Tuesday
One a.m.
Cough syrup with codeine
The good stuff
So why am I still up?
Because I live in Claremont
Claremont is the City of Trees
I am allergic to trees
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Gotcha, sucker!
Glossy Ibis (left) and White-faced Ibis at San Jacinto Wildlife Refuge 19 June 2011
Man, I haven't seen a Glossy Ibis in over 10 years. As a matter of fact, the only time I've ever seen one was in Hungary with István Katona. There was a hybrid bird at the other pond that had blue legs with obvious red knees, but the face of a White-faced Ibis, but the other 300 birds were all "pure" (as far as we know) White-faced Ibis.
Glossy Ibis--which breeds from Louisiana to the Eastern Seaboard--is so hard to tell apart from our normal California i.e. western species of White-faced Ibis, that there is an entire chapter on separating them in "Advanced Birding". Fortunately, this bird was in high breeding plumage, so all I had to do was stare at every single one of the 300 other ibis out there, one-by-one, needle-in-a-haystack, and say, "No, your face is white. Nope, you have a white face. Nope, there's white behind your eyes." for an hour.
Separating these same 2 birds (literally, the 2 birds in the photo) in December would be a nightmare ending with birders cussing each other out, accusing each other of withcraft, idolatry, and Zoroastranism.
Guy has the annoying habit of finding a winter plumage Glossy Ibis at the Salton Sea in the middle of a flock of 2,000 White-faced Ibis. Each year when he writes an email like that, I just shake my head and say, "No way, Jose. Not driving four hours to Sinclair Road to stare at a flock that big all day long."
Well, there's Howard, getting into his pickup truck. If you don't know Howard's last name, then you aren't a serious California birder.
Other birders whose last names are not necessary:
Brad
Bob
Chet (thanks for finding the Glossy Ibis, Chet!) Guy
Kimball
Lance
Stan
...to name a few.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
LIFE IN THE E.R. Part 374 : THE JERKS at WORK
WHY I HATE NURSES PART 1
So I’m working in the ER last weekend, and this nurse, X, starts showing me her gold wire jewelry that she made, herself. Starts telling me that I should buy some for my wife. I tell her that my wife doesn’t wear jewelry (This is true. It is both a good and a bad thing as (1) my wife isn’t out to spend my paycheck on jewelry while (2) my wife is very hard to buy presents for on her birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and Christmas). She pushes, insisting that my wife would really like this jewelry, since it’s hand-made, blah blah blah…
Couple days later, late into the evening, it’s almost time to go home. I burn a patient’s x-rays onto a CD, for them to take home (you don’t drive home with big sheets of black & white film negative a.k.a. x-ray film in a big white paper envelope, any more—we went digital years ago) and I suspect that not all of the images got onto the CD. I tell the ER clerk that I’m going back to Radiology to burn a 2nd CD—of the rest of the images—just to make sure. I go back to the department, and Q shows up for the graveyard shift. We start talking, I clock out, and drive home. When I get home I realize, “Holy shitburgers, I didn’t give them the second CD!” So I call up the ER on my home phone, and Nurse X answers. I tell her about how I forgot to drop off the CD before going home, and that the CD is still in the computer in Radiology. She says, “Got it,thanks.”
So of course the next day at work I get pulled into the Radiology office where I am forced to sign a Maoist declaration of self-criticism in which I admit that I am a Kulak, a counter-revolutionary, a Bourgeoisie Enemy of the People. It’s not the Radiology manager’s fault; he got this long, ranting email from Nurse X about what a lazy jerk I am. Not satisfied with what she wrote, she called the Radiology Manager, and went on a rant about what a rude, unprofessional asshole I am.
Nice.
So, of course, half an hour after I signed the voluntary confession (that I am a capitalist running dog), and the Radiology Manager had gone home for the day, the proverbial light blub clicked on over my head, and that’s when I realized that the whole incident with the CD that I forgot to hand-carry over the ER was nothing more than a great opportunity for Nurse X to get even with me for not buying her home-made jewelry.
Hello? Can I get a little justice, here? I did, of course,write the Radiology Manager a follow-up email, and to quote my mother, “Thanks God”, he must have followed up on it, because the next night I saw Nurse X, and Boy, Did She Give Me Dirty Looks For The Rest Of The Shift. If looks could kill, I wouldn’t be writing this on my wife’s laptop, I’d be transmitting it from my grave via a ouija board at a séance (allow me the hubris of assuming that when I’m dead, anybody would want to hear from me).
So here’s what pisses me off: people who can dish it out, but they can’t take it. Aaargh.
Consider this: Right now, the one thing that is keeping me financially afloat until I find a full-time job is the fact that the Radiology Manager has been giving me a lot of shifts, but each time I as an employee get written up, it goes into my file—and as far as I understand it—If you get written up X number of times (I don’t know the number) corporate policy is that they have to fire your ass. So, whether or not my 6 year old son and 5 year old daughter become homeless is in the hands of people like Nurse X. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m a talented, experienced x-ray tech with strong ethics. That doesn’t go into the equation.
Here’s the real problem: what kind of shift I will have tomorrow is not determined by what kind of patients show up, or how well I do my job—it’s determined by who is working in the ER, tomorrow. The one thing that I don’t understand is the extreme level of tension in this ER. I have never seen so many unhappy, angry people shackled together in one place in all my life. Wait, that’s almost true: Daniel Freeman Marina Del Rey’s ER and Radiology Department were a disaster in the 1990s until they figured out that, like my mom always said, “A fejtől büdösődik a hal,” (Der Fisch stinkt vom Kopf her.) and they fired the Radiology Manager. She was awesome. I was working alone on a 3-day weekend shift, and the ER got super busy, so I did what I was told to do: I called in the back-up tech (the manager’s friend), who of course, showed up reeking of alcohol, and slurring her words. The Radiology Manager’s response was to berate me for calling in the back-up tech (who got paid to be on stand-by), when I should have been able to x-ray all of those people, myself, without help. She actually wrote me up. That was 20 years ago, when I was young & stupid, and I let people like her get away with shit like that.
Today’s shift, for example was nice. The mood was set by J.
J is a crusty old Vietnam vet. He’s a no bullshit guy who doesn’t take himself—or anybody else—seriously. As soon as I saw him, I knew that the shift would go well, regardless of what medical events go wrong with the patients. God Bless the USMC for cranking out guys like J.
This, in fact, is the crux of the problem: we work in a job where the worst-case scenario is that somebody dies—so really—do we need to make being at work worse by being at each others’ throats? If I were to make mistake in front of J, he would most likely wrinkle his grizzled, white eyebrows and hiss, “What the fuck was that?” which in fact is far more painful than getting written up, because I’m a guy, and like all men, I suffer from this horrible disease: we spend our whole lives obsessively trying to get men older or higher up the food chain than us to approve of—and like us. Having J think I’m an idiot has far more corrective power than a write-up.
ANOTHER ROUND OF DRINKS FOR ME AND MY FRIENDS, PLEASE!
So Q comes in for the graveyard shift, and he says, “Man, you were lucky that you went home when you did, last night. Three people on backboards brought in from the same car accident. One of them is drunk as a skunk, and he rips the c-spine collar off his neck. Then he unbuckles the straps on the backboard, and gets off the gurney. Then he rips the i.v. out of his arm, and blood squirts across the room, hitting his friend, who sees the blood, and BBBLLLECCHH! pukes all over the floor.”
I snorted, and laughed so hard that I almost fell out of my chair.
WHY I HATE NURSES PART 2
MR. ROLEX
Before I rip into male nurses, first a caveat, then a short lesson in radiation biology:
1) I rip into nurses all the time, but some of my best friends are nurses. To paraphrase, “I love nurses as a class, but I hate the nurses I know.” My apologies to Edna.
2) If you are a woman under 50 years old, and you need an x-ray or a CT (which is nothing but a computerized 3D x-ray), whatever hospital you go to will make you jump through hoops before they’re willing to zap you. This is as it should be. You have to get a pregancy test, and sign a waiver with all kinds of info about when you had your last period, etc.
Okay, so here’s the problem: you get a young, fertile female, and she’s not the patient who needs an x-ray, it’s her kid that needs an x-ray—but we need her—or someone—to hold the kid still during the x-ray. Do you do a pregnancy test on Mom? No, because she isn’t the patient. So, what I do is I always ask the moms if their husband, or some other male relative (over the age of 18) is around. If the answer is ‘yes’, then Dad gets to hold his kid for the x-rays. Sometimes Dad is already sitting next to Mom and the kid in the ER, sometimes Dad is out in the waiting room watching Nancy Grace a.k.a. The Harpy on CNN, and sometimes Dad is out in the parking lot, on the cell phone. Sometimes Dad isn’t around, and Grandma winds up holding the kid for the x-ray. Sometimes Mom is alone, and she has to hold the kid. Whoever it is, they wind up wearing a lead apron while holding the kid down on the table, and typically there is a 2nd lead apron on the kid’s pelvic area, too.
No problem.
So this weekend I walked up to the patient bed, where Mom was waiting with her baby, who needed an x-ray.
“Hi Mom. What’s this baby’s name?”
“John Smith Jr.” (not his real name)
“Okay. The doctor ordered an x-ray. Any chance you’re pregnant?”
She shrugs, “I don’t know!”
“Is your husband here?”
I should go back in there.
Nah, bad idea.
No, I need to set him straight.
Nah, he’ll actually turn it against you, and file a written complaint—even though you’re right, and he has no business telling you how to do your job.
I checked my pants: yes, my testicles were still there. So I went back into the ER.
Prince Charming was still slouched on his throne—I mean stool. So I said, “Y, would you still like to discuss why I got Dad?”
“YEAH! I wanna talk about that.”
“Okay, well let me ask you a question…”
“No! You just answer my question!”
“No. First I get to ask my question: do you feel it’s okay for you to confront me like that in a room full of people in a manner that could potentially embarrass me?”
“Well, I need to know why you did that.”
“Maybe, but the way you did that was uncool.” (I should have said the word I wanted to use: he was totally unprofessional)
“Well, I uh…You didn’t need the dad. Mom coulda held the kid for the x-ray!”
“Says who?”
“Well, well, well…your manual says that the mom can hold the kid for an x-ray while wearing a lead apron.”
“Now, Y, you know how we refuse to x-ray young females until they get a pregnancy test, and we still make them fill out the waiver?”
“Yeah..?”
“Well then, why is it okay to make a young fertile female hold her kid at arm’s length, when we don’t know for sure that she’s not pregnant, and her husband or mom is right here in the ER?”
“Well, you caused a delay in patient care.”
“Really? How long did it take for me to get Dad? It was an extra 2 or 3 minutes.”
“Yeah but, all of those 3 minutes add up, and we’re really busy here.”
Wow, he had the balls to look me in the eyes and say that. Half the ER beds were empty, which is precisely why his ass was glued to that stool. The argument dragged on and on, and I could clearly see that he was resorting to semantics and other high school debate team tricks to try to win an argument he shouldn’t have started in the first place, so I said, “Well, I’m done discussing this.”
He screams, “You haven’t answered my 2nd question!”
“I answered your original question, and feel no need to answer any more. I’m leaving now. I’m going to lunch while there’s still another x-ray tech to cover for me. Goodbye.”
I waved Adios at the lot of them, and waltzed out.
Actually, a few minutes into the argument, once Y had gotten in over his head, I could already see that he had lost his posse. They were still standing around him, but their facial expressions revealed that Mr. Rolex had lost his followers.
Well, I haven’t heard anything from Management, so I’m assuming that Mr. Rolex didn’t bother to write me up.
Good boy.
OYE, GÜERO: ¡UNO MAS, POR FAVOR!
I speak fluent Spanish. Because I have blond hair and blue eyes, when I claim to be fluent in Spanish, the California version of reverse discrimination kicks in: people assume that I am lying, because only people with brown skin know how to speak Spanish.
Exsqueeze me? Or should I say, “¿Escuchame?”
Try this on for irony: in Europe the Spaniards disdainfully proclaimed, “Tu hablas como un Mexicano.”
So I had an exasperating conversation with a patient, yesterday: I walked up to her, and instantly determined that she did not speak English; she only spoke Spanish. So I started talking with her in Spanish. Every time I said something in Spanish, she turned to her friend standing next to her, who repeated everything in Spanish that I had just said, in Spanish.
These are the times that try men’s souls.
So I’m working in the ER last weekend, and this nurse, X, starts showing me her gold wire jewelry that she made, herself. Starts telling me that I should buy some for my wife. I tell her that my wife doesn’t wear jewelry (This is true. It is both a good and a bad thing as (1) my wife isn’t out to spend my paycheck on jewelry while (2) my wife is very hard to buy presents for on her birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and Christmas). She pushes, insisting that my wife would really like this jewelry, since it’s hand-made, blah blah blah…
Couple days later, late into the evening, it’s almost time to go home. I burn a patient’s x-rays onto a CD, for them to take home (you don’t drive home with big sheets of black & white film negative a.k.a. x-ray film in a big white paper envelope, any more—we went digital years ago) and I suspect that not all of the images got onto the CD. I tell the ER clerk that I’m going back to Radiology to burn a 2nd CD—of the rest of the images—just to make sure. I go back to the department, and Q shows up for the graveyard shift. We start talking, I clock out, and drive home. When I get home I realize, “Holy shitburgers, I didn’t give them the second CD!” So I call up the ER on my home phone, and Nurse X answers. I tell her about how I forgot to drop off the CD before going home, and that the CD is still in the computer in Radiology. She says, “Got it,thanks.”
So of course the next day at work I get pulled into the Radiology office where I am forced to sign a Maoist declaration of self-criticism in which I admit that I am a Kulak, a counter-revolutionary, a Bourgeoisie Enemy of the People. It’s not the Radiology manager’s fault; he got this long, ranting email from Nurse X about what a lazy jerk I am. Not satisfied with what she wrote, she called the Radiology Manager, and went on a rant about what a rude, unprofessional asshole I am.
Nice.
So, of course, half an hour after I signed the voluntary confession (that I am a capitalist running dog), and the Radiology Manager had gone home for the day, the proverbial light blub clicked on over my head, and that’s when I realized that the whole incident with the CD that I forgot to hand-carry over the ER was nothing more than a great opportunity for Nurse X to get even with me for not buying her home-made jewelry.
Hello? Can I get a little justice, here? I did, of course,write the Radiology Manager a follow-up email, and to quote my mother, “Thanks God”, he must have followed up on it, because the next night I saw Nurse X, and Boy, Did She Give Me Dirty Looks For The Rest Of The Shift. If looks could kill, I wouldn’t be writing this on my wife’s laptop, I’d be transmitting it from my grave via a ouija board at a séance (allow me the hubris of assuming that when I’m dead, anybody would want to hear from me).
So here’s what pisses me off: people who can dish it out, but they can’t take it. Aaargh.
Consider this: Right now, the one thing that is keeping me financially afloat until I find a full-time job is the fact that the Radiology Manager has been giving me a lot of shifts, but each time I as an employee get written up, it goes into my file—and as far as I understand it—If you get written up X number of times (I don’t know the number) corporate policy is that they have to fire your ass. So, whether or not my 6 year old son and 5 year old daughter become homeless is in the hands of people like Nurse X. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m a talented, experienced x-ray tech with strong ethics. That doesn’t go into the equation.
Here’s the real problem: what kind of shift I will have tomorrow is not determined by what kind of patients show up, or how well I do my job—it’s determined by who is working in the ER, tomorrow. The one thing that I don’t understand is the extreme level of tension in this ER. I have never seen so many unhappy, angry people shackled together in one place in all my life. Wait, that’s almost true: Daniel Freeman Marina Del Rey’s ER and Radiology Department were a disaster in the 1990s until they figured out that, like my mom always said, “A fejtől büdösődik a hal,” (Der Fisch stinkt vom Kopf her.) and they fired the Radiology Manager. She was awesome. I was working alone on a 3-day weekend shift, and the ER got super busy, so I did what I was told to do: I called in the back-up tech (the manager’s friend), who of course, showed up reeking of alcohol, and slurring her words. The Radiology Manager’s response was to berate me for calling in the back-up tech (who got paid to be on stand-by), when I should have been able to x-ray all of those people, myself, without help. She actually wrote me up. That was 20 years ago, when I was young & stupid, and I let people like her get away with shit like that.
Today’s shift, for example was nice. The mood was set by J.
J is a crusty old Vietnam vet. He’s a no bullshit guy who doesn’t take himself—or anybody else—seriously. As soon as I saw him, I knew that the shift would go well, regardless of what medical events go wrong with the patients. God Bless the USMC for cranking out guys like J.
This, in fact, is the crux of the problem: we work in a job where the worst-case scenario is that somebody dies—so really—do we need to make being at work worse by being at each others’ throats? If I were to make mistake in front of J, he would most likely wrinkle his grizzled, white eyebrows and hiss, “What the fuck was that?” which in fact is far more painful than getting written up, because I’m a guy, and like all men, I suffer from this horrible disease: we spend our whole lives obsessively trying to get men older or higher up the food chain than us to approve of—and like us. Having J think I’m an idiot has far more corrective power than a write-up.
ANOTHER ROUND OF DRINKS FOR ME AND MY FRIENDS, PLEASE!
photo credit: St John's Ambulance of Australia (G'day, mates!)
I snorted, and laughed so hard that I almost fell out of my chair.
WHY I HATE NURSES PART 2
MR. ROLEX
Before I rip into male nurses, first a caveat, then a short lesson in radiation biology:
1) I rip into nurses all the time, but some of my best friends are nurses. To paraphrase, “I love nurses as a class, but I hate the nurses I know.” My apologies to Edna.
2) If you are a woman under 50 years old, and you need an x-ray or a CT (which is nothing but a computerized 3D x-ray), whatever hospital you go to will make you jump through hoops before they’re willing to zap you. This is as it should be. You have to get a pregancy test, and sign a waiver with all kinds of info about when you had your last period, etc.
Okay, so here’s the problem: you get a young, fertile female, and she’s not the patient who needs an x-ray, it’s her kid that needs an x-ray—but we need her—or someone—to hold the kid still during the x-ray. Do you do a pregnancy test on Mom? No, because she isn’t the patient. So, what I do is I always ask the moms if their husband, or some other male relative (over the age of 18) is around. If the answer is ‘yes’, then Dad gets to hold his kid for the x-rays. Sometimes Dad is already sitting next to Mom and the kid in the ER, sometimes Dad is out in the waiting room watching Nancy Grace a.k.a. The Harpy on CNN, and sometimes Dad is out in the parking lot, on the cell phone. Sometimes Dad isn’t around, and Grandma winds up holding the kid for the x-ray. Sometimes Mom is alone, and she has to hold the kid. Whoever it is, they wind up wearing a lead apron while holding the kid down on the table, and typically there is a 2nd lead apron on the kid’s pelvic area, too.
No problem.
So this weekend I walked up to the patient bed, where Mom was waiting with her baby, who needed an x-ray.
“Hi Mom. What’s this baby’s name?”
“John Smith Jr.” (not his real name)
“Okay. The doctor ordered an x-ray. Any chance you’re pregnant?”
She shrugs, “I don’t know!”
“Is your husband here?”
“Yes.” (Whew!)
“Where is he?”
“Out in the waiting room.”
“What’s his name?”
“John Smith Senior.” (Duh)
So I open the waiting room door, and Dad isn’t there. I go back to Mom, who turns out not to have her cell phone, but she knows his number,and says that he has to be here, close by. Awesome humanitarian that I am, I give her my cell phone, and she calls him. He immediately answers from the parking lot, and runs full-tilt to the ER door.
So far, so good. Mom, Dad, Junior and I head out of the ER towards Radiology, to go take Junior’s x-ray.
photo credit: A & E Watches
Nurse Y, a.k.a. Mr. Rolex (He wears his Explorer II like a Papuan phallic reed), is holding court with “his” ER staff, and he stops us dead in our tracks. He’s sitting on a stool, legs splayed apart at an anatomically impossible angle, and he’s leaning so far back that I can’t figure out how he has not fallen off the stool. The rest of the ER’s nurses and clerks are standing around him in a semi-circle, and he bellows, “Hey Tom, you didn’t need to get the dad. You coulda just had mom hold him for the x-rays!”
Wow. I have so many responses to that, and none of them are pleasant. So I said, “I’ll be happy to discuss that when we get back.”
So after I x-rayed the kid (Dad held him, while Mom stayed outside the x-ray room), and took them back to their ER bed, I left the ER without talking to Nurse Y. I was furious at him. I stood out in the hallway, outside the ER door, while my mind did loop-the-loops:
I should go back in there.
Nah, bad idea.
No, I need to set him straight.
Nah, he’ll actually turn it against you, and file a written complaint—even though you’re right, and he has no business telling you how to do your job.
I checked my pants: yes, my testicles were still there. So I went back into the ER.
Prince Charming was still slouched on his throne—I mean stool. So I said, “Y, would you still like to discuss why I got Dad?”
“YEAH! I wanna talk about that.”
“Okay, well let me ask you a question…”
“No! You just answer my question!”
“No. First I get to ask my question: do you feel it’s okay for you to confront me like that in a room full of people in a manner that could potentially embarrass me?”
“Well, I need to know why you did that.”
“Maybe, but the way you did that was uncool.” (I should have said the word I wanted to use: he was totally unprofessional)
“Well, I uh…You didn’t need the dad. Mom coulda held the kid for the x-ray!”
“Says who?”
“Well, well, well…your manual says that the mom can hold the kid for an x-ray while wearing a lead apron.”
“Now, Y, you know how we refuse to x-ray young females until they get a pregnancy test, and we still make them fill out the waiver?”
“Yeah..?”
“Well then, why is it okay to make a young fertile female hold her kid at arm’s length, when we don’t know for sure that she’s not pregnant, and her husband or mom is right here in the ER?”
“Well, you caused a delay in patient care.”
“Really? How long did it take for me to get Dad? It was an extra 2 or 3 minutes.”
“Yeah but, all of those 3 minutes add up, and we’re really busy here.”
Wow, he had the balls to look me in the eyes and say that. Half the ER beds were empty, which is precisely why his ass was glued to that stool. The argument dragged on and on, and I could clearly see that he was resorting to semantics and other high school debate team tricks to try to win an argument he shouldn’t have started in the first place, so I said, “Well, I’m done discussing this.”
He screams, “You haven’t answered my 2nd question!”
“I answered your original question, and feel no need to answer any more. I’m leaving now. I’m going to lunch while there’s still another x-ray tech to cover for me. Goodbye.”
I waved Adios at the lot of them, and waltzed out.
Actually, a few minutes into the argument, once Y had gotten in over his head, I could already see that he had lost his posse. They were still standing around him, but their facial expressions revealed that Mr. Rolex had lost his followers.
Well, I haven’t heard anything from Management, so I’m assuming that Mr. Rolex didn’t bother to write me up.
Good boy.
OYE, GÜERO: ¡UNO MAS, POR FAVOR!
I speak fluent Spanish. Because I have blond hair and blue eyes, when I claim to be fluent in Spanish, the California version of reverse discrimination kicks in: people assume that I am lying, because only people with brown skin know how to speak Spanish.
Exsqueeze me? Or should I say, “¿Escuchame?”
Try this on for irony: in Europe the Spaniards disdainfully proclaimed, “Tu hablas como un Mexicano.”
So I had an exasperating conversation with a patient, yesterday: I walked up to her, and instantly determined that she did not speak English; she only spoke Spanish. So I started talking with her in Spanish. Every time I said something in Spanish, she turned to her friend standing next to her, who repeated everything in Spanish that I had just said, in Spanish.
These are the times that try men’s souls.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
THE TATTOO
Wow, another crazy night of work in the ER. By the end of the shift I was so tired that when I got home at midnight, I didn't watch TV to unwind; I just stripped off my scrubs, and went to bed.
I walked the dog this morning, and when I got back, my wife was talking with a guy my age who was clearly some sort of home improvement salesman. I immediately noticed that spider web tattoo on his left elbow.
It looked a lot like this one from a web site that I found when Googling for images of spider web tattoos:
Before I go on a rant about the home repair salesman and his stupid tattoo (which cost him a sale), allow me to state the obvious:
I don't have any tattoos.
Why not?
1) I'm a fat, balding middle-aged guy who doesn't work out. If I got a tattoo, I would look like an idiot.
2) Tattoos are forever.
3) When I am 70 years old, the tattoos that I (pretend) got when I was 25 or 35 will look really stupid on my wrinkly, liver-spotted, sagging skin. Working in a hospital in a working-class, blue-collar community, I see a lot of people who got tattoos when they were younger. Now they're old and sick, and those tattoos look really stupid.
4) They are very working class. Some how, some where, at some time in American history, it became very cool to be very blue collar i.e. to display the tastes and sensibilities of working class people. Call me an elitist, but the last thing I want to do is try to impress my neighbors, friends, and coworkers by acting "street". American culture has been in a downhill race towards the lowest common denominator for a long time, but I refuse to take part in the race. Here's the thing: I have several friends from working class backgrounds--or who have working class jobs--and they don't act like blue collar hillbillies. If they have any tattoos, I'm not aware of it, because they keep them out of the public eye (read: people at work can't see it when you're dressed in regular clothes).
Remember in the 1980s when ear rings were the big thing? Guys were getting ear rings, and girls had the whole length of their ear lobes pierced up, down, and sideways. Of course, it went from ear rings to all kinds of other body piercings, because there are always the adventurous ones who need to push the envelope.
5) There, I hit the nail on the head: It's excessive. People aren't able to get that one tattoo somewhere under their shirt, where co-workers can't see it. NOOOOooo......they have to have big, gigantic tattoos OUT IN THE OPEN.
TRUE STORY: I was birding at Patagonia Lake, Southeast Arizona with Ferenc Domoki. I told him that I was tired, and would take a nap in the car while he searched for life birds. A woman and her husband (They were wearing wedding rings) rolled by my car on bicycles. As they were hunched over the handle bars, the following big gigantic tattoo on her lower back was quite visible:
You want the world to know that (think that?) about you?
Think about it: if she wears a bikini, everybody can read that tattoo right above her ass. Does she have kids? Is she going to the beach with her kids?
Getting back to Mr Home Improvement: The spider tattoo on the elbow is a tattoo that men get in prison. He seemed too mellow and middle class to be an ex-con, but that spider tattoo was right there. Either (A) he is an ex-con, or (B) he's a dumbass who doesn't realize what the tattoo means--or even worse, he actually thinks it's cool.
So what? If he is an ex-con, maybe he's a guy who is trying to turn his life around by working an honest job? I should support that, right?
Actually, yes. I have had people with--ahem--colorful pasts repair things around my house. Here's why I had a problem with this guy: he kept asking too many personal questions about how many of us live in the house, what kind of jobs we have, when we're home, etc. Truth be told, these could have been just harmless questions he was asking while trying to be sociable i.e. trying to chat up a sale, but he crossed the line: before we had met, he had already peered inside my car, and examined my hospital i.d. badge laying on the driver's seat.
That was it: I didn't want him in my house.
I walked the dog this morning, and when I got back, my wife was talking with a guy my age who was clearly some sort of home improvement salesman. I immediately noticed that spider web tattoo on his left elbow.
It looked a lot like this one from a web site that I found when Googling for images of spider web tattoos:
I don't have any tattoos.
Why not?
1) I'm a fat, balding middle-aged guy who doesn't work out. If I got a tattoo, I would look like an idiot.
2) Tattoos are forever.
3) When I am 70 years old, the tattoos that I (pretend) got when I was 25 or 35 will look really stupid on my wrinkly, liver-spotted, sagging skin. Working in a hospital in a working-class, blue-collar community, I see a lot of people who got tattoos when they were younger. Now they're old and sick, and those tattoos look really stupid.
4) They are very working class. Some how, some where, at some time in American history, it became very cool to be very blue collar i.e. to display the tastes and sensibilities of working class people. Call me an elitist, but the last thing I want to do is try to impress my neighbors, friends, and coworkers by acting "street". American culture has been in a downhill race towards the lowest common denominator for a long time, but I refuse to take part in the race. Here's the thing: I have several friends from working class backgrounds--or who have working class jobs--and they don't act like blue collar hillbillies. If they have any tattoos, I'm not aware of it, because they keep them out of the public eye (read: people at work can't see it when you're dressed in regular clothes).
Remember in the 1980s when ear rings were the big thing? Guys were getting ear rings, and girls had the whole length of their ear lobes pierced up, down, and sideways. Of course, it went from ear rings to all kinds of other body piercings, because there are always the adventurous ones who need to push the envelope.
5) There, I hit the nail on the head: It's excessive. People aren't able to get that one tattoo somewhere under their shirt, where co-workers can't see it. NOOOOooo......they have to have big, gigantic tattoos OUT IN THE OPEN.
TRUE STORY: I was birding at Patagonia Lake, Southeast Arizona with Ferenc Domoki. I told him that I was tired, and would take a nap in the car while he searched for life birds. A woman and her husband (They were wearing wedding rings) rolled by my car on bicycles. As they were hunched over the handle bars, the following big gigantic tattoo on her lower back was quite visible:
NASTY BITCH
Really?You want the world to know that (think that?) about you?
Think about it: if she wears a bikini, everybody can read that tattoo right above her ass. Does she have kids? Is she going to the beach with her kids?
Getting back to Mr Home Improvement: The spider tattoo on the elbow is a tattoo that men get in prison. He seemed too mellow and middle class to be an ex-con, but that spider tattoo was right there. Either (A) he is an ex-con, or (B) he's a dumbass who doesn't realize what the tattoo means--or even worse, he actually thinks it's cool.
So what? If he is an ex-con, maybe he's a guy who is trying to turn his life around by working an honest job? I should support that, right?
Actually, yes. I have had people with--ahem--colorful pasts repair things around my house. Here's why I had a problem with this guy: he kept asking too many personal questions about how many of us live in the house, what kind of jobs we have, when we're home, etc. Truth be told, these could have been just harmless questions he was asking while trying to be sociable i.e. trying to chat up a sale, but he crossed the line: before we had met, he had already peered inside my car, and examined my hospital i.d. badge laying on the driver's seat.
That was it: I didn't want him in my house.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
DO THAT, AND I'LL SUE YOU:
It’s Sunday morning, and I have a work-induced version of a hangover. Can I call it a “workover”? Last night was ridiculously busy. It started out well. In fact, the first couple of hours were spent reading this book called The Crime of Reason that I had just grabbed at the Claremont Library on Friday afternoon. At 149 pages, (followed by 28 pages of footnotes; but you don’t need to read the footnotes) it’s one of those short books so full of serious ideas that it’s the literary equivalent of a suitcase nuke.
The author is a physicist who says that in our information-driven brave new world (sorry, Aldous) all of the basic tenets of what makes human society work are being turned on their head—and that’s not a good thing. He talks about how modern corporations and governments are copyrighting and patenting—and even criminalizing information, when in fact this is counterproductive, pointless, and it leaves only dishonest people i.e. corporations and criminals with the ability to use scientific knowledge in a profitable manner.
I highly recommend this book.
The author is a physicist who says that in our information-driven brave new world (sorry, Aldous) all of the basic tenets of what makes human society work are being turned on their head—and that’s not a good thing. He talks about how modern corporations and governments are copyrighting and patenting—and even criminalizing information, when in fact this is counterproductive, pointless, and it leaves only dishonest people i.e. corporations and criminals with the ability to use scientific knowledge in a profitable manner.
I highly recommend this book.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
PÉNTEK 13.a
Dél 12:00
Azt irta a Katona István egy emailben (én nem drótpostázok, hanem emailezek), hogy a Csíkszentmihályi Mihály a szomszédom. Hát, nem éppen. Az a Nagy ĺsten igazsága, hogy Claremontban minél délebre élsz, annál csóribb vagz. A 10es Freeway gyakorlatilag a város déli határat rajzolja, és az én házam 100 méterre van a 10estől. Én bezzeg csóri vagyok. Ez olyan, mint ha azt mondanám a Katonának, hogy Ö még a Soros Budán élnek, tehát, bisztos ismerik egymást, jo haverok lehetnek.
Hivatalosan, még mindig nincs állasom, de azért néha dolgozom abban a kórházban, ahól az u.n. hétvégi állasom van. Elméletileg, bármelyik nap kezdenni fogok a nagy állami kórházban az izótopos laborban dolgozni, de valahol valami bürokratának, aki marhára ráér, jová kell hagynia ill. Aláirnia a papirmunkát, hogy kezdhetek. Lehet, hogy ez a bürokrata eppen szabadságon van. Sose lehet tudni.
Ez a harmadik hét ahól pénteken rázom a fejemet, mert azt hittem, hogy „Ezen a héten már az állami kórházban leszek.”
Az az igazság, hogz tényleg hamar lesz állásom, de most már elegem van a várakozásból.
14:00
Péntek a 13.a van, es a mentöosztályon vagyok-ez az egyetlen egy nap amit dolgoztam, ezen a héten. A babonások nem szeretnek dolgozni a mentösztalyon péntek a 13.an, mert meg vannak gyözödve arrol, hogy az általában egz kataszrofális müszak szokott lenni. Nekem az ellenkező a tapasztalatom. Mióta megérkeztem délben, még nem röngteneztem egy beteget, se. Feleségem azt hiszi, hogy igy nézek ki:
Hát, ma nem.
Visszont, ezt neki nem kell tudnia. Hála Istennek, nem tud a feleségem magyarul. Amikor haza megyek ma este, lefogom dobni magamat a fotelra, es sóhajtanni egz jó nagyott. Azt fogom mondani lihegve, hogy „Oh my god, you won′t believe the shift I had, today” (Ez Igaz. Hihetetlen hogy milyen jó müszakom volt) Aztán tévét fognok nézni pofátlanul, és néha arra kérni az asszonyt, hogy hozzon valami enni vagy innivalót.
Ezt igy kell csinálni.
14:00
Ja, közben, hogy ezt irom, meg jobb lett a helyzett: fagyit osztogatnak ingyen a folyóso végén.
Hát nem jó?
Azért, ettöl függetlenül, inkább dolgoznék heti 40 órát.
Tekintetbe véve, hogy önkénytelen szabadságon vagyok, és nagyban döl a tavaszi vándorlás(vonulás), elmentem szerdán ki a messzi sivatagba madarászni.
Jó madár fajokat latunk, ill. sok madarat láttunk, de azért igazán nagyobb lehetett volna a díverzitás. Tavaszi vonulok közt nem volt akkora a választék, amilyen lehetett volna. A fenti kép egz LeConte's Thrasher, akinek igen is olyan szinű a tollazata, mint a homoknak. Nem tudtam kihozni a képeken ennek a madárnak a legérdekesebb jellegzetességét: hihetetlenűl hosszú, görbe csőre van.
Tekintetbe véve, hogy valamiért ma milyen nehéz volt a madarakat lefényképezni, kénytelen voltam gyíkokat fotózni:
Ennek a fenti gyíknek hihetetlenek a színei. Sajnos, a fénykép nem hozza kí.
Ez a gyík peddig nagyon batór, és felháborodva lesi az embereket fenyegető szemekkel. Jó nagy kövér állat:
D.U. 17:30
Na, még se ment olyan jól ez a péntek a 13.a: Ebédszünetre elmentem a Jeepel a Costcoba benzínt venni. Útközben megszakatt az öv ami hajtja a kormányt és a vizpumpát. Erős férfias karjaimmal hajtottam tovább a kocsit, vettem benzínt, és vissza hajtottam a korházba. Ay egész út k.b. 3 km volt, oda vissza. Mire beértem a kórház parkoló placcjára, füst és gőz szagot éreztem. Kiszálltam a kocsiból, es mindenhol csurgott a zöld hütővíz. Na jó, felhivtam az argentin haveromat aki egy másik kórházban dolgozik (mert ugye, a feleségemet nem találtam se otthon, se a mobilon), és azt mondta a haver hogy „Apropó, nem vettek fel arra az állasra, amire pályáztál nálunk.” Hát, ez nem jó hír. Az egy jólfizető állás lett volna, ami közel van a házamhoz. Ez volt az az állás amit nagyon ill. a legjobban akartam.
Na. Kösz, haver.
Hát mondjuk, nem az Ő hibája.
19:30
Fél óra mulva jön az argentin haverom. Utólértem a feleségemet, de ha már megbeszéltem a haverral, hogy Ö hoz haza, akkor maradjunk ezzel a tervvel. Majd kimászok a sebészeti öltözékböl (angolul: scrubs), felhuzom a rövidnadrágomat és egy polóinget, és elmegyünk a moziba. Hétvége van, ugy se tudok semmit se tenni állással kapcsolatban.
Azt irta a Katona István egy emailben (én nem drótpostázok, hanem emailezek), hogy a Csíkszentmihályi Mihály a szomszédom. Hát, nem éppen. Az a Nagy ĺsten igazsága, hogy Claremontban minél délebre élsz, annál csóribb vagz. A 10es Freeway gyakorlatilag a város déli határat rajzolja, és az én házam 100 méterre van a 10estől. Én bezzeg csóri vagyok. Ez olyan, mint ha azt mondanám a Katonának, hogy Ö még a Soros Budán élnek, tehát, bisztos ismerik egymást, jo haverok lehetnek.
Hivatalosan, még mindig nincs állasom, de azért néha dolgozom abban a kórházban, ahól az u.n. hétvégi állasom van. Elméletileg, bármelyik nap kezdenni fogok a nagy állami kórházban az izótopos laborban dolgozni, de valahol valami bürokratának, aki marhára ráér, jová kell hagynia ill. Aláirnia a papirmunkát, hogy kezdhetek. Lehet, hogy ez a bürokrata eppen szabadságon van. Sose lehet tudni.
Ez a harmadik hét ahól pénteken rázom a fejemet, mert azt hittem, hogy „Ezen a héten már az állami kórházban leszek.”
Az az igazság, hogz tényleg hamar lesz állásom, de most már elegem van a várakozásból.
14:00
Péntek a 13.a van, es a mentöosztályon vagyok-ez az egyetlen egy nap amit dolgoztam, ezen a héten. A babonások nem szeretnek dolgozni a mentösztalyon péntek a 13.an, mert meg vannak gyözödve arrol, hogy az általában egz kataszrofális müszak szokott lenni. Nekem az ellenkező a tapasztalatom. Mióta megérkeztem délben, még nem röngteneztem egy beteget, se. Feleségem azt hiszi, hogy igy nézek ki:
Hát, ma nem.
Visszont, ezt neki nem kell tudnia. Hála Istennek, nem tud a feleségem magyarul. Amikor haza megyek ma este, lefogom dobni magamat a fotelra, es sóhajtanni egz jó nagyott. Azt fogom mondani lihegve, hogy „Oh my god, you won′t believe the shift I had, today” (Ez Igaz. Hihetetlen hogy milyen jó müszakom volt) Aztán tévét fognok nézni pofátlanul, és néha arra kérni az asszonyt, hogy hozzon valami enni vagy innivalót.
Ezt igy kell csinálni.
14:00
Ja, közben, hogy ezt irom, meg jobb lett a helyzett: fagyit osztogatnak ingyen a folyóso végén.
Hát nem jó?
Azért, ettöl függetlenül, inkább dolgoznék heti 40 órát.
Tekintetbe véve, hogy önkénytelen szabadságon vagyok, és nagyban döl a tavaszi vándorlás(vonulás), elmentem szerdán ki a messzi sivatagba madarászni.
Jó madár fajokat latunk, ill. sok madarat láttunk, de azért igazán nagyobb lehetett volna a díverzitás. Tavaszi vonulok közt nem volt akkora a választék, amilyen lehetett volna. A fenti kép egz LeConte's Thrasher, akinek igen is olyan szinű a tollazata, mint a homoknak. Nem tudtam kihozni a képeken ennek a madárnak a legérdekesebb jellegzetességét: hihetetlenűl hosszú, görbe csőre van.
Tekintetbe véve, hogy valamiért ma milyen nehéz volt a madarakat lefényképezni, kénytelen voltam gyíkokat fotózni:
Ennek a fenti gyíknek hihetetlenek a színei. Sajnos, a fénykép nem hozza kí.
Ez a gyík peddig nagyon batór, és felháborodva lesi az embereket fenyegető szemekkel. Jó nagy kövér állat:
D.U. 17:30
Na, még se ment olyan jól ez a péntek a 13.a: Ebédszünetre elmentem a Jeepel a Costcoba benzínt venni. Útközben megszakatt az öv ami hajtja a kormányt és a vizpumpát. Erős férfias karjaimmal hajtottam tovább a kocsit, vettem benzínt, és vissza hajtottam a korházba. Ay egész út k.b. 3 km volt, oda vissza. Mire beértem a kórház parkoló placcjára, füst és gőz szagot éreztem. Kiszálltam a kocsiból, es mindenhol csurgott a zöld hütővíz. Na jó, felhivtam az argentin haveromat aki egy másik kórházban dolgozik (mert ugye, a feleségemet nem találtam se otthon, se a mobilon), és azt mondta a haver hogy „Apropó, nem vettek fel arra az állasra, amire pályáztál nálunk.” Hát, ez nem jó hír. Az egy jólfizető állás lett volna, ami közel van a házamhoz. Ez volt az az állás amit nagyon ill. a legjobban akartam.
Na. Kösz, haver.
Hát mondjuk, nem az Ő hibája.
19:30
Fél óra mulva jön az argentin haverom. Utólértem a feleségemet, de ha már megbeszéltem a haverral, hogy Ö hoz haza, akkor maradjunk ezzel a tervvel. Majd kimászok a sebészeti öltözékböl (angolul: scrubs), felhuzom a rövidnadrágomat és egy polóinget, és elmegyünk a moziba. Hétvége van, ugy se tudok semmit se tenni állással kapcsolatban.
Szombat 14.e
Sunday, May 8, 2011
OSAMA BIN LADEN MEETS DAVY JONES
Evening Grosbeak
Blue Ridge Campground, San Gabriel Mountains, Los Angeles County
Elevation 7896 feet (2406 meters)
The view from Mountain High's ski lifts
Elevation approximately 8,000 feet .
The town of Wrightwood is directly below.
View is looking north, towards the high desert's Antelope Valley. The pale patch of land between the closest chair and the pole is the enormous Rogers Dry Lake Bed where the Space Shuttle would land if the weather was bad in Florida.
Yes, that is snow on the ground in April, in L.A. County.
While I was looking north, the pine trees behind me held around 30 Evening Grosbeaks.
Yes, that is snow on the ground in April, in L.A. County.
While I was looking north, the pine trees behind me held around 30 Evening Grosbeaks.
Well, Sunday night was even better. I had just gotten home from a full day at the Salton Sea, birding with my new friend, Csaba Varga, where we had seen a whole bunch of expected species that breed in the Desert Southwest.
Verdin
Wister Unit, Salton Sea
My wife and kids were asleep, so I hopped back into the car, and drove down the street to In n’ Out for a cheeseburger. While in line at the drive-through, I turned on the car radio, and they played audio of Barack Obama announcing the killing of Osama in Laden.
Now I was flat-out giddy.
Whew!
So far, so good, then The Prez said that the Navy SEALs did it.
Salton Sea, Imperial County, California
The Salton Sea is a 40 mile long salt lake in the California Desert.
It is one of the last West Coast wetlands available for birds. It is saltier than the Pacific Ocean.
Run-off of chemicals and heavy metals from surrounding farmlands is killing the Salton Sea.
My face turned red. Embarrassment. Anger. Disbelief. The SEALs???
Why wasn’t it Delta?
I can’t imagine the mixed feelings the Boys at Bragg must have felt. Wow. Holy shit. They really should have given that one to Delta.
Food for thought: the job of the Navy SEALs is to pull surprise raids on ships at sea: Board a ship, shoot the guards, rescue the prisoners, and then sink the vessel. You know—navy stuff. Unbelievably, for years now they’ve grown beards, slapped on desert camo, and have been running around Iraq and Afghanistan, two of the driest, sandiest places I can think of. Aargh. That’s the Army’s job! Or, should I say, “Yaargh,” me hearties?
Then the light bulb went on over my head. I decided that Obama let the Navy send their team in, to buy them off for ending Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell. After all, the Navy is the most conservative branch of the military, if you don’t count Al Haig (a retired U.S. Army General: as much of a right-wing nut-job as he was, and as liberal as I am, I still say he got a raw deal for the “I am in charge” incident when Reagan got shot).
Oh, well.
Cattle Egret at Ramer Lake
photo by Csaba Varga
Ramer is one of several freshwater lakes whose content eventually empties into the Salton Sea. The yellow wash on the Catle Egret's head and breast is high breeding plumage. In the winter it will be all white.
Then, 48 hours later somebody muttered, “JSOC” and “SEAL Team 6” under the same breath. Then they said that The Prez is flying to Campbell, to meet “…members of the SEAL team”. Oh…now I feel much better. Here’s the deal: Fort Campbell, Kentucky, is a big Army base. It’s the home of the 101st Airborne, and I was supposed to go there from Bragg. Fort Campbell is also home to a Special Forces attachment, and you know that Delta spends time there. The reporter also mentioned 160th SOAR, and that put a big dopey grin on my face.
Man, those Delta Dudes are a bunch of sneaky bastards. They’re hanging back, letting the SEALs bask in the limelight.
Csaba is photographing a Burrowing Owl on Sinclair Road
(that little round bird sitting on the top of the ditch)
Burrowing Owls live in holes in the ground.
Oh, and they’re not your momma’s Navy SEALs—they’re SEAL Team 6, the Navy’s version of Delta.
Burrowing Owl
(This is the same bird that Csaba photographed.)
The owl is looking at your left shoulder.
White-winged Dove
Cattle Call Park, Brawley, Imperial County, California
White-winged Doves return from Mexico each spring to breed in the Desert Southwest. In September, most fly back into Mexico, but every October a few show up in backyards of coastal towns like San Diego, Newport Beach, or San Pedro.
Lesser Nighthawk
Wister Unit, Salton Sea
So this is the part where you demand to know why an essay about Delta Force and J-SOC is full of bird photos. Simple. I don't have any pictures of Delta operators. Even if I did, I couldn't publish them.
Besides, I have never known anybody in Delta. I have never hung out with Green Berets. I have never been inside a PAVE-LOW.
Seriously.
I tell you truly.
Trust me.
Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.
Hodge-podge. Hogy vagy?
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