian said, "why are they asking us?"
"They're asking everyone, Ian. And sometimes they'll let you do it, if they're really stuck."
Ian considered this. "What's standard overtime?" He finally asked.
"Standard overtime is time-and-a-half for the first 16 hours, then it's double-time after that. If you're mandated, though, you multiply that by one half. There are also differences -- well, increases for low staff levels, very low staff levels, and extremely low staff levels. If the situation was right, Ian, you can make five times your base pay. I don't think anyone's done that."
"Five times," Ian repeated.
"Five times," Marcus nodded.
* * *
First Post|Previous|Next
Sunday, November 9, 2008
STO'B 15
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Twenty-four hours later Badger had completed all of her major repairs, except for her rudder, which neither her commander nor her carpenter had yet figured out how to address. A thousand minor repairs remained, but for the moment all hands had been called aftt to witness punishment. They stood there in the waist, heads bare, facing Philip and his officers on the quarterdeck. Sergeant Harris and his marines lined the gangways, bayonets fixed, ready to suppress any sign of unrest.
"Master at Arms," called the Captain, "bring forward the first case."
The master at Arms, a burly man with arms like an ape, led a slight, light-haired seaman aft, stopping a few feet short of the quarterdeck. "Seaman Wright." he announced hieratically, "charged with neglect of duty on the night of the fourth, allowing the enemy to approach undetected to such a point as he was able to attack and severely injure this sloop, Badger, and kill some 24 persons of her crew, and injure another 12 persons."
"Well, Wight, what have you to say for yourself?" asked Captain Fitton.
Wight touched a knuckle to his forehead. "Yes, your honour, which I am sorry as what's happened, like, with that French brig and all, but as I tolds Mr Grey here-"
"Your eyes are not the issue, Wight," interrupted the lieutenant. "It is your neglect of duty."
"No, your honour, which I didn't neglect-"
"Then how did the Chasseur get so close?" asked Fitton.
"The Chasseur, your honour?"
"The Chasseur, the Frenchman," said Grey. "If you did not neglect your duty then how did she get so close?"
When no answer appeared, Captain Fitton turned to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. "Have his officers anything to say for him?"
They had not. The Captain nodded to the bosun's mate, standing by with his cat,"strip him and seize him up."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Twenty-four hours later Badger had completed all of her major repairs, except for her rudder, which neither her commander nor her carpenter had yet figured out how to address. A thousand minor repairs remained, but for the moment all hands had been called aftt to witness punishment. They stood there in the waist, heads bare, facing Philip and his officers on the quarterdeck. Sergeant Harris and his marines lined the gangways, bayonets fixed, ready to suppress any sign of unrest.
"Master at Arms," called the Captain, "bring forward the first case."
The master at Arms, a burly man with arms like an ape, led a slight, light-haired seaman aft, stopping a few feet short of the quarterdeck. "Seaman Wright." he announced hieratically, "charged with neglect of duty on the night of the fourth, allowing the enemy to approach undetected to such a point as he was able to attack and severely injure this sloop, Badger, and kill some 24 persons of her crew, and injure another 12 persons."
"Well, Wight, what have you to say for yourself?" asked Captain Fitton.
Wight touched a knuckle to his forehead. "Yes, your honour, which I am sorry as what's happened, like, with that French brig and all, but as I tolds Mr Grey here-"
"Your eyes are not the issue, Wight," interrupted the lieutenant. "It is your neglect of duty."
"No, your honour, which I didn't neglect-"
"Then how did the Chasseur get so close?" asked Fitton.
"The Chasseur, your honour?"
"The Chasseur, the Frenchman," said Grey. "If you did not neglect your duty then how did she get so close?"
When no answer appeared, Captain Fitton turned to the officers assembled on the quarterdeck. "Have his officers anything to say for him?"
They had not. The Captain nodded to the bosun's mate, standing by with his cat,"strip him and seize him up."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Gun sales are up
The news is reporting that gun sales are up, including assault rifles, as some people are worried that a democratic President, coupled with a Democrat-controlled Congress, will place new limits on gun sales.
Where have these people been for the last few months? Do they really think that the government's priority is suddenly going to become gun control come January 20th?
And honestly, who really has a need for an assault rifle, anyway?
Where have these people been for the last few months? Do they really think that the government's priority is suddenly going to become gun control come January 20th?
And honestly, who really has a need for an assault rifle, anyway?
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
History in the making
Sometimes you know that you're in a historic moment. If you had asked me a year ago if it was possible for the United States to elect an African American President, I would have said "no, too many people aren't there yet." Racism isn't over. But if President Obama does a decent job, it will become weaker.
Of course, there's the rub. Obama does not have an easy task. He's made a lot of promises, and there are large expectations. How he'll be able to meet those expectations is beyond me; the country is broke. Even if it wasn't, the expectations are so high that I don't know that it's possible for anyone to meet them. And no doubt there are any number of people waiting and hoping he will fail, because he's black, or Muslim (he isn't), or because he eats baby seals for breakfast (he doesn't). Some people seem to have forgotten what it means to be an American. Or perhaps they never knew.
I give President-elect Obama real credit for saying, last night, that everyone is going to have to work together, and make sacrifices for the United States to succeed. He's absolutely right, and President Bush, Jr's biggest mistake may have been to pretend otherwise. Working together, the nation, and the world, can pull through.
Americans are fascinated with World War II. Then, the enemies were clear, and everyone worked together to defeat them. If the US can recapture that spirit - if only it can recapture that spirit. In the next several months we'll know.
Of course, there's the rub. Obama does not have an easy task. He's made a lot of promises, and there are large expectations. How he'll be able to meet those expectations is beyond me; the country is broke. Even if it wasn't, the expectations are so high that I don't know that it's possible for anyone to meet them. And no doubt there are any number of people waiting and hoping he will fail, because he's black, or Muslim (he isn't), or because he eats baby seals for breakfast (he doesn't). Some people seem to have forgotten what it means to be an American. Or perhaps they never knew.
I give President-elect Obama real credit for saying, last night, that everyone is going to have to work together, and make sacrifices for the United States to succeed. He's absolutely right, and President Bush, Jr's biggest mistake may have been to pretend otherwise. Working together, the nation, and the world, can pull through.
Americans are fascinated with World War II. Then, the enemies were clear, and everyone worked together to defeat them. If the US can recapture that spirit - if only it can recapture that spirit. In the next several months we'll know.
Today's front page
Obama wins the Presidency, as seen around the world: http://www.newseum.org/todaysfrontpages/default_archive.asp?fpArchive=110508
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The 4th of July, the 1st Tuesday in November
I find it curious that we celebrate the day we declared our independence with parades and fireworks, but don't do the same on the day when we exercise it.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
STO'B 14
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Philip paused, looking across at the Chasseur. His ankle hurt abominably, swollen insode his boot where the Chasseur's cannonball had rolled into it. But he had to keep his lieutenant in countenance - the man was a splendid disciplinarian and he could not be on bad terms with him. "She's a flier," he said, "a good brig. She'll certainly be bought into the service."
"Yes, sir," said Lt Grey, relaxing somewhat, for in all likelihood the Chasseur represented his promotion. "Fourteen 18-pounders, plus two nine-pounders on the quarterdeck. Her hull hasn't suffered in the least, so we should make good work of her by the time we rejoin the fleet. She should fetch a pretty penny."
"Yes," said Philip, catching the smile from his lieutenant, "but she shouldn't have been able to get so close to us without us knowing."
"Boone was the maintop lookout, sir, and O'Keefe was in the foretop. but both are dead, sir."
"And the port side lookouts? I don't suppose that the man at the bow -"
"Luccock, sir."
"Luccock, would have seen anything, but the gangway and quarter men should have."
"Liddle and Wight, sir."
"Liddle and Wight. Who was it saw the brig first?"
"Liddle, sir."
"And Wight?"
"No, sir."
"I see." Wight should have seen the brig. So should Boone and O'Keefe, for that matter, but both were dead, which was but justice. Philip cast his eye over the Badger, pumping out the water that continued to work past the plugs, rudderless, her rigging and masts a mess. She had been caught sleeping, and she had suffered. "Place him in irons. We'll have the hide off of him in the morning. Liddle, too. How could he not see the brig until it was firing at us? Now, Mr Grey, I believe the maintopmast is ready to be swayed up, if you would be so kind."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Philip paused, looking across at the Chasseur. His ankle hurt abominably, swollen insode his boot where the Chasseur's cannonball had rolled into it. But he had to keep his lieutenant in countenance - the man was a splendid disciplinarian and he could not be on bad terms with him. "She's a flier," he said, "a good brig. She'll certainly be bought into the service."
"Yes, sir," said Lt Grey, relaxing somewhat, for in all likelihood the Chasseur represented his promotion. "Fourteen 18-pounders, plus two nine-pounders on the quarterdeck. Her hull hasn't suffered in the least, so we should make good work of her by the time we rejoin the fleet. She should fetch a pretty penny."
"Yes," said Philip, catching the smile from his lieutenant, "but she shouldn't have been able to get so close to us without us knowing."
"Boone was the maintop lookout, sir, and O'Keefe was in the foretop. but both are dead, sir."
"And the port side lookouts? I don't suppose that the man at the bow -"
"Luccock, sir."
"Luccock, would have seen anything, but the gangway and quarter men should have."
"Liddle and Wight, sir."
"Liddle and Wight. Who was it saw the brig first?"
"Liddle, sir."
"And Wight?"
"No, sir."
"I see." Wight should have seen the brig. So should Boone and O'Keefe, for that matter, but both were dead, which was but justice. Philip cast his eye over the Badger, pumping out the water that continued to work past the plugs, rudderless, her rigging and masts a mess. She had been caught sleeping, and she had suffered. "Place him in irons. We'll have the hide off of him in the morning. Liddle, too. How could he not see the brig until it was firing at us? Now, Mr Grey, I believe the maintopmast is ready to be swayed up, if you would be so kind."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Friday, October 31, 2008
Magazine election poll
I was at a news stand last night and took a look at all of the magazines that I could find.
# of covers with a picture of Barak Obama: 8
# of covers with a picture of John McCain: 0
# of covers with a picture of Barak Obama: 8
# of covers with a picture of John McCain: 0
Monday, October 27, 2008
Voyeurism
I'm watching a show on Discovery, called "Destroyed in Seconds". The whole program is things blowing up, crashing, collapsing, etc. It's fascinating.
Apple votes 'no' on 8
LA Times reports: http://www.latimes.com/technology/la-fi-apple25-2008oct25,0,4625386.story?track=rss
Go Apple!
Go Apple!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
STO'B 13
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
"Oh," said Philip. "Mr Wilkins, fetch Sergeant - fetch the sergeant of Marines. A breach of discipline, Mr Grey?"
"Yes, sir. Earlier, before the battle, Mr South had the bosun beat to quarters against my direct order not to do so."
"I see," said Philip. That must have been how his order to do the same had been carried out so quickly. He had wondered at the time. "Did he say why he did so?"
"He said the brig was under fire, sir, and the men needed to be at quarters."
"I see." Philip turned out to sea, away from all of the activity on deck, to consider. "I see."
The marine sergeant and two of his men charged up, muskets in hand, bayonets fixed. "Yes, Sergeant Harris, thank you," said Philip. "I believe you may stand down."
"Yes, sir," said Harris, saluting. He dismissed his men and retired to the lee side of the quarterdeck, where he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a brilliantly white handkerchief. How did he manage to keep his handkerchief so clean?
"Handkerchief, sir?" asked Mr Grey.
Philip flushed. "The brig was under fire, Mr Grey?" he asked quickly, hoping to cover his gaffe.
"Yes, sir, but Mr South disrespected my authority, sir. A master is subordinate to a lieutenant."
"I am aware of the niceties of rank, Lieutenant, thank you. Your reasoning for not sending the men to quarters was?" he asked, not unkindly.
Nevertheless, Lt Grey flushed, then turned pale. "It is for the captain to call to quarters, sir."
"I see." Philip turned to Midshipman Wilkins, who had returned to the quarterdeck. "Mr Wilkins, pass the word for Mr South."
The master appeared, wiping slush from his hands and saluting. "Mr South," said Philip, "I understand that you sent the sloop to quarters over Mr Grey's objections?"
"Yes, sir. That bugger was firing at us, sir, pardon me the expression, so I sent the men to quarters so as best to defend ourselves."
"I see." He was saying that a lot, he realised, but what in fact did he see? There was more to this than merely a disagreement over sending the sloop to quarters. "Mr South, you forget the authority of Mr Grey. There are times when it is appropriate to act of your own initiative, but you must apologize to the lieutenant for doing so."
The master stood straight, and assuming a blank expression, he saluted. "Mr Grey, I ask you pardon for sending the men to quarters."
The lieutenant blinked. "There are no times when it is appropriate to - to act of insubordinate, of your own initiative," he said, ignoring the master, who stood there stiffly, continuing to salute.
"Thank you, Mr South, you are dismissed," said Philip, and when the master had gone, "Mr Grey, are you questioning me? Are you questioning my authority?"
Grey swallowed. He saluted. "No, sir."
"Very good. In the future, the men will be set to quarters if we are under fire, without the necessity to defer to the Captain."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
"Oh," said Philip. "Mr Wilkins, fetch Sergeant - fetch the sergeant of Marines. A breach of discipline, Mr Grey?"
"Yes, sir. Earlier, before the battle, Mr South had the bosun beat to quarters against my direct order not to do so."
"I see," said Philip. That must have been how his order to do the same had been carried out so quickly. He had wondered at the time. "Did he say why he did so?"
"He said the brig was under fire, sir, and the men needed to be at quarters."
"I see." Philip turned out to sea, away from all of the activity on deck, to consider. "I see."
The marine sergeant and two of his men charged up, muskets in hand, bayonets fixed. "Yes, Sergeant Harris, thank you," said Philip. "I believe you may stand down."
"Yes, sir," said Harris, saluting. He dismissed his men and retired to the lee side of the quarterdeck, where he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a brilliantly white handkerchief. How did he manage to keep his handkerchief so clean?
"Handkerchief, sir?" asked Mr Grey.
Philip flushed. "The brig was under fire, Mr Grey?" he asked quickly, hoping to cover his gaffe.
"Yes, sir, but Mr South disrespected my authority, sir. A master is subordinate to a lieutenant."
"I am aware of the niceties of rank, Lieutenant, thank you. Your reasoning for not sending the men to quarters was?" he asked, not unkindly.
Nevertheless, Lt Grey flushed, then turned pale. "It is for the captain to call to quarters, sir."
"I see." Philip turned to Midshipman Wilkins, who had returned to the quarterdeck. "Mr Wilkins, pass the word for Mr South."
The master appeared, wiping slush from his hands and saluting. "Mr South," said Philip, "I understand that you sent the sloop to quarters over Mr Grey's objections?"
"Yes, sir. That bugger was firing at us, sir, pardon me the expression, so I sent the men to quarters so as best to defend ourselves."
"I see." He was saying that a lot, he realised, but what in fact did he see? There was more to this than merely a disagreement over sending the sloop to quarters. "Mr South, you forget the authority of Mr Grey. There are times when it is appropriate to act of your own initiative, but you must apologize to the lieutenant for doing so."
The master stood straight, and assuming a blank expression, he saluted. "Mr Grey, I ask you pardon for sending the men to quarters."
The lieutenant blinked. "There are no times when it is appropriate to - to act of insubordinate, of your own initiative," he said, ignoring the master, who stood there stiffly, continuing to salute.
"Thank you, Mr South, you are dismissed," said Philip, and when the master had gone, "Mr Grey, are you questioning me? Are you questioning my authority?"
Grey swallowed. He saluted. "No, sir."
"Very good. In the future, the men will be set to quarters if we are under fire, without the necessity to defer to the Captain."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Friday, October 24, 2008
Obama, behind the scenes
The 1st photo's a magazine cover, but scroll down: photos of Sen Obama show the man behind the candidate: http://digitaljournalist.org/issue0810/callie-bp.html
Found at http://ethanhein.tumblr.com/post/55893696/callie-shells-photos-of-obama
Found at http://ethanhein.tumblr.com/post/55893696/callie-shells-photos-of-obama
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
How many people have incomes over $250,000?
...less than five percent of the population: http://pubdb3.census.gov/macro/032006/hhinc/new05_000.htm
So, if Obama is proposing to raise taxes only on those making over $250,000, over 95% of people wouldn't see an increase to their tax rate.
So, if Obama is proposing to raise taxes only on those making over $250,000, over 95% of people wouldn't see an increase to their tax rate.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Interactive electoral college map
The LA Times has an interactive map of the US, where clicking on states makes them blue, red, or undecided, and totals the electoral votes as you go: http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-votemap,0,2338623.htmlstory
Monday, October 20, 2008
Electoral votes, a currentish view
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:McCainObamaMatchupTWINtop.svg
At present, the map at the above location gives Obama 270 electoral votes, and McCain 155 votes, if only the states where there is a >5% difference are counted. If Obama holds onto the 21 states he has, the election is his.
BUT: It's not over yet.
At present, the map at the above location gives Obama 270 electoral votes, and McCain 155 votes, if only the states where there is a >5% difference are counted. If Obama holds onto the 21 states he has, the election is his.
BUT: It's not over yet.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
STO'B 12
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Badger was a floating example of the power of superior gunnery. Her rigging sprawled over her deck and the surrounding sea, tangled with broken spars and broken bodies. She had no wheel, and no rudder to attach one to. Her mainmast leaned drunkenly; her foremast was broken off two feet above the deck. Her sails were a stitched together collection of holes. But, she had won.
The first priority had been to herd the able-bodied prisoners into the hold of their ship. The Frenchmen were dispirited now, but they outnumbered the Badgers heavily, and given time and opportunity they might rise and retake the Chasseur, and possibly take the Badger as well.
Now the Badgers worked to plug the holes in their sloop's hull and pump it free of water. Gangs of men, under the carpenter, fitted plugs into those holes below the waterline and patched the holes above it. The assistant carpenter and the armorer worked on rebuilding the starboard pump, while the port pump flung gallons of water into the sea. The bosun, directing another party, hauled cordage in from the sea. Hammering, cries, and oaths filled the sloop.
Over on the Chasseur, things were much better. Apart from the foretopmast, her masts and spars still stood, though the mainmast would need to be fished if it was to bear any press of sail. Most of her rigging remained in place, and her hull was untouched. Briefly, Philip considered abandoning the Badger and moving into the Chasseur; indeed, his lieutenant suggested they do just that.
"No," said Philip, stung at the suggestion. "Abandon my Badger? Absolutely not. what would the hands think," he added after a brief pause, "if I asked them to abandon their home these last years, all because of a little work? Yes, Mr Scott?" he asked as the carpenter approached.
The carpenter had several questions regarding the relative priority of the many necessary repairs, and the sailmaker followed him with more questions of the same sort. By the time he finished with the Sails, Lt Grey had taken a party of seamen to brace the mainmast, with a lot of shouting and liberal starting, so Philip collected another group to see about extracting the stump of the foremast and finding a replacement.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Badger was a floating example of the power of superior gunnery. Her rigging sprawled over her deck and the surrounding sea, tangled with broken spars and broken bodies. She had no wheel, and no rudder to attach one to. Her mainmast leaned drunkenly; her foremast was broken off two feet above the deck. Her sails were a stitched together collection of holes. But, she had won.
The first priority had been to herd the able-bodied prisoners into the hold of their ship. The Frenchmen were dispirited now, but they outnumbered the Badgers heavily, and given time and opportunity they might rise and retake the Chasseur, and possibly take the Badger as well.
Now the Badgers worked to plug the holes in their sloop's hull and pump it free of water. Gangs of men, under the carpenter, fitted plugs into those holes below the waterline and patched the holes above it. The assistant carpenter and the armorer worked on rebuilding the starboard pump, while the port pump flung gallons of water into the sea. The bosun, directing another party, hauled cordage in from the sea. Hammering, cries, and oaths filled the sloop.
Over on the Chasseur, things were much better. Apart from the foretopmast, her masts and spars still stood, though the mainmast would need to be fished if it was to bear any press of sail. Most of her rigging remained in place, and her hull was untouched. Briefly, Philip considered abandoning the Badger and moving into the Chasseur; indeed, his lieutenant suggested they do just that.
"No," said Philip, stung at the suggestion. "Abandon my Badger? Absolutely not. what would the hands think," he added after a brief pause, "if I asked them to abandon their home these last years, all because of a little work? Yes, Mr Scott?" he asked as the carpenter approached.
The carpenter had several questions regarding the relative priority of the many necessary repairs, and the sailmaker followed him with more questions of the same sort. By the time he finished with the Sails, Lt Grey had taken a party of seamen to brace the mainmast, with a lot of shouting and liberal starting, so Philip collected another group to see about extracting the stump of the foremast and finding a replacement.
* * *
Once the immediate repairs were complete - once the Badger was no longer in danger of sinking - Mr South asked Philip's permission to light the galley fires and send the starboard watch, who were theoretically below at this time, to breakfast. Philip was dubious - much work remained to do - but he allowed it, and when the starboard watch had eaten he allowed the master to bring them on deck and send the larboard watch below to eat.
Thus fed, the hands returned to work with greater energy, and just before five bells in the afternoon watch Badger set her fore and main courses on her new foremast and a reshrouded mainmast. Over on the Chassuer, the hands set the maincourse on the fished mainmast, and the wind serving (for the Badger still lacked a rudder, and neither Philip nor the carpenter had yet determined how they might fit one) the two brigs set sail to the east.
No sooner had this occurred than Mr Grey approached his captain on the quarterdeck, where he was deep in conversation with the carpenter regarding the rudder, and reported a breach of discipline.
Once the immediate repairs were complete - once the Badger was no longer in danger of sinking - Mr South asked Philip's permission to light the galley fires and send the starboard watch, who were theoretically below at this time, to breakfast. Philip was dubious - much work remained to do - but he allowed it, and when the starboard watch had eaten he allowed the master to bring them on deck and send the larboard watch below to eat.
Thus fed, the hands returned to work with greater energy, and just before five bells in the afternoon watch Badger set her fore and main courses on her new foremast and a reshrouded mainmast. Over on the Chassuer, the hands set the maincourse on the fished mainmast, and the wind serving (for the Badger still lacked a rudder, and neither Philip nor the carpenter had yet determined how they might fit one) the two brigs set sail to the east.
No sooner had this occurred than Mr Grey approached his captain on the quarterdeck, where he was deep in conversation with the carpenter regarding the rudder, and reported a breach of discipline.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Cut and paste error
I lost a paragraph in transferring STO'B 11 into Blogger - now it's back. The new paragraph is the one beginning "Gun two was ready to fire again."
Monday, October 13, 2008
Term limits
New York's Mayor Bloomberg wants to run for a third term. The city has a term limit of two terms, though, so if he's going to run again that term limit will need to be overcome, and there seem to be some powerful emotions in the people opposed to that change. "It's undemocratic!" they say. "The people have spoken: they voted for the term limit. Overturning it is undemocratic."
This is a democracy, yes: if you don't want him to have a third term, then don't vote for him.
This is a democracy, yes: if you don't want him to have a third term, then don't vote for him.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
STO'B 11
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
With her rudder gone, Badger fell off the wind, bringing her starboard guns to bear. But the gun crews were still over at their port guns, peering for the enemy that was now behind them. Worse, the starboard guns had not even been cast loose.
"Other side!" shouted Philip, and he saw Wilkins and Smithers shoving the hands over to starboard. Philip leapt onto the nearest gun, ripping out its tompion and kicking open its port lid as it crew cast off the lashings that held it tightly to the sloop's side.
Badger continued to turn before the wind. The Frenchman - the Chasseur, for Philip could now make out her name in the growing light - continued to pound them. She was using chain now, and her shot screamed through the Badger's rigging, tearing it to pieces,
But now the Badger's gun's were free, and they started to fire: two, four and ten together, six, and a muffled roar and an immense cloud of smoke from eight: wet had gotten at the powder. Gun twelve suffered the same misfortune, and Philip watched its ball fall from its muzzle, straight into the sea.
In one of those strange silences that sometimes appeared in battle Philip heard six bells strike aboard the Chasseur - Badger's bell was gone, shot off by one of the Frenchman's earlier raking shots - and then the guns started in again. The Badger's wheel shattered, throwing the helmsmen right and left. On board the Chasseur, Philip saw the foretopmast, scored deep by at least one shot, start to teeter, but held by its shrouds it refused to fall. "Chain, chain! Aim for the foretopmast shrouds! Wilkins," he said, catching sight of the midshipman's red hair, "tell the for'ard guns to aim for the foretopmast shrouds."
Over at gun ten a splinter ripped open a flannel cartridge, spilling the gunpowder onto the deck, where it soaked up the wet. Philip climbed back to the quarterdeck and surveyed his sloop; several deep grooves marked the mainmast, and its starboard shrouds hung in useless ribbons, but the sea was steady and the mast remained upright. Near the foremast one of the guns lay on its side, and smears of blood marked where injured men had been carried below to the surgeon. Several bodies still lay on the deck, however, and near Philip the upper half of a man lay tangled in the wreckage of the starboard pump.
The carpenter was waiting. "Three feet of water in the well, sir, but we've a comfortable plug in the worst of the holes." Philip nodded, then turned his attention to the French brig. Badger, with no rudder, was now running before the wind, a course that would soon have her aboard of the Chasseur's port bow. The Chasseur was ripping Philip's sloop to pieces, but if he could board, the situation was not lost. "Boarders!" he cried, pulling his sword free and running forward to where the brigs would meet, "Badgers, prepare to board!"
Up at the bow he stepped around the wreckage of gun four and shared a few quick words with the remaining gun crews, switching them over to case shot, and the Badger bore down on the enemy. On board the Chasseur, Philip saw consternation appear among the men at the bow, and slowly spread aft. Some men began to retreat, joined by several others as Badger's forward guns sent dozens of metal shot into their midst. Several remained, however, gripping pistols, sabres and axes.
Gun two was ready to fire again. "Wait for it," said Philip. "Wait, wait." He felt the thump as gun six ran up against its port. "wait, wait! Now!" he cried, just before the brigs grounds together. The guns went off, cutting two awful red swathes through the Frenchmen clustered on the Chasseur's bow. Blood poured from the brig's scuppers, and bodies lay thick on the deck. "Badgers, to me, to me," cried Philip, leaping onto the barrel of one of the Chasseur's run out guns, and then onto her rail as grapnels flew past him on either side.
There were few Frenchmen left alive to meet him, but one of these fired a pistol at Philip, hitting a man behind him, then flipped the gun over and raised it as a club. Philip brought up his sword, parrying the blow, then gave the man a tremendous kick, throwing him down. Philip jumped down to the deck and the Badgers flowed around him, roaring. Philip found himself propelled along in front of the mob of Englishmen flooding onto the foc'sle and spilling into the waist.
Here it was close-packed fighting, barely room to move, with quick cuts, the combatants often chest to chest, pushing and heaving. Philip thrust at a small man with a axe, catching the man's blade and disarming him, then crushing his face with the pommel of his sword and leaving him for the next Frenchman. He felt several wounds: a half parried sword thrust on his thigh, something blunt had struck his shoulder, and his head rang with the noise of a pistol someone had fired off by his ear. "Rendre! Rendre!" he shouted, slowly working his way aft to the tafrail and its ensign staff.
A space opened up before him, and before he could react a French officer ran forward, slipping on the blood - no sand to save his traction - and sliding into Philip's legs, bringing him down. "Rendre, rendre!" roared Philip again as he grappled with the man. "No!" replied the Frenchman, breaking free and standing just as the foretopmast finally fell, covering them both with its sail and its tangled rigging.
"She's struck, she's struck!" Philip heard someone shouting as he fought with the canvas, and by the time he worked himself free the fighting had stopped. Men stood uncertainly, their weapons held awkwardly, except for a small group forward that Smithers and another man stepped in to break up. Over by the mainmast Philip saw Lt Grey pointing another French officer in Philip's direction and the officer limped up to Philip, offering his flag and sword.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
With her rudder gone, Badger fell off the wind, bringing her starboard guns to bear. But the gun crews were still over at their port guns, peering for the enemy that was now behind them. Worse, the starboard guns had not even been cast loose.
"Other side!" shouted Philip, and he saw Wilkins and Smithers shoving the hands over to starboard. Philip leapt onto the nearest gun, ripping out its tompion and kicking open its port lid as it crew cast off the lashings that held it tightly to the sloop's side.
Badger continued to turn before the wind. The Frenchman - the Chasseur, for Philip could now make out her name in the growing light - continued to pound them. She was using chain now, and her shot screamed through the Badger's rigging, tearing it to pieces,
But now the Badger's gun's were free, and they started to fire: two, four and ten together, six, and a muffled roar and an immense cloud of smoke from eight: wet had gotten at the powder. Gun twelve suffered the same misfortune, and Philip watched its ball fall from its muzzle, straight into the sea.
In one of those strange silences that sometimes appeared in battle Philip heard six bells strike aboard the Chasseur - Badger's bell was gone, shot off by one of the Frenchman's earlier raking shots - and then the guns started in again. The Badger's wheel shattered, throwing the helmsmen right and left. On board the Chasseur, Philip saw the foretopmast, scored deep by at least one shot, start to teeter, but held by its shrouds it refused to fall. "Chain, chain! Aim for the foretopmast shrouds! Wilkins," he said, catching sight of the midshipman's red hair, "tell the for'ard guns to aim for the foretopmast shrouds."
Over at gun ten a splinter ripped open a flannel cartridge, spilling the gunpowder onto the deck, where it soaked up the wet. Philip climbed back to the quarterdeck and surveyed his sloop; several deep grooves marked the mainmast, and its starboard shrouds hung in useless ribbons, but the sea was steady and the mast remained upright. Near the foremast one of the guns lay on its side, and smears of blood marked where injured men had been carried below to the surgeon. Several bodies still lay on the deck, however, and near Philip the upper half of a man lay tangled in the wreckage of the starboard pump.
The carpenter was waiting. "Three feet of water in the well, sir, but we've a comfortable plug in the worst of the holes." Philip nodded, then turned his attention to the French brig. Badger, with no rudder, was now running before the wind, a course that would soon have her aboard of the Chasseur's port bow. The Chasseur was ripping Philip's sloop to pieces, but if he could board, the situation was not lost. "Boarders!" he cried, pulling his sword free and running forward to where the brigs would meet, "Badgers, prepare to board!"
Up at the bow he stepped around the wreckage of gun four and shared a few quick words with the remaining gun crews, switching them over to case shot, and the Badger bore down on the enemy. On board the Chasseur, Philip saw consternation appear among the men at the bow, and slowly spread aft. Some men began to retreat, joined by several others as Badger's forward guns sent dozens of metal shot into their midst. Several remained, however, gripping pistols, sabres and axes.
Gun two was ready to fire again. "Wait for it," said Philip. "Wait, wait." He felt the thump as gun six ran up against its port. "wait, wait! Now!" he cried, just before the brigs grounds together. The guns went off, cutting two awful red swathes through the Frenchmen clustered on the Chasseur's bow. Blood poured from the brig's scuppers, and bodies lay thick on the deck. "Badgers, to me, to me," cried Philip, leaping onto the barrel of one of the Chasseur's run out guns, and then onto her rail as grapnels flew past him on either side.
There were few Frenchmen left alive to meet him, but one of these fired a pistol at Philip, hitting a man behind him, then flipped the gun over and raised it as a club. Philip brought up his sword, parrying the blow, then gave the man a tremendous kick, throwing him down. Philip jumped down to the deck and the Badgers flowed around him, roaring. Philip found himself propelled along in front of the mob of Englishmen flooding onto the foc'sle and spilling into the waist.
Here it was close-packed fighting, barely room to move, with quick cuts, the combatants often chest to chest, pushing and heaving. Philip thrust at a small man with a axe, catching the man's blade and disarming him, then crushing his face with the pommel of his sword and leaving him for the next Frenchman. He felt several wounds: a half parried sword thrust on his thigh, something blunt had struck his shoulder, and his head rang with the noise of a pistol someone had fired off by his ear. "Rendre! Rendre!" he shouted, slowly working his way aft to the tafrail and its ensign staff.
A space opened up before him, and before he could react a French officer ran forward, slipping on the blood - no sand to save his traction - and sliding into Philip's legs, bringing him down. "Rendre, rendre!" roared Philip again as he grappled with the man. "No!" replied the Frenchman, breaking free and standing just as the foretopmast finally fell, covering them both with its sail and its tangled rigging.
"She's struck, she's struck!" Philip heard someone shouting as he fought with the canvas, and by the time he worked himself free the fighting had stopped. Men stood uncertainly, their weapons held awkwardly, except for a small group forward that Smithers and another man stepped in to break up. Over by the mainmast Philip saw Lt Grey pointing another French officer in Philip's direction and the officer limped up to Philip, offering his flag and sword.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Right on the money: 99 red baloons
From http://www.irregularwebcomic.net/2085.html
Not sure how to compare that with today, where there is no known nuclear superpower targeting us, but terrorism lurks as a more amorphous, just as ever-present, fear.
And in some ways, I'm still terrified of AIDS (also discussed on the linked page)
Boy, do I remember that.Many people today are worried about global warming; some people are extremely worried about it. But global warming is something that will most seriously affect our children and our grandchildren. We certainly should be concerned about problems we may be leaving for them. But in the 1980s, we were worried about something that would affect us.
That would kill us.
At any time.
With little or no warning.
Not sure how to compare that with today, where there is no known nuclear superpower targeting us, but terrorism lurks as a more amorphous, just as ever-present, fear.
And in some ways, I'm still terrified of AIDS (also discussed on the linked page)
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Don't know where to vote?
Try this search: where to vote site:.gov (http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla%3Aen-US%3Aofficial&hs=RoS&q=where+to+vote+site%3A.gov&btnG=Search) and scroll down for your state or locality.
For general info that applies to all states, and links to state offices try http://www.usa.gov/Citizen/Topics/Voting/Register.shtml. If I can find a grand list or locator I'll put it up. -B
For general info that applies to all states, and links to state offices try http://www.usa.gov/Citizen/Topics/Voting/Register.shtml. If I can find a grand list or locator I'll put it up. -B
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Ice
from: http://ethanhein.tumblr.com/post/53495287/via-randominternet
Alternate title: New data suggests that not all polar bears can read English
Sunday, October 5, 2008
STO'B 10
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Philip awoke to violent shaking and the sound of a crash far forward. "Christ," he said, "stop shaking my cot, Mr Wilkins, I'm awake. Mutiny?" he asked as another crash reverberated forward, "Is it mutiny?"
"No sir, no." said the pale-faced midshipman, "Mr. Grey's compliments and there is firing on the port bow. Shall he beat to quarters?"
"Yes!" cried Philip, swinging out of his cot. "He has to ask?" The midshipman scurried out and Philip grabbed his breeches from the chair and hurriedly donned them, then opened the skylight and pulled himself through to the quarterdeck as the drum broke out an urgent call, followed immediately by several shouts and the thunder of rushing feet. A dull thump sounded somewhere, followed by another splintering crash as part of the port rail disintegrated into a shower of splinters, one of which knocked Philip down. It was nothing, he found, but as he stood up a spent cannonball ran crack against his ankle. An eighteen pound cannonball, he saw. Badger mounted only four pounders.
He peered into the darkness to port, and after a moment he made out a shape. "Mr Grey," he called his lieutenant over. The lieutenant was clearly angry about something, and opened his mouth to speak, but Philip cut him off. "Your glass, if you please." He grabbed the nearest set of shrouds and pulled himself up onto the rail, out of the way of the seaman who frantically splashed sand and water over the deck against the danger of spilled gunpowder, and leveled the telescope at the enemy. She was a brig, similar to his own, wearing French colors and ghosting toward them under topsails alone.
In the waist, coming to life with battle lanterns, the gun crews cast loose their charges, and Philip saw two hands heaving on crowbars to open their port lid. Two more sailors lay a damp fearnought screen over the hatchway to the magazine, where the gunner was no doubt filling cartridge from his deadly little kegs.
Another shot from the Frenchman, and a man fell, screaming, half of his abdomen ripped out. "Port guns, fire as you bear!" Philip cried, and guns one, three, and seven went off almost simultaneously with a brilliant flash that half-blinded him. Peering around the spots in his vision he climbed down from the rail, handed the lieutenant's telescope back, and found the master. "Bear up, Mr South."
The Badger's new course brought the rest of her broadside to bear on the enemy, and all of her port guns except three and seven, which were still reloading, and five, which hadn't yet managed to open its port lid, went off at once.
The Frenchman now bore up as well, and the two brigs ran, the Badger a little ahead, on parallel courses. The Frenchman fired again, two guns at once, one ball splashing into their wake, the other striking their hull with a dull crash.
Gun five's port was still jammed shut. Philip yelled to the gun's crew to fire - to blast open the lid with the shot - but he could not get their attention over the noise of the battle. "Sir, sir!" cried Emmet, the tallest and thinnest of his midshipmen, "Sir, I'll go!"
"Do!" cried Philip. He had to shout to be heard at all above the guns. The midshipman saluted, then scrambled down to the gun deck.
Philip turned back to the enemy, which to his surprise was not there and, indeed, he noticed the the guns had stopped firing. "Has she sunk?" he asked aloud. It could not be true.
It wasn't. A flash in the smoke aft revealed the enemy: he had fallen off and was crossing the Badger's stern, and now she would rake them. The first flash was followed by several more and a hail of iron struck the Badger, one ball smashing her rudder, the rest traveling the length of the brig, plowing through the men, decimating the crew.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
* CHAPTER TWO *
Philip awoke to violent shaking and the sound of a crash far forward. "Christ," he said, "stop shaking my cot, Mr Wilkins, I'm awake. Mutiny?" he asked as another crash reverberated forward, "Is it mutiny?"
"No sir, no." said the pale-faced midshipman, "Mr. Grey's compliments and there is firing on the port bow. Shall he beat to quarters?"
"Yes!" cried Philip, swinging out of his cot. "He has to ask?" The midshipman scurried out and Philip grabbed his breeches from the chair and hurriedly donned them, then opened the skylight and pulled himself through to the quarterdeck as the drum broke out an urgent call, followed immediately by several shouts and the thunder of rushing feet. A dull thump sounded somewhere, followed by another splintering crash as part of the port rail disintegrated into a shower of splinters, one of which knocked Philip down. It was nothing, he found, but as he stood up a spent cannonball ran crack against his ankle. An eighteen pound cannonball, he saw. Badger mounted only four pounders.
He peered into the darkness to port, and after a moment he made out a shape. "Mr Grey," he called his lieutenant over. The lieutenant was clearly angry about something, and opened his mouth to speak, but Philip cut him off. "Your glass, if you please." He grabbed the nearest set of shrouds and pulled himself up onto the rail, out of the way of the seaman who frantically splashed sand and water over the deck against the danger of spilled gunpowder, and leveled the telescope at the enemy. She was a brig, similar to his own, wearing French colors and ghosting toward them under topsails alone.
In the waist, coming to life with battle lanterns, the gun crews cast loose their charges, and Philip saw two hands heaving on crowbars to open their port lid. Two more sailors lay a damp fearnought screen over the hatchway to the magazine, where the gunner was no doubt filling cartridge from his deadly little kegs.
Another shot from the Frenchman, and a man fell, screaming, half of his abdomen ripped out. "Port guns, fire as you bear!" Philip cried, and guns one, three, and seven went off almost simultaneously with a brilliant flash that half-blinded him. Peering around the spots in his vision he climbed down from the rail, handed the lieutenant's telescope back, and found the master. "Bear up, Mr South."
The Badger's new course brought the rest of her broadside to bear on the enemy, and all of her port guns except three and seven, which were still reloading, and five, which hadn't yet managed to open its port lid, went off at once.
The Frenchman now bore up as well, and the two brigs ran, the Badger a little ahead, on parallel courses. The Frenchman fired again, two guns at once, one ball splashing into their wake, the other striking their hull with a dull crash.
Gun five's port was still jammed shut. Philip yelled to the gun's crew to fire - to blast open the lid with the shot - but he could not get their attention over the noise of the battle. "Sir, sir!" cried Emmet, the tallest and thinnest of his midshipmen, "Sir, I'll go!"
"Do!" cried Philip. He had to shout to be heard at all above the guns. The midshipman saluted, then scrambled down to the gun deck.
Philip turned back to the enemy, which to his surprise was not there and, indeed, he noticed the the guns had stopped firing. "Has she sunk?" he asked aloud. It could not be true.
It wasn't. A flash in the smoke aft revealed the enemy: he had fallen off and was crossing the Badger's stern, and now she would rake them. The first flash was followed by several more and a hail of iron struck the Badger, one ball smashing her rudder, the rest traveling the length of the brig, plowing through the men, decimating the crew.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
It begins
BBC online reports that voting in the US presidential election is getting underway.
And I thought we had till November.
And I thought we had till November.
X-ray Chapter 6, part 3
First Post|Previous|Next
Marcus used the siren very differently than Frank did, Ian noticed as they slalomed through the early afternoon traffic. Frank like to flip back and forth between the various frequencies, while Marcus was content to leave the switch on manual and operate the siren from the horn buttons on the steering wheel, raising its pitch when he pressed the button, and letting it fall off when he let go. From what Ian had seen so far, neither strategy work any better than the other; some cars moved out of their way, others did not.
But there was another difference, Ian realized. Frank, once he had turned on the lights and siren, hunched himself over the steering wheel. Marcus was much more relaxed. He wondered what he looked like when he drove. "Certainly not as relaxed as Marcus," he told himself.
At the patient, they met a small group of firefighters, who withdrew to the hallway as Marcus and Ian walked in. Three-five David walked in a moment later. A rapid primary survey showed a young male patient with a pulse but no breathing. No sign of trauma. Tachycardic, but sinus rhythm. They stripped the patient bare to see if some small but serious wound had escaped them: nothing. Ian started a line, taking bloods as he did so.
"Glucose, thiamine and Narcan?" He asked Marcus. Marcus nodded in Ian pulled out the yellow drug bag, thinking finally only on the numbered tag to be sure came off in doing so with much more force than was necessary, then ripping open the zippers point for the bags contents, easily finding the glucose in an oversized syringe marked 50% Dextrose, but not the thiamine or Narcan.
"Ian," said Marcus from his position at the patient's head, "slow down."
Ian blushed; Marcus was right. He took a breath, then deliberately turned his attention to assembling the glucose syringe and connecting it to his IV. The glucose was viscous; it was 50% glucose in water, and the several seconds it took to push it into the IV line gave him the opportunity to find the vials of thiamine and Narcan.
After he had pushed all the D50 and the patient remained unconscious (more or less ruling out a hypoglycemic etiology for the patient’s condition, Ian drew up the Narcan. He hooked it up to the IV and sent it home, running the IV wide open for a moment to flush all of the medication in, and the patient came to life, sitting up violently, pushing away Marcus and his BVM, and shouting loudly.
"What the fuck did you do!" He yelled at Ian, who stood up and took a step back to avoid the patient's fists. The before the patient could do anything more than rip out his IV line, Marcus's big hand reached out to push him back down, his head hitting the floor with an audible 'thump'. "Be nice." Marcus said, politely but firmly. For moment there was no sound except for a distant church bell striking the hour, no movement except for the trickle of blood from the patient's arm where he pulled out his IV. Ian watched the patient consider the situation very deliberately, weighing the loss of his $40 high against what Marcus was likely to do if he, the patient, continued to be a problem. Eventually he relaxed, though clearly he was still angry.
"He didn't say a single word the entire time," Ian told Sara over dinner that night, "we couldn't even get his name. God knows how they'll figure out the billing." He paused to look for a bottle opener, and as he sat down again he said, "how was your day?"
Marcus used the siren very differently than Frank did, Ian noticed as they slalomed through the early afternoon traffic. Frank like to flip back and forth between the various frequencies, while Marcus was content to leave the switch on manual and operate the siren from the horn buttons on the steering wheel, raising its pitch when he pressed the button, and letting it fall off when he let go. From what Ian had seen so far, neither strategy work any better than the other; some cars moved out of their way, others did not.
But there was another difference, Ian realized. Frank, once he had turned on the lights and siren, hunched himself over the steering wheel. Marcus was much more relaxed. He wondered what he looked like when he drove. "Certainly not as relaxed as Marcus," he told himself.
At the patient, they met a small group of firefighters, who withdrew to the hallway as Marcus and Ian walked in. Three-five David walked in a moment later. A rapid primary survey showed a young male patient with a pulse but no breathing. No sign of trauma. Tachycardic, but sinus rhythm. They stripped the patient bare to see if some small but serious wound had escaped them: nothing. Ian started a line, taking bloods as he did so.
"Glucose, thiamine and Narcan?" He asked Marcus. Marcus nodded in Ian pulled out the yellow drug bag, thinking finally only on the numbered tag to be sure came off in doing so with much more force than was necessary, then ripping open the zippers point for the bags contents, easily finding the glucose in an oversized syringe marked 50% Dextrose, but not the thiamine or Narcan.
"Ian," said Marcus from his position at the patient's head, "slow down."
Ian blushed; Marcus was right. He took a breath, then deliberately turned his attention to assembling the glucose syringe and connecting it to his IV. The glucose was viscous; it was 50% glucose in water, and the several seconds it took to push it into the IV line gave him the opportunity to find the vials of thiamine and Narcan.
After he had pushed all the D50 and the patient remained unconscious (more or less ruling out a hypoglycemic etiology for the patient’s condition, Ian drew up the Narcan. He hooked it up to the IV and sent it home, running the IV wide open for a moment to flush all of the medication in, and the patient came to life, sitting up violently, pushing away Marcus and his BVM, and shouting loudly.
"What the fuck did you do!" He yelled at Ian, who stood up and took a step back to avoid the patient's fists. The before the patient could do anything more than rip out his IV line, Marcus's big hand reached out to push him back down, his head hitting the floor with an audible 'thump'. "Be nice." Marcus said, politely but firmly. For moment there was no sound except for a distant church bell striking the hour, no movement except for the trickle of blood from the patient's arm where he pulled out his IV. Ian watched the patient consider the situation very deliberately, weighing the loss of his $40 high against what Marcus was likely to do if he, the patient, continued to be a problem. Eventually he relaxed, though clearly he was still angry.
"He didn't say a single word the entire time," Ian told Sara over dinner that night, "we couldn't even get his name. God knows how they'll figure out the billing." He paused to look for a bottle opener, and as he sat down again he said, "how was your day?"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
STO'B 9
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Down in the cabin once more, Philip turned his attention back to his meager surroundings The chair, and the cot, now covered with papers; and under the bank of windows that formed the aftmost portion of the cabin he now saw a series of lockers that would double as seats. "Well, at least I don't have to live out of my chest," he thought aloud, realizing a moment later that his chest was still at the Crown.
* * *
In the wardroom, located below Philip's cabin, the carpenter and the engineer sat over a can of beer, discussing their new commander. "I don't know, I don't know," said engineer, "I don't know, I am sure, but the bravery to come aboard like that, no uniform, no nothing, just dressed in his working clothes." He shook his head, "I've never seen the like."
The carpenter shook his head as well, but quietly said, "Bravery, nothing. He's a fool."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Down in the cabin once more, Philip turned his attention back to his meager surroundings The chair, and the cot, now covered with papers; and under the bank of windows that formed the aftmost portion of the cabin he now saw a series of lockers that would double as seats. "Well, at least I don't have to live out of my chest," he thought aloud, realizing a moment later that his chest was still at the Crown.
In the wardroom, located below Philip's cabin, the carpenter and the engineer sat over a can of beer, discussing their new commander. "I don't know, I don't know," said engineer, "I don't know, I am sure, but the bravery to come aboard like that, no uniform, no nothing, just dressed in his working clothes." He shook his head, "I've never seen the like."
The carpenter shook his head as well, but quietly said, "Bravery, nothing. He's a fool."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Saturday, September 27, 2008
HMS Beagle
Launched as a brig (2 masts) but fitted with a third mast for her explorations. The HMS Falcon, a sister ship, was fitted with an engine in 1833.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
STO'B 8
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Down in the Badger's cabin, Philip opened the skylight to disperse the fug and surveyed his domain. "God, It's empty," he said, stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the beams. "Somer must have taken everything with him except for this chair and the cot." He collected the papers from the chair and dragged it over to the cot, spreading the papers on the cot and sitting on the chair to go through them. Yes, just as the lieutenant said, dispatches and orders. He broke the seal on the orders and unfolded the cover.
He skipped over the formulaic opening, only observing that the tone was friendlier than the orders that had reached him on the quarterdeck, and jumped to the heart of the matter: he, commanding the Badger, was to take the dispatches and mails that arrived with the order and carry them with all due speed, but not endangering masts, machinery, etc, to or about 36° N, 14° E, there to meet Admiral XXX of the XXX squadron and deliver up to him the same. The orders were dated from the second. Today was the fourth. If there was anything that required speed, they were dispatches, and he was two days behind.
Very well. He was late, but the Badger was fast; he could pack on steam and make up the time. He had the dispatches - they were on the cot where he had placed them. And the sacks of mail? Yes, they lay huddled in the corner by the bulkhead.
A change in the Badger's motion told him that they were free of the harbor, and a moment later a ship's boy came scurrying in. "Mr Grey's compliments, sir, and what course should he set?"
"What course? Oh, certainly." He looked about the cabin for a clue - a map, perhaps. "There are maps in the Master's cabin, yes?
"Oh, yes, sir," said the boy, "plenty of maps. And the one for the Mediterranean is spread out on the table, with our position marked on it every day by Mr South. Captain Somer would lead us through the maps every day. Will you be leading us through the maps, sir?. I can recite the points of the compass, too, sir, would you like to hear me? First there's north, then..." the boy ran on and on, scarcely taking breath.
The boy's discourse gave Philip time to think, however. Their position was marked on a table in the Master's cabin - his day cabin, most likely - and on the same map he should be able to find 36° N, 14° E, which he had a vague notion as being in the Mediterranean. All he had to do was point the ship in the appropriate direction. He began to feel that he could handle the situation, and he became aware of an expectant pause. The boy had finished reciting the points of the compass, and waited for approval. "Very good, Mr...?"
"Thank you, sir," said the boy, who continued to stand there, the lieutenant's request for direction apparently forgotten.
"Very good," said Philip again, and he herded the boy out of the cabin, following him out.
In the Master's day cabin he found the Mediterranean map laid out, with the sloop's position neatly marked with a pin. 36° N, 14° E lay to the east, near Malta, and armed with this knowledge, he mounted the quarterdeck.
"Mr Grey, lay in a course to the east, please," he said, as impressively as he could. "And fire up the boiler, we'll take this journey under steam."
Mr Grey nodded, saluted, repeated the order, then paused. "Begging your pardon, sir, but we're about out of coal."
"What have you been doing while lying there in harbor?" cried Philip. "The first thing you do on entering harbor is refit the ship, lieutenant, surely you know that? You've been here two days. This is very bad; we'll be late, late with dispatches. With dispatches," he repeated. He took a breath. "Well, set a course for the east as best you can, we're heading to Malta. Near Malta," he added, not wanting to suggest that they'd actually be going ashore. "And don't you wish the wind may serve and get us there in time."
"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant, looking flushed. He turned and issued several orders, naming any number of sails to be set, the crew jumped to do his bidding, and soon the Badger was making a steady six knots before a quartering wind.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Down in the Badger's cabin, Philip opened the skylight to disperse the fug and surveyed his domain. "God, It's empty," he said, stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the beams. "Somer must have taken everything with him except for this chair and the cot." He collected the papers from the chair and dragged it over to the cot, spreading the papers on the cot and sitting on the chair to go through them. Yes, just as the lieutenant said, dispatches and orders. He broke the seal on the orders and unfolded the cover.
He skipped over the formulaic opening, only observing that the tone was friendlier than the orders that had reached him on the quarterdeck, and jumped to the heart of the matter: he, commanding the Badger, was to take the dispatches and mails that arrived with the order and carry them with all due speed, but not endangering masts, machinery, etc, to or about 36° N, 14° E, there to meet Admiral XXX of the XXX squadron and deliver up to him the same. The orders were dated from the second. Today was the fourth. If there was anything that required speed, they were dispatches, and he was two days behind.
Very well. He was late, but the Badger was fast; he could pack on steam and make up the time. He had the dispatches - they were on the cot where he had placed them. And the sacks of mail? Yes, they lay huddled in the corner by the bulkhead.
A change in the Badger's motion told him that they were free of the harbor, and a moment later a ship's boy came scurrying in. "Mr Grey's compliments, sir, and what course should he set?"
"What course? Oh, certainly." He looked about the cabin for a clue - a map, perhaps. "There are maps in the Master's cabin, yes?
"Oh, yes, sir," said the boy, "plenty of maps. And the one for the Mediterranean is spread out on the table, with our position marked on it every day by Mr South. Captain Somer would lead us through the maps every day. Will you be leading us through the maps, sir?. I can recite the points of the compass, too, sir, would you like to hear me? First there's north, then..." the boy ran on and on, scarcely taking breath.
The boy's discourse gave Philip time to think, however. Their position was marked on a table in the Master's cabin - his day cabin, most likely - and on the same map he should be able to find 36° N, 14° E, which he had a vague notion as being in the Mediterranean. All he had to do was point the ship in the appropriate direction. He began to feel that he could handle the situation, and he became aware of an expectant pause. The boy had finished reciting the points of the compass, and waited for approval. "Very good, Mr...?"
"Thank you, sir," said the boy, who continued to stand there, the lieutenant's request for direction apparently forgotten.
"Very good," said Philip again, and he herded the boy out of the cabin, following him out.
In the Master's day cabin he found the Mediterranean map laid out, with the sloop's position neatly marked with a pin. 36° N, 14° E lay to the east, near Malta, and armed with this knowledge, he mounted the quarterdeck.
"Mr Grey, lay in a course to the east, please," he said, as impressively as he could. "And fire up the boiler, we'll take this journey under steam."
Mr Grey nodded, saluted, repeated the order, then paused. "Begging your pardon, sir, but we're about out of coal."
"What have you been doing while lying there in harbor?" cried Philip. "The first thing you do on entering harbor is refit the ship, lieutenant, surely you know that? You've been here two days. This is very bad; we'll be late, late with dispatches. With dispatches," he repeated. He took a breath. "Well, set a course for the east as best you can, we're heading to Malta. Near Malta," he added, not wanting to suggest that they'd actually be going ashore. "And don't you wish the wind may serve and get us there in time."
"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant, looking flushed. He turned and issued several orders, naming any number of sails to be set, the crew jumped to do his bidding, and soon the Badger was making a steady six knots before a quartering wind.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
X-ray Chapter 6, part 2
First Post|Previous|Next
Nonradiating chest pain, it turned out, respirophasic, exerted by moving and tender to the touch. Strong pulse, lungs clear, mentating well. Ian completed a CYA EKG, which showed a normal sinus rhythm in all three leads. History was remarkable for helping a friend move a sofa yesterday, "you know, one of those sofas with the foldout bed. Do you think that's important?"
"Probably," Ian said. "We can take you to the hospital, if you'd like. I think you're sore from moving that sofa," Ian said. "I'll take you to the hospital if you want, though -- otherwise, if we can clear you with the doctor on the phone, you can stay."
"I don't know," said the patient. "I think I'd rather go to the hospital -- I mean, you guys are just the ambulance drivers, right?"
In cleared his throat in attempt to master himself. "We're paramedics," he said evenly.
"Yeah," said the patient. "You're the ambulance drivers."
A veil began to fall across Ian's vision. He turned his attention to shutting down the EKG monitor to give himself a moment to regain his civility, then, "we have hundreds -- thousands of hours of medical education," he said calmly. Five of them -- five hours -- relate to driving the ambulance." He felt Marcus's eye upon and he avoided looking in his partner's direction, busying himself with the stair chair to make this less obvious. When he could no longer reasonably continue with this he said to the patient, "if you'll slide over to this chair we'll carry you down to the ambulance." He gave the stair chair instructions ("don't reach out") and tipped the chair back. Thankfully, there was an elevator in the building, and only one step to the stoop. Soon they were in the ambulance, dropping the patient off at the hospital, and back in service. Ian was thoroughly dissatisfied with himself; his outburst was unjustified, unjustifiable, and he waited for a lecture for Marcus.
He was disappointed in this, at least at first. Marcus was already in the cab when Ian joined him. He said nothing, but dropped the ambulance into gear. A few minutes later he spoke, but only to asking how Ian liked his coffee before double parking the ambulance and briefly stepping into a deli.
"Back when I started in EMS," he said after he handed Ian his coffee and they had been sitting quietly for a while, watching the world through their rain-flecked windshield, "we had a portable, oxygen powered resuscitator, a bag of trauma supplies, and that was it, really. We carried a first-aid cart from the Red Cross, and we drove fast. Nobody ever imagined defib could be done in the field, because we weren't doctors. No imagined we could give drugs, or start IVs. We had an old pickup -- I think it was a Dodge, or maybe it was a Chevy. Probably a Dodge. But we put a red light on the roof and a sirenlight the front fender, and if the patient needed to be transported, we phoned the mortician -- he had the only car that could carry a person lying down -- and he'd take the patient to the hospital." He fell silent, looking back over a quarter-century. "It wasn't that we didn't think we could use the drugs or defibrillator," he explained, "but the docs didn't, and that was that."
Ian nodded to show that he understood.
"Ian, people don't know we do because we do more every day. They all remember 20 years ago, and don't think that anything has changed. They rarely get the chance to what see we do. And when they do," he added, the thought suddenly striking him, "when they do, they're usually more worried about their illness than what we're doing. Or with their family member's illness.
"Ian, every EMT is a paramedic, and every paramedic is an ambulance driver. You know who you are, you know you can do, and that's what's important."
After they sat quietly for a moment or two, Marcus turned to the computer and put them back in service. Immediately the computer beeped and their radios crackled: unconscious patient. Ian put them en route, Marcus dropped the transmission into drive, and away they went.
First Post|Previous|Next
Nonradiating chest pain, it turned out, respirophasic, exerted by moving and tender to the touch. Strong pulse, lungs clear, mentating well. Ian completed a CYA EKG, which showed a normal sinus rhythm in all three leads. History was remarkable for helping a friend move a sofa yesterday, "you know, one of those sofas with the foldout bed. Do you think that's important?"
"Probably," Ian said. "We can take you to the hospital, if you'd like. I think you're sore from moving that sofa," Ian said. "I'll take you to the hospital if you want, though -- otherwise, if we can clear you with the doctor on the phone, you can stay."
"I don't know," said the patient. "I think I'd rather go to the hospital -- I mean, you guys are just the ambulance drivers, right?"
In cleared his throat in attempt to master himself. "We're paramedics," he said evenly.
"Yeah," said the patient. "You're the ambulance drivers."
A veil began to fall across Ian's vision. He turned his attention to shutting down the EKG monitor to give himself a moment to regain his civility, then, "we have hundreds -- thousands of hours of medical education," he said calmly. Five of them -- five hours -- relate to driving the ambulance." He felt Marcus's eye upon and he avoided looking in his partner's direction, busying himself with the stair chair to make this less obvious. When he could no longer reasonably continue with this he said to the patient, "if you'll slide over to this chair we'll carry you down to the ambulance." He gave the stair chair instructions ("don't reach out") and tipped the chair back. Thankfully, there was an elevator in the building, and only one step to the stoop. Soon they were in the ambulance, dropping the patient off at the hospital, and back in service. Ian was thoroughly dissatisfied with himself; his outburst was unjustified, unjustifiable, and he waited for a lecture for Marcus.
He was disappointed in this, at least at first. Marcus was already in the cab when Ian joined him. He said nothing, but dropped the ambulance into gear. A few minutes later he spoke, but only to asking how Ian liked his coffee before double parking the ambulance and briefly stepping into a deli.
"Back when I started in EMS," he said after he handed Ian his coffee and they had been sitting quietly for a while, watching the world through their rain-flecked windshield, "we had a portable, oxygen powered resuscitator, a bag of trauma supplies, and that was it, really. We carried a first-aid cart from the Red Cross, and we drove fast. Nobody ever imagined defib could be done in the field, because we weren't doctors. No imagined we could give drugs, or start IVs. We had an old pickup -- I think it was a Dodge, or maybe it was a Chevy. Probably a Dodge. But we put a red light on the roof and a sirenlight the front fender, and if the patient needed to be transported, we phoned the mortician -- he had the only car that could carry a person lying down -- and he'd take the patient to the hospital." He fell silent, looking back over a quarter-century. "It wasn't that we didn't think we could use the drugs or defibrillator," he explained, "but the docs didn't, and that was that."
Ian nodded to show that he understood.
"Ian, people don't know we do because we do more every day. They all remember 20 years ago, and don't think that anything has changed. They rarely get the chance to what see we do. And when they do," he added, the thought suddenly striking him, "when they do, they're usually more worried about their illness than what we're doing. Or with their family member's illness.
"Ian, every EMT is a paramedic, and every paramedic is an ambulance driver. You know who you are, you know you can do, and that's what's important."
After they sat quietly for a moment or two, Marcus turned to the computer and put them back in service. Immediately the computer beeped and their radios crackled: unconscious patient. Ian put them en route, Marcus dropped the transmission into drive, and away they went.
First Post|Previous|Next
Thesis draft: submitted
forty pages
and it's still not close to done
but, this means that I can take a few minutes to catch up on my other writing
and it's still not close to done
but, this means that I can take a few minutes to catch up on my other writing
Sunday, September 21, 2008
STO'B
Sorry - no entry today; I'm too far behind on my thesis. But next week's entry is in the works
Thursday, September 18, 2008
"Why I Will Not Vote for Sarah Palin."
From Why I Will Not Vote for Sarah Palin.
"I will no more vote for Sarah Palin because of her gender than I would defend Not voting for her on the basis of gender....
"I am not a supporter of Sarah Palin because her politics are backward thinking, anti-progressive, destructive and demeaning."
"I will no more vote for Sarah Palin because of her gender than I would defend Not voting for her on the basis of gender....
"I am not a supporter of Sarah Palin because her politics are backward thinking, anti-progressive, destructive and demeaning."
Thursday's
Once upon a ti-
"Oh, come on!"
"WHAT?"
"Can't you be more orriginal - eh - original?"
"OKAY." It was the best of times. It was the worst of ti-
"Oh, like no one's going to recognize that. And I'm pretty sure that he put that all in one sentence."
"FINE." William Stervich was not happy.
"What?"
"WELL YOU'RE NOT, RIGHT?"
"Well, no, but-"
William Stervich was not happy. He paced across the floor of the room, muttering from time to time-
"Oh come, on!"
-muttering from time to time, and once or twice swearing aloud so that the ladies in the far corner pursed their lips. His companion sat silently. Smugly, William thought. "I don't see that you have a choice, Mr Stervich," the man said quietly.
William did not know the man's name, and if anything that made him angrier. He turned to face the man. As it usually did, his gaze fell upon the man's empty eye socket. "All right, One Eye. What are the details."
One Eye beckoned him over to the table. "Sit, and I will tell you."
William sat, and One Eye told.
"Oh, come on!"
"WHAT?"
"Can't you be more orriginal - eh - original?"
"OKAY." It was the best of times. It was the worst of ti-
"Oh, like no one's going to recognize that. And I'm pretty sure that he put that all in one sentence."
"FINE." William Stervich was not happy.
"What?"
"WELL YOU'RE NOT, RIGHT?"
"Well, no, but-"
William Stervich was not happy. He paced across the floor of the room, muttering from time to time-
"Oh come, on!"
-muttering from time to time, and once or twice swearing aloud so that the ladies in the far corner pursed their lips. His companion sat silently. Smugly, William thought. "I don't see that you have a choice, Mr Stervich," the man said quietly.
William did not know the man's name, and if anything that made him angrier. He turned to face the man. As it usually did, his gaze fell upon the man's empty eye socket. "All right, One Eye. What are the details."
One Eye beckoned him over to the table. "Sit, and I will tell you."
William sat, and One Eye told.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
X-ray Chapter 6, part 1
First Post|Previous|Next
Frank was off the next day, and Ian finally met his other partner. Marcus was a bigger man than Frank, more friendly, more mentor-like. "I'm Marcus," he said, "you must be Ian. Did Richter take you through the bus?"
Ian took the hand that Marcus offered him and shook it. "Kind of," he said, "more or less."
Marcus smiled and led the way to the ambulance's rear doors, which he opened. "Ian, basically, things are going to be where you expect them," he said. "The patient's head is up front, so that's where the airway things are. Drugs need to be all locked up, so they're in the locked cabinet. OB is down at the foot," he pointed, "trauma, linen. Long things that are inside the bus are under the bench. Outside, the flares, flashlights, and tools are in the cabinet behind the driver, since the driver will be using them. The long-boards are in the tall cabinet, the head blocks are in the small cabinet, the KED and traction splint are in the other cabinet and that's everything. So, let's check the bags, and how about some coffee after that?"
Ian agreed to the idea of coffee, but it was not to be. No sooner had they finished checking their equipment than the radio crackled with their name. He climbed down out of the back, and as they walked around to the front Ian realized that, although he had jumped the sound of the radio, he was getting better.
In the cab, Marcus punched the dispatch info up on the MDT, showing Ian how to do so at the same time. Ian had seen Frank do this several times over the last three days, and had stumbled through the procedure once or twice himself, but was glad to actually be shown how to do this. He had been taught briefly at the academy, but that had been a lifetime ago.
Marcus put the ambulance in gear and Ian considered the dispatch info: possible stroke. One part of his mind looked out the window for crossing traffic, "you're clear after this dark green van," but the bulk of it considered "strokes, CVAs, named because you were struck down. Or it could be a TIA. Not that it would matter for what he did. You're clear the right," he said aloud. Stroke or TIA, his treatment was the same: a good neuro exam, O2, IV, monitor, transport. "Looks like we’re here already."
Marcus showed Ian how to mark them as on scene on the computer (no more than pressing a button, but you had to know which button to push), they climbed out of the ambulance, and in a few minutes they were meeting the patient.
This was clearly a stroke. The patient had no use of the right side of his body, and his speech was garbled. He understood everything that Ian said, though, which made applying oxygen and starting an IV, and moving over to the stair chair much easier. The man's pulse was good, so Ian deferred his EKG until he and Marcus had lifted the man into the ambulance and buckled him into the stretcher.
"White to the right,” Ian intoned as he attached the white EKG cable to the patient’s right shoulder, “and smoke," he attached the black cable on the patient’s left shoulder, “over fire,” he attached the red lead ear patient’s left hip. Once the cables were connected and he had read and printed out leads II, III and I (in that order), he pulled out his cell phone to notify the hospital of their impending arrival. But which hospital? And what was his partner's name? "Uh, hey," he said, moving over to the airway seat and calling through the window to his partner, "what hospital are we going to?"
"Rockland," said his partner. "You'll find the phone number over by the switches."
Ian had previously discovered the list of phone numbers taped up below the action station's switch panel, but he thanked Marcus (whose name know came to him) and then contacted Rockland Cooperative's ER.
"Rockland," answered a voice at the other end of the phone line.
"Yeah, this is Ian with New Gotham Fire EMS unit Three-five X-Ray. We're coming in ALS with an 85 year-old diabetic stroke victim, strength one out of five for both right extremities, some speech impairment, no LOC, A and O times three, vitals 140 over 90, otherwise normal, PERRLA, normal sinus on EKG; we should be arriving -- hey, Marcus!? How far out are we?"
"Three or four minutes, Ian," Marcus said.
"... in three or four minutes," Ian finished.
"You're bringing us a stroke?" Rockland asked.
"Yeah."
"From where?"
Ian half-stood and crossed back to the bench for his half-finished VCR, almost losing his balance when the ambulance struck a bottle. "655 202nd St," he read off the patient's address.
"202nd St?"
"Yes. Can you take his patient?" Ian asked, started to wonder if Rockland might be full, but not understanding what the patient's address had to do with anything.
"Sure, we'd be happy to," said Rockland, in a tone that said they'd be anything but. "Elated."
"Is there something wrong with Rockland?" Ian asked Marcus after they had dropped off their patient in for pulling out of the ER bay.
Marcus laughed. "Ian, they are who they are," he said, "and that's all there is to it. They never likely bringing patients," he went on a moment later, because our patients aren't the people they like to see."
"What, sick?"
Marcus laughed again. "Yes, they are that, too, I suppose, but really I mean they aren't rich. Look at the neighborhood," he gestured.
He was right, Ian decided, because even though the community through which they drove wasn't one of large doorman buildings, it was nevertheless much better off than the generally run down, abused neighborhood in which they spent most of their time.
Marcus was still talking. "A lot of people don't have insurance, and a lot of people don't pay. Rockland doesn't like that," he said.
"Well, where are we supposed to take them?"
Marcus smiled. He smiled a lot, you noticed; he was a much happier man than Frank. "Yes," Marcus said "Ian, you're absolutely right." Anything further that he might have said was cut off by the beeping of the MDT and the crackle of their radios: chest pain.
First Post|Previous|Next
Frank was off the next day, and Ian finally met his other partner. Marcus was a bigger man than Frank, more friendly, more mentor-like. "I'm Marcus," he said, "you must be Ian. Did Richter take you through the bus?"
Ian took the hand that Marcus offered him and shook it. "Kind of," he said, "more or less."
Marcus smiled and led the way to the ambulance's rear doors, which he opened. "Ian, basically, things are going to be where you expect them," he said. "The patient's head is up front, so that's where the airway things are. Drugs need to be all locked up, so they're in the locked cabinet. OB is down at the foot," he pointed, "trauma, linen. Long things that are inside the bus are under the bench. Outside, the flares, flashlights, and tools are in the cabinet behind the driver, since the driver will be using them. The long-boards are in the tall cabinet, the head blocks are in the small cabinet, the KED and traction splint are in the other cabinet and that's everything. So, let's check the bags, and how about some coffee after that?"
Ian agreed to the idea of coffee, but it was not to be. No sooner had they finished checking their equipment than the radio crackled with their name. He climbed down out of the back, and as they walked around to the front Ian realized that, although he had jumped the sound of the radio, he was getting better.
In the cab, Marcus punched the dispatch info up on the MDT, showing Ian how to do so at the same time. Ian had seen Frank do this several times over the last three days, and had stumbled through the procedure once or twice himself, but was glad to actually be shown how to do this. He had been taught briefly at the academy, but that had been a lifetime ago.
Marcus put the ambulance in gear and Ian considered the dispatch info: possible stroke. One part of his mind looked out the window for crossing traffic, "you're clear after this dark green van," but the bulk of it considered "strokes, CVAs, named because you were struck down. Or it could be a TIA. Not that it would matter for what he did. You're clear the right," he said aloud. Stroke or TIA, his treatment was the same: a good neuro exam, O2, IV, monitor, transport. "Looks like we’re here already."
Marcus showed Ian how to mark them as on scene on the computer (no more than pressing a button, but you had to know which button to push), they climbed out of the ambulance, and in a few minutes they were meeting the patient.
This was clearly a stroke. The patient had no use of the right side of his body, and his speech was garbled. He understood everything that Ian said, though, which made applying oxygen and starting an IV, and moving over to the stair chair much easier. The man's pulse was good, so Ian deferred his EKG until he and Marcus had lifted the man into the ambulance and buckled him into the stretcher.
"White to the right,” Ian intoned as he attached the white EKG cable to the patient’s right shoulder, “and smoke," he attached the black cable on the patient’s left shoulder, “over fire,” he attached the red lead ear patient’s left hip. Once the cables were connected and he had read and printed out leads II, III and I (in that order), he pulled out his cell phone to notify the hospital of their impending arrival. But which hospital? And what was his partner's name? "Uh, hey," he said, moving over to the airway seat and calling through the window to his partner, "what hospital are we going to?"
"Rockland," said his partner. "You'll find the phone number over by the switches."
Ian had previously discovered the list of phone numbers taped up below the action station's switch panel, but he thanked Marcus (whose name know came to him) and then contacted Rockland Cooperative's ER.
"Rockland," answered a voice at the other end of the phone line.
"Yeah, this is Ian with New Gotham Fire EMS unit Three-five X-Ray. We're coming in ALS with an 85 year-old diabetic stroke victim, strength one out of five for both right extremities, some speech impairment, no LOC, A and O times three, vitals 140 over 90, otherwise normal, PERRLA, normal sinus on EKG; we should be arriving -- hey, Marcus!? How far out are we?"
"Three or four minutes, Ian," Marcus said.
"... in three or four minutes," Ian finished.
"You're bringing us a stroke?" Rockland asked.
"Yeah."
"From where?"
Ian half-stood and crossed back to the bench for his half-finished VCR, almost losing his balance when the ambulance struck a bottle. "655 202nd St," he read off the patient's address.
"202nd St?"
"Yes. Can you take his patient?" Ian asked, started to wonder if Rockland might be full, but not understanding what the patient's address had to do with anything.
"Sure, we'd be happy to," said Rockland, in a tone that said they'd be anything but. "Elated."
"Is there something wrong with Rockland?" Ian asked Marcus after they had dropped off their patient in for pulling out of the ER bay.
Marcus laughed. "Ian, they are who they are," he said, "and that's all there is to it. They never likely bringing patients," he went on a moment later, because our patients aren't the people they like to see."
"What, sick?"
Marcus laughed again. "Yes, they are that, too, I suppose, but really I mean they aren't rich. Look at the neighborhood," he gestured.
He was right, Ian decided, because even though the community through which they drove wasn't one of large doorman buildings, it was nevertheless much better off than the generally run down, abused neighborhood in which they spent most of their time.
Marcus was still talking. "A lot of people don't have insurance, and a lot of people don't pay. Rockland doesn't like that," he said.
"Well, where are we supposed to take them?"
Marcus smiled. He smiled a lot, you noticed; he was a much happier man than Frank. "Yes," Marcus said "Ian, you're absolutely right." Anything further that he might have said was cut off by the beeping of the MDT and the crackle of their radios: chest pain.
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Monday, September 15, 2008
He'd rather be the product of a creationary God
"I have long been at a loss to understand how it is possible to believe the evolutionary theory, riddled with holes and inconsistencies as it is, more that the creationist view. The facts we see in front of us fit the notion of a rapid creationist view far better than a long evolutionary one, and why the evolutionary theory is considered to be "science" but the creationist theory is not eludes me completely. It was partly a serious study of evolution that led me to conclude that I'd rather be the product of a creationary God than an evolutionary accident, and so embrace Christianity. I am so pleased I did, life has become so much less gloomy.
Robert Harper, Battle, England"
The above is from the comments section at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/7613403.stm
I'm happy that Mr Harper's life has become less gloomy, but I suspect that it is not Christianity that has improved his life so much as either belonging to a group or having something to believe in - perhaps even a shifting of responsibility away from himself.
The debate over creationism is an curious one, for just the reasons that Mr Harper points out. His belief in Creation comes down to what he wants to believe, rather than what objectivity suggests. Mr Harper doesn't discuss this, but I suspect that he'd rather there be a Santa Claus than that there not be one. I'm curious to know what he does at Christmas time.
The problem with creationism has nothing to do with Creation: it has to do with the difference between religion and science. Science allows for debate. Religion, at least in this case, does not.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
STO'B 7
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
But Badger was ready for her commander to board on the ceremonial starboard side. When his boat rowed around to the port side, the larboard side, the master and the lieutenant exchanged a glance. "Larboard side?" asked the master.
"So it appears." replied the lieutenant.
The boatkeeper hooked on and, after a moment of hushed argument from the boat, whose nature escaped them, they saw a head and then the body of a large man, partially uniformed but with his jacket over his arm. As soon as he set foot on the deck the bosun's mate blew his whistle and was immediately silenced by the bosun. Several of the marines presented arms, while others stared dumbly at their new commander. The sailors also stared. "Good evening, gentlemen," said the man. "I am Commander Fitton."
When several moments passed and Commander Fitton said nothing further, the lieutenant stepped forward, saluted and removed his hat, and said, "Welcome, sir, to the Badger. I am Lieutenant Grey, this is the master, Mister South; this the engineer, Mister Stevens; the carpenter, Mister Scott..." and so on, through the officers. As each officer was named, he saluted Commander Fitton, who, as best he could in an inadequate uniform, saluted back.
When he was done, Philip pulled the lieutenant aside and quietly said, "Ah, I don't suppose you could pay the boatman? I seem to have put off without my purse."
The lieutenant stared, then replied "yes, sir", as in duty bound, and leaned over the side to settle Philip's fare. The boatkeeper's boat moved off and was immediately replaced by another.
From this boat sprang a fully uniformed midshipman, who saluted the quarterdeck, saluted the lieutenant, and stated that he had orders for Commander Fitton; he was to wait for a response.
"I am Commander Fitton," said Philip again, hoping he sounded more impressive than he felt. No jacket, no epaulletes, an absolute disgrace. He received a cover from the midshipman and opened it, reading
"Mr -," he turned to the lieutenant, "we received some dispatches from the flag?" Philip asked.
"Yes sir, the day before last. I had them placed in your cabin."
"Very good, Mr Grey," the man's name came to him this time, "prepare to weigh anchor," said Philip. To the midshipman who had brought him the order he said "thank you," dismissing him, and the boy disappeared over the side to his boat.
"Yes, sir," replied Grey, "of course, sir, but we haven't received any coal, yet. And perhaps you'd be like to be read in, sir?", which was as close as he could come to saying that until he had been read in, Philip was not, in fact, the Badger's commander. "Surely the admiral didn't mean to weigh anchor immediately?"
"I am not in the habit of discussing my orders, Mr Grey," said Philip, hoping he didn't sound as pompous as he felt, "but yes, if you would read me in." He handed the lieutenant the order appointing him to the Badger.
"Silence, fore and aft!" cried the lieutenant, "Off hats!" and once the deck was silent, and every head was bare, "By the Right Honorable Lord Green, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the Blue and Commander in Chief of Her Majesty's Ships and Vessels employed and to be employed in the Mediterranean..."
When he had finished, and Philip was wedded to the Badger as her commander, whose lawful order it was death to disobey, Commander Fitton ordered the anchor weighed. There being no steam up, there followed a screeching of whistles as the bosun and his mate hurried the men into position, pinning the capstan bars into place around the capstan and swifting them, looping the heavy messenger cable around the capstan and bringing it alongside the even heavier anchor cable, and pinning them together with nippers while other sailors sprinkled sand on the deck for traction. The sailors spun the capstan round, quite easily at first, pulling the anchor cable from the water, but as the Badger slid over on top of her anchor the capstan spun slower, and slower.
"Up and down sir," cried a voice from the beakhead, indicating that the Badger now floated directly above her anchor.
"Thick and dry for weighing!" replied Lieutenant Grey from the quarterdeck, and the men leaned into their capstan bars, straining to break the anchor from the ground. The lieutenant ordered the setting of the fore and main courses; the canvas billowed out, several sailors pulling it into place, and the Badger plucked her anchor from the ground.
[EDIT 21 May 2009: corrected names of carpenter and engineer to match later enteries]
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
But Badger was ready for her commander to board on the ceremonial starboard side. When his boat rowed around to the port side, the larboard side, the master and the lieutenant exchanged a glance. "Larboard side?" asked the master.
"So it appears." replied the lieutenant.
The boatkeeper hooked on and, after a moment of hushed argument from the boat, whose nature escaped them, they saw a head and then the body of a large man, partially uniformed but with his jacket over his arm. As soon as he set foot on the deck the bosun's mate blew his whistle and was immediately silenced by the bosun. Several of the marines presented arms, while others stared dumbly at their new commander. The sailors also stared. "Good evening, gentlemen," said the man. "I am Commander Fitton."
When several moments passed and Commander Fitton said nothing further, the lieutenant stepped forward, saluted and removed his hat, and said, "Welcome, sir, to the Badger. I am Lieutenant Grey, this is the master, Mister South; this the engineer, Mister Stevens; the carpenter, Mister Scott..." and so on, through the officers. As each officer was named, he saluted Commander Fitton, who, as best he could in an inadequate uniform, saluted back.
When he was done, Philip pulled the lieutenant aside and quietly said, "Ah, I don't suppose you could pay the boatman? I seem to have put off without my purse."
The lieutenant stared, then replied "yes, sir", as in duty bound, and leaned over the side to settle Philip's fare. The boatkeeper's boat moved off and was immediately replaced by another.
From this boat sprang a fully uniformed midshipman, who saluted the quarterdeck, saluted the lieutenant, and stated that he had orders for Commander Fitton; he was to wait for a response.
"I am Commander Fitton," said Philip again, hoping he sounded more impressive than he felt. No jacket, no epaulletes, an absolute disgrace. He received a cover from the midshipman and opened it, reading
Sir:
Immediately upon receipt of this Order You shall take the Dispatches, &c previously received by Your command and proceed forthwith to or about 36° N, 14° E, there to meet Admiral XXX of the XXX squadron and deliver up to him the same.
Should You be unable to comply with this Order You will send notice of such, along with the reasons for Your Inability, via the Bearer of this Order.
Your Obt, Humble Servant,
XXXXX
Admiral of Her Majesty's Navy
To Commander Fitton, HM Sloop Badger
"Mr -," he turned to the lieutenant, "we received some dispatches from the flag?" Philip asked.
"Yes sir, the day before last. I had them placed in your cabin."
"Very good, Mr Grey," the man's name came to him this time, "prepare to weigh anchor," said Philip. To the midshipman who had brought him the order he said "thank you," dismissing him, and the boy disappeared over the side to his boat.
"Yes, sir," replied Grey, "of course, sir, but we haven't received any coal, yet. And perhaps you'd be like to be read in, sir?", which was as close as he could come to saying that until he had been read in, Philip was not, in fact, the Badger's commander. "Surely the admiral didn't mean to weigh anchor immediately?"
"I am not in the habit of discussing my orders, Mr Grey," said Philip, hoping he didn't sound as pompous as he felt, "but yes, if you would read me in." He handed the lieutenant the order appointing him to the Badger.
"Silence, fore and aft!" cried the lieutenant, "Off hats!" and once the deck was silent, and every head was bare, "By the Right Honorable Lord Green, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the Blue and Commander in Chief of Her Majesty's Ships and Vessels employed and to be employed in the Mediterranean..."
When he had finished, and Philip was wedded to the Badger as her commander, whose lawful order it was death to disobey, Commander Fitton ordered the anchor weighed. There being no steam up, there followed a screeching of whistles as the bosun and his mate hurried the men into position, pinning the capstan bars into place around the capstan and swifting them, looping the heavy messenger cable around the capstan and bringing it alongside the even heavier anchor cable, and pinning them together with nippers while other sailors sprinkled sand on the deck for traction. The sailors spun the capstan round, quite easily at first, pulling the anchor cable from the water, but as the Badger slid over on top of her anchor the capstan spun slower, and slower.
"Up and down sir," cried a voice from the beakhead, indicating that the Badger now floated directly above her anchor.
"Thick and dry for weighing!" replied Lieutenant Grey from the quarterdeck, and the men leaned into their capstan bars, straining to break the anchor from the ground. The lieutenant ordered the setting of the fore and main courses; the canvas billowed out, several sailors pulling it into place, and the Badger plucked her anchor from the ground.
[EDIT 21 May 2009: corrected names of carpenter and engineer to match later enteries]
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Saturday, September 13, 2008
From my thesis
Pets and companion animals:
Hurricane Katrina also brought to light the difficulties faced by pets and companion animals, and their owners.[1] Anderson and Anderson, writing in 2006, noted that responders to Katrina in some cases forcibly separated citizens from their pets, adding to the emotional trauma of already trying circumstances. Many pet owners consider their pets to be members of their family, and being separated from their pets was much more painful than losing their possessions. From an emergency manager’s point of view, abandoned pets had to subsequently be rescued and, hopefully, reunited with their owners. These activities took resources that might have been spent on other needs had pet owners been able to evacuate with their pets.{{131 Anderson, Allen 2006;}}
What is more, pet owners who refuse to evacuate because they cannot take their pets with them, along with those who return to evacuated areas to rescue their pets, may subsequently require rescue or become casualties, creating additional dangers for responders.{{131 Anderson, Allen 2006;136 Nolen, R. Scott 2005;}}
This situation is further complicated by animals’ inability to speak: any animal that is separated from its owner must be reunited with that owner, but the animal cannot provide information to help with this. This is important in cases where an animal is brought to a shelter by someone other than its owner (e.g. a neighbor or rescue worker). In cases where the owner drops off the pet, provision must be made for taking down contact information and for keeping that information with the animal. Finally, animals are just as prone to injury in a disaster as humans are, so a complete animal emergency shelter needs veterinary facilities in addition to lodging facilities.{{135 Clark, Alison 2005;}}
Although it is, ultimately, the responsibility of a pet owner to plan for an evacuation with her pet{{137 Kahler, Susan C. 2005;}}, experience has shown that people’s pets influence how they will comply, or not comply, with an order to evacuate or seek shelter. This, coupled with the fact that any pet owner who is out of town (e.g. at work in the city) may not be able to care for his pet on his own, suggests that responsible disaster management includes pets in its calculations.
[1] Though the author’s position is that a pet is cared for rather than owned, and that a pet is a family member rather than a possession, it appears to the author that own is the relationship term most likely to be readily understood by readers, and thus this is the term that will be used.
Hurricane Katrina also brought to light the difficulties faced by pets and companion animals, and their owners.[1] Anderson and Anderson, writing in 2006, noted that responders to Katrina in some cases forcibly separated citizens from their pets, adding to the emotional trauma of already trying circumstances. Many pet owners consider their pets to be members of their family, and being separated from their pets was much more painful than losing their possessions. From an emergency manager’s point of view, abandoned pets had to subsequently be rescued and, hopefully, reunited with their owners. These activities took resources that might have been spent on other needs had pet owners been able to evacuate with their pets.{{131 Anderson, Allen 2006;}}
What is more, pet owners who refuse to evacuate because they cannot take their pets with them, along with those who return to evacuated areas to rescue their pets, may subsequently require rescue or become casualties, creating additional dangers for responders.{{131 Anderson, Allen 2006;136 Nolen, R. Scott 2005;}}
This situation is further complicated by animals’ inability to speak: any animal that is separated from its owner must be reunited with that owner, but the animal cannot provide information to help with this. This is important in cases where an animal is brought to a shelter by someone other than its owner (e.g. a neighbor or rescue worker). In cases where the owner drops off the pet, provision must be made for taking down contact information and for keeping that information with the animal. Finally, animals are just as prone to injury in a disaster as humans are, so a complete animal emergency shelter needs veterinary facilities in addition to lodging facilities.{{135 Clark, Alison 2005;}}
Although it is, ultimately, the responsibility of a pet owner to plan for an evacuation with her pet{{137 Kahler, Susan C. 2005;}}, experience has shown that people’s pets influence how they will comply, or not comply, with an order to evacuate or seek shelter. This, coupled with the fact that any pet owner who is out of town (e.g. at work in the city) may not be able to care for his pet on his own, suggests that responsible disaster management includes pets in its calculations.
[1] Though the author’s position is that a pet is cared for rather than owned, and that a pet is a family member rather than a possession, it appears to the author that own is the relationship term most likely to be readily understood by readers, and thus this is the term that will be used.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
X-ray Chapter 5, part 5
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The trauma team met them at the door, whisked their patient into Trauma 2 for a quick x-ray, then upstairs to OR. Frank nonchalantly sat down at a desk and wrote up his report, chewing on the end of his pen from time to time.. Ian attended to the stretcher, wiping up the smears of blood and bleaching the entire mattress before he remade it with clean sheets. Again and again he watched the chips of bone fall out of the woman's crushed, deflated knees as they transferred her to the longboard. He shook his head to clear it of the image.
On his way out to sanitize the ambulance's steering wheel he stopped to buy coffee at a machine. The machine ground and hissed, then gave him a a cup of hot water instead.
Before they left, Doctor Davis told them that their patient would lose one leg, probably both. They went back in service and returned to their post. "The weird thing was," Ian would tell Sara that evening, "that she was carrying church pamphlets."
Sara looked at him quizzically.
"If you're doing God's work, shouldn't He be looking out for you?"
But for now the thought had not yet formed, or had not yet solidified into words, and all he did was stare at the world through his rain-flecked windshield until the slow, steady beat of the wipers lulled him to sleep.
[END OF CHAPTER]
First Post|Previous|Next
The trauma team met them at the door, whisked their patient into Trauma 2 for a quick x-ray, then upstairs to OR. Frank nonchalantly sat down at a desk and wrote up his report, chewing on the end of his pen from time to time.. Ian attended to the stretcher, wiping up the smears of blood and bleaching the entire mattress before he remade it with clean sheets. Again and again he watched the chips of bone fall out of the woman's crushed, deflated knees as they transferred her to the longboard. He shook his head to clear it of the image.
On his way out to sanitize the ambulance's steering wheel he stopped to buy coffee at a machine. The machine ground and hissed, then gave him a a cup of hot water instead.
Before they left, Doctor Davis told them that their patient would lose one leg, probably both. They went back in service and returned to their post. "The weird thing was," Ian would tell Sara that evening, "that she was carrying church pamphlets."
Sara looked at him quizzically.
"If you're doing God's work, shouldn't He be looking out for you?"
But for now the thought had not yet formed, or had not yet solidified into words, and all he did was stare at the world through his rain-flecked windshield until the slow, steady beat of the wipers lulled him to sleep.
[END OF CHAPTER]
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Monday, September 8, 2008
Cows and governments, etc
From: http://ricksbreakfastblog.blogspot.com/2007/06/cow-socialism.html
SOCIALISM:You have 2 cows, and you give one to your neighbour.
COMMUNISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.
FASCISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.
NAZISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.
BUREAUCRATISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away...
TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM:You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull.Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
SURREALISM:You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.
AN AMERICAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.
ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM:You have two cows.You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more.Sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public buys your bull.
A FRENCH CORPORATION:You have two cows.You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.
A JAPANESE CORPORATION:You have two cows.You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.You then create a clever cow cartoon image called 'Cowkimon' and market it worldwide.
A GERMAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.
AN ITALIAN CORPORATION:You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.
A RUSSIAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows because your sobering up and open another bottle of vodka.
A CHINESE CORPORATION:You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity, and arrest the newsman who report the real situation.
AN IRAQI CORPORATION:Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.You tell them that you have none.No-one believes you, so they bomb the sh*t out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but now you're a "democracy"....
THE POLISH GOVERNMENT:You have two cows. You lecture one on how turning gay will mean the end of cattle. The other cow emigrates.
CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB:You have two cows and twentysomething overpaid donkeys. Everyone hates you.
THE WELSH:You have two cows. You try not to look too disappointed.
AN IRISH ENTREPRENEUR:You have two cows. You borrow against future headage payments to develop your land. The cows can live in flat 62. In Bulgaria.
AN IRISH RURAL DWELLER:You have two cows. An Taisce object.
THE IRISH TIMES:You have two cows. They don't always agree with you. What sort of cattle are they?
THE SUNDAY INDEPENDENT:You have two cows. You start sleeping with one of them. A column follows.
FINE GAEL:You have two cows and, by God, a CONTRACT for two more!
PROGRESSIVE DEMOCRATS:You have two cows. The others were destroyed by an ungrateful public.You're not quite sure if two is enough to maintain an actual farm.
SINN FÉIN:You have two cows, not enough green fields, and lots and lots of sheep.
THE GREENS:You have two cows and an extensive portfolio of equity interests in various American food and beverage corporations. You sell these and pay child actors to pretend they want adults to vote for you.
FIANNA FÁIL:You had two cows. Due to separation proceedings with your one-time heifers, you dodge any questions on your finances.
Socialist Party:You have two cows. You keep one and pay the other to your party. This keeps you in touch with ordinary working farmers who have only one cow. The other farmers ignore or patronise you.
THE H.S.E.:You have two cows. They go on strike.
SOCIALISM:You have 2 cows, and you give one to your neighbour.
COMMUNISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.
FASCISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.
NAZISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.
BUREAUCRATISM:You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away...
TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM:You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull.Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
SURREALISM:You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.
AN AMERICAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.
ENRON VENTURE CAPITALISM:You have two cows.You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more.Sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public buys your bull.
A FRENCH CORPORATION:You have two cows.You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.
A JAPANESE CORPORATION:You have two cows.You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.You then create a clever cow cartoon image called 'Cowkimon' and market it worldwide.
A GERMAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.
AN ITALIAN CORPORATION:You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.
A RUSSIAN CORPORATION:You have two cows.You count them and learn you have five cows. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.You count them again and learn you have 2 cows. You stop counting cows because your sobering up and open another bottle of vodka.
A CHINESE CORPORATION:You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity, and arrest the newsman who report the real situation.
AN IRAQI CORPORATION:Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.You tell them that you have none.No-one believes you, so they bomb the sh*t out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but now you're a "democracy"....
THE POLISH GOVERNMENT:You have two cows. You lecture one on how turning gay will mean the end of cattle. The other cow emigrates.
CHELSEA FOOTBALL CLUB:You have two cows and twentysomething overpaid donkeys. Everyone hates you.
THE WELSH:You have two cows. You try not to look too disappointed.
AN IRISH ENTREPRENEUR:You have two cows. You borrow against future headage payments to develop your land. The cows can live in flat 62. In Bulgaria.
AN IRISH RURAL DWELLER:You have two cows. An Taisce object.
THE IRISH TIMES:You have two cows. They don't always agree with you. What sort of cattle are they?
THE SUNDAY INDEPENDENT:You have two cows. You start sleeping with one of them. A column follows.
FINE GAEL:You have two cows and, by God, a CONTRACT for two more!
PROGRESSIVE DEMOCRATS:You have two cows. The others were destroyed by an ungrateful public.You're not quite sure if two is enough to maintain an actual farm.
SINN FÉIN:You have two cows, not enough green fields, and lots and lots of sheep.
THE GREENS:You have two cows and an extensive portfolio of equity interests in various American food and beverage corporations. You sell these and pay child actors to pretend they want adults to vote for you.
FIANNA FÁIL:You had two cows. Due to separation proceedings with your one-time heifers, you dodge any questions on your finances.
Socialist Party:You have two cows. You keep one and pay the other to your party. This keeps you in touch with ordinary working farmers who have only one cow. The other farmers ignore or patronise you.
THE H.S.E.:You have two cows. They go on strike.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
STO'B 6
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Prizes, riches, and glory, all for the taking; but first he had to get to sea. "I'll head right down to her, set out to sea immediately," he said, tossing his things into his chest and hauling it down to the ground floor. He paid his bill, using his last farthing to do so, and started to carry his chest out the door, but, "why am I doing this?" he asked himself. "I can send a sailor for it." He quickly arranged to leave the chest behind the bar, then dashed down to the harbor.
At the harbor he hailed a boat to take him out to his sloop. "Hurry up!" he said to the boatkeeper, but when the Badger came into view around the stern of the 84-gun Lion, he suddenly sat back. "Christ," he said under his breath, "my epaulettes!"
"What?" asked the boatkeeper.
"Turn back, turn back!," Philip cried. "Quickly!"
The boatkeeper churned his oars, spinning the boat, and once he had settled them on their new course he said, "you still gots to pay, you know."
"Pay!?"
"Yes," said the boatkeeper, resting his oars. "You gots to pay. You know, money? This ain't free, unless you wants to get off right here."
"No, no," said Philip, who could not swim, "no, no. Well, well, damn the epaulettes," he said after a moment. He pulled off his coat, earning a broad stare from the boatkeeper, and folded it under his arm so the epaulettes - the lieutenant's epaulettes - didn't show. "Right. Larboard side," he said, and the boatkeeper set to his oars again.
On board the Badger, waiting for their new commander, the lieutenant stood by the master on the quarterdeck. Commander - now Captain - Somer's servant and cox'n had cleared out all of his possessions over 24 hours ago, and they were discussing the continued absence of his replacement. "Very strange, Mr South," said the lieutenant. "Very strange. Don't understand why we haven't seen him yet."
The master shook his head. "Unnatural," he replied in a thick voice. "Seems to me a commander'd want to be aboard his vessel, 'specially if it's 'is first command." He sneezed, then blew his nose into a handkerchief and went on, "all of the water is aboard, and the powder, but we're still waiting on the coal. Bloody lighter was supposed to be here in the mornin' watch, beggin' your pardon."
"Yes, well," the lieutenant left his sentence dangling. How might he separate himself from the master, and more importantly, the master's cold, without being rudely obvious?
The master sneezed again, again blowing his nose into his handkerchief. "You suppose that's him now?" he asked.
"The little boat that's spinning in circles?" Lieutenant Grey put his telescope to his eye. "With the lieutenant who's pulling off his coat? I doubt it. But he does look like he's coming here, whoever he is. What boat!" he hailed, "what boat is that?"
"Badger!" replied the boatkeeper, indicating that Badger's commanding officer was aboard, and his words set in motion a flurry of activity on board the Badger herself: the bosun's pipe shrilled; men ran to their stations for receiving their new commander in all of his glory; side boys found their little white gloves and scrambled to don them, and to run manropes out at the same time; the marines hustled into their scarlet coats while their sergeant inspected and shoved them into position; the lieutenant hurriedly looked over the spotless decks, lest some stain had appeared in the past 20 minutes; the master scanned his rigging, looking for imperfections that he had missed on his first three inspections; and the engineer hurried from the head, pulling up his breeches as his did so.
Badger was ready for her commander.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
Prizes, riches, and glory, all for the taking; but first he had to get to sea. "I'll head right down to her, set out to sea immediately," he said, tossing his things into his chest and hauling it down to the ground floor. He paid his bill, using his last farthing to do so, and started to carry his chest out the door, but, "why am I doing this?" he asked himself. "I can send a sailor for it." He quickly arranged to leave the chest behind the bar, then dashed down to the harbor.
At the harbor he hailed a boat to take him out to his sloop. "Hurry up!" he said to the boatkeeper, but when the Badger came into view around the stern of the 84-gun Lion, he suddenly sat back. "Christ," he said under his breath, "my epaulettes!"
"What?" asked the boatkeeper.
"Turn back, turn back!," Philip cried. "Quickly!"
The boatkeeper churned his oars, spinning the boat, and once he had settled them on their new course he said, "you still gots to pay, you know."
"Pay!?"
"Yes," said the boatkeeper, resting his oars. "You gots to pay. You know, money? This ain't free, unless you wants to get off right here."
"No, no," said Philip, who could not swim, "no, no. Well, well, damn the epaulettes," he said after a moment. He pulled off his coat, earning a broad stare from the boatkeeper, and folded it under his arm so the epaulettes - the lieutenant's epaulettes - didn't show. "Right. Larboard side," he said, and the boatkeeper set to his oars again.
On board the Badger, waiting for their new commander, the lieutenant stood by the master on the quarterdeck. Commander - now Captain - Somer's servant and cox'n had cleared out all of his possessions over 24 hours ago, and they were discussing the continued absence of his replacement. "Very strange, Mr South," said the lieutenant. "Very strange. Don't understand why we haven't seen him yet."
The master shook his head. "Unnatural," he replied in a thick voice. "Seems to me a commander'd want to be aboard his vessel, 'specially if it's 'is first command." He sneezed, then blew his nose into a handkerchief and went on, "all of the water is aboard, and the powder, but we're still waiting on the coal. Bloody lighter was supposed to be here in the mornin' watch, beggin' your pardon."
"Yes, well," the lieutenant left his sentence dangling. How might he separate himself from the master, and more importantly, the master's cold, without being rudely obvious?
The master sneezed again, again blowing his nose into his handkerchief. "You suppose that's him now?" he asked.
"The little boat that's spinning in circles?" Lieutenant Grey put his telescope to his eye. "With the lieutenant who's pulling off his coat? I doubt it. But he does look like he's coming here, whoever he is. What boat!" he hailed, "what boat is that?"
"Badger!" replied the boatkeeper, indicating that Badger's commanding officer was aboard, and his words set in motion a flurry of activity on board the Badger herself: the bosun's pipe shrilled; men ran to their stations for receiving their new commander in all of his glory; side boys found their little white gloves and scrambled to don them, and to run manropes out at the same time; the marines hustled into their scarlet coats while their sergeant inspected and shoved them into position; the lieutenant hurriedly looked over the spotless decks, lest some stain had appeared in the past 20 minutes; the master scanned his rigging, looking for imperfections that he had missed on his first three inspections; and the engineer hurried from the head, pulling up his breeches as his did so.
Badger was ready for her commander.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
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