BBC online reports that voting in the US presidential election is getting underway.
And I thought we had till November.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
X-ray Chapter 6, part 3
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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
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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
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
X-ray Chapter 5, part 4
First Post|Previous|Next
"Backup Three-five C at an MVA," Frank read as he put them en route. "Go down two blocks to 201."
Ian flipped on the lights and reached for the siren. His heart pounded, and he felt the familiar impatient queasiness as he waited for a UPS truck to lumber past so he could pull out into the street. "And?" He asked.
"And go left," Frank said. "You're clear right."
Two large bore IV's, IV NS, consider dopamine at -- what was the rate for an alpha response? He couldn't remember. He turned onto 201st street and wondered if they would need to cut the cars. He hoped they would -- he had never seen that done, and he felt ashamed for hoping. If they were cutting, the accident was bad.
They would not need to cut the cars. The FD was already there when they pulled up, but this was not an MVA so much as a pedestrian-struck: a car sat half up on the sidewalk, with a knot of rescuers between its front-end and the brick wall of a building. Two feet and a pair of legs stuck out from the small gathering. Cries rose above the noise of the gathering onlookers. A longboard stood propped against the car's side. "What happened?" Ian asked a firefighter as he and Frank pulled their gear from the ambulance.
"Car jumped the curb and hit her into the wall. Bastard tried to run off but they caught him."
Over at the car, Frank took charge immediately. He got a report from Three-five C, and asked Ian to start an IV, while Frank did a more thorough exam of the patient.
The woman's knees were crushed. Ian thought that they looked deflated. They must've been the point of impact, he reasoned, where the car's bumper caught her and swept her into the wall. And the impact must've been pretty severe, judging by the depth of the dent in the wall.
While he was starting his IV -- he only remembered to prep and run out his line of the last moment -- there was a sudden opening of the scene, more area in which to work, and Ian realized that the FD had quietly rolled the car back and secured it. Three-five Charlie helped them move the patient over to the board, to lift the board onto the stretcher, until it the stretcher into the ambulance.
Frank shook his head when Three-five Charlie asked if he wanted them to drive. Just before they closed the door on him, he nodded to Ian: "Gantry."
Ian climbed into the cab and tapped the siren to clear path for the crowd of onlookers. Their presence, they're gawking angered him, he didn't know why. When he had some attention to spare, perhaps he would be able to figure it out, but not now.
He used the siren to scoot through an intersection and too late, too late, he realized that he still had his blood-flecked gloves on. "Well," he decided, "the steering wheel's slimed to now, so I might as well leave them on."
First Post|Previous|Next
"Backup Three-five C at an MVA," Frank read as he put them en route. "Go down two blocks to 201."
Ian flipped on the lights and reached for the siren. His heart pounded, and he felt the familiar impatient queasiness as he waited for a UPS truck to lumber past so he could pull out into the street. "And?" He asked.
"And go left," Frank said. "You're clear right."
Two large bore IV's, IV NS, consider dopamine at -- what was the rate for an alpha response? He couldn't remember. He turned onto 201st street and wondered if they would need to cut the cars. He hoped they would -- he had never seen that done, and he felt ashamed for hoping. If they were cutting, the accident was bad.
They would not need to cut the cars. The FD was already there when they pulled up, but this was not an MVA so much as a pedestrian-struck: a car sat half up on the sidewalk, with a knot of rescuers between its front-end and the brick wall of a building. Two feet and a pair of legs stuck out from the small gathering. Cries rose above the noise of the gathering onlookers. A longboard stood propped against the car's side. "What happened?" Ian asked a firefighter as he and Frank pulled their gear from the ambulance.
"Car jumped the curb and hit her into the wall. Bastard tried to run off but they caught him."
Over at the car, Frank took charge immediately. He got a report from Three-five C, and asked Ian to start an IV, while Frank did a more thorough exam of the patient.
The woman's knees were crushed. Ian thought that they looked deflated. They must've been the point of impact, he reasoned, where the car's bumper caught her and swept her into the wall. And the impact must've been pretty severe, judging by the depth of the dent in the wall.
While he was starting his IV -- he only remembered to prep and run out his line of the last moment -- there was a sudden opening of the scene, more area in which to work, and Ian realized that the FD had quietly rolled the car back and secured it. Three-five Charlie helped them move the patient over to the board, to lift the board onto the stretcher, until it the stretcher into the ambulance.
Frank shook his head when Three-five Charlie asked if he wanted them to drive. Just before they closed the door on him, he nodded to Ian: "Gantry."
Ian climbed into the cab and tapped the siren to clear path for the crowd of onlookers. Their presence, they're gawking angered him, he didn't know why. When he had some attention to spare, perhaps he would be able to figure it out, but not now.
He used the siren to scoot through an intersection and too late, too late, he realized that he still had his blood-flecked gloves on. "Well," he decided, "the steering wheel's slimed to now, so I might as well leave them on."
First Post|Previous|Next
Monday, September 1, 2008
STO'B - Author's Note
When writing of the Royal Navy of the mid-19th Century, it is difficult for the author to gild the lily. England, of course, was fighting for her very life, and it was only through the skill and determination of the men (and some occasional women) of her navy - often badly supplied and badly fed, and always badly paid - that she survived; for France held dominion over almost all of Europe, with its vast reserves of men and the raw materials of war.
The writer of fiction about this period is thus at a serious disadvantage if he chooses to create his own engagements, for nothing that he creates can compare with the true events. None but the most fertile of imaginations could see Captain Wilson and the crew of the 14-gun sail sloop Valkyrie (and fourteen miserable 4-pounders, at that) storming the 90-gun steam/sail battleship Intrépide and taking her in a matter of 20 minutes. Thus, I have borrowed heavily from history, borrowing and indeed stealing the actions of actual sailors for those of my own, though I have kept, as much as my research has allowed, very closely to the actualities of these engagements in terms of shots fired, maneuvers taken, mistakes made and capitalized upon, and casualties suffered.
For the sake of an authenticity where the resolve and activity of the Royal Navy in this period is concerned, I hope that the reader will grant me this degree of license.
First Post
The writer of fiction about this period is thus at a serious disadvantage if he chooses to create his own engagements, for nothing that he creates can compare with the true events. None but the most fertile of imaginations could see Captain Wilson and the crew of the 14-gun sail sloop Valkyrie (and fourteen miserable 4-pounders, at that) storming the 90-gun steam/sail battleship Intrépide and taking her in a matter of 20 minutes. Thus, I have borrowed heavily from history, borrowing and indeed stealing the actions of actual sailors for those of my own, though I have kept, as much as my research has allowed, very closely to the actualities of these engagements in terms of shots fired, maneuvers taken, mistakes made and capitalized upon, and casualties suffered.
For the sake of an authenticity where the resolve and activity of the Royal Navy in this period is concerned, I hope that the reader will grant me this degree of license.
First Post
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