Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

An E.R. Visit

A couple months ago, I took my friend, Dave, to the E.R. There's a back story, but we need not get into that. We arrived and were immediately escorted into an interview room, in which he was interviewed. I was there to ensure that he was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

That was at about 6. He went in another room for his insurance exam, in which it is determined what level of care he could afford. I wasn't needed at that point; so, I took a seat in the waiting area. There was a lady watching TV, apparently, an all-Michael-Jackson-all-the-time station, although I couldn't see the picture.

Violating the A-Number-1 hospital rule, Dave called me with his cell phone at about 8 to tell me on my cell phone that it would be at least an hour or so until someone could read the CAT scan. The CAT scan. I didn't take his bait; after all, he did pass out, which he denied, but which I insisted the lady taking his history put in the history, as related by the three people who found him, semi-conscious, on the kitchen floor.

In the meantime, more people had filtered into the E.R. waiting room.

Is there something about sunset that triggers a rush to the E.R.? With the almost full moon hiding behind clouds and night falling upon the landscape, vampires and werewolves had obviously started to wreak their respective unique havoc upon an unsuspecting populace, their damage always being attributed to other causes by conspiratorial health care workers, who would be out of jobs if the truth were known.

Now, I stationed myself in a seat far, far away so that I could not see the TV. The way I look at it, given a choice, people will sit so they have a sight line to a TV, any TV. It is what they are accustomed to -- watching TV when they have nothing better to do, when they feel the need to anesthetize themselves, like in a strange room in a hospital waiting for bad news. The seats to my left, though, along the windowed wall, under the TV began to fill up.

Several feet to my right, in the corner, stood a machine, which looked like a console from a spaceship in a 1950's movie. It may have been an air purifier. It may have been a spaceship console from a 1950's movie on display. I did not get up to take a closer look.

A lady carrying her coughing four-year-old walked across the carpeted waiting room right toward me. She was on a mission, undeterred by two seats over by the window that beckoned to her. No, she wanted the little couch at my left hand -- she could sit with her son's head on her lap. There was no telling what diseased her child -- probably, the killer, swine flu. And she had no regard for the health of anyone else, particularly me. This is where pandemics start -- in hospital waiting rooms.

I needed air, fresh air. I jumped up from the chair and bolted out of the sliding E.R. entrance doors, holding my breath all the way, before I could become infected. An ambulance pulled around the corner to the ambulance entrance as I got outside. Then I realized that of all the people who went into the automatic doors, following a nurse, to be "treated," none had yet come out. And it was after 9 o'clock. Three hours. My friend, Dave, was still back there -- with the others.

I found a bench that faced a bank of windows, windows that had been at my back; so, I had the same view of events without the concomitant risk of deadly infection. Of course, there were the mosquitoes with their malaria, West Nile virus, Dengue and other fevers that come out at night, but that would be a minor inconvenience compared to the vampires and werewolves that might decide to hang out near the E.R. entrance.

I've read many articles in which the authors have claimed that vampires don't like hospitals all that much, but I think those writers are wrong and that nowadays most phlebotomists are closet vampires, getting their bloody fixes without having to kill anyone. It's so convenient and economical without the extreme downside.

Emergency room entrances are, however, a natural gathering-place where werewolves ply their trade, enticing accident victims to meet behind closed doors -- it is there that the werewolves do their dirty work. They are easy to spot, however. If planning to be treated in the emergency room, it is preferable to ignore everyone on the way in.

At 9:30, Dave called again, probably drawing the attention of Homeland Security. Still waiting. Another 15 minutes. The question to be answered was whether 15 minutes in physicians' reality was in any way equivalent to 15 minutes in my reality. I know that the billing by doctors reflects that they must spend about three hours worth of their time in an exam at the office; and because time flies when we're having fun, the exam seems like it lasts only about 3 or 4 minutes.

Four women climbed out of a Chevy Malibu, not the New Chevy Malibu, but the old, real old, Chevy Malibu, the one with the back bumper suspended by rusty wire. They huddled together, several arms waving overhead, in the parking lot; and two of them walked into the E.R. The other two lit up cigarettes, got back into the car, and turned up the dum-dum-dum-dum music.

Apparently, the women chose poorly; and the two who needed E.R. treatment came out of the sliding doors about a half hour later. They were arguing -- I didn't catch any of what they were saying, except for one of them saying, "That's fucked up!" twelve times on the way to the car. They got into the back seat, and the rusted brown Malibu drove away, the ladies looking for another place to score some Oxycontin.

After the rusted Malibu left the parking lot, listing severely to the right on a broken spring, I noted that parked in the E.R. parking lot across the driveway from where I sat were four SUV's and three Cadillacs and my car, the Toyota Yaris with The Who sticker on it. There must have been an explanation for such an accumulation, but I didn't have time to figure it out.

Dave walked through the sliding doors, which was one good sign, smiling, which was another good sign.

Rockefeller

What do dogs see, especially from down where they are? Bella looked up at the Rockefeller Building, which never was occupied by John D. Rockefeller, having been erected several years after he headed off to New York City. Here's what she saw.

When Rockefeller was in Cleveland, standing on the site of the building named in his honor was the Weddell House, the luxury hotel in Cleveland. On the way to his inauguration in 1861, Abe Lincoln stayed at the Weddell House, making a stirring speech to an enthusiastic crowd, about a week before he snuck into the nation's capital, having been informed of a conspiracy to kill him while on the last leg of his journey.

West 6th

Part of the standard dog-walking route takes us onto the "other part" of West 6th Street in the Warehouse District. The part of West 6th Street known to the younger partying crowd is north of St. Clair Avenue; and since the dogs do not like dealing with the drunken young women, who invariably want to pet, hold, and get all kissy-feely with them, we avoid that end of the street and stay south of St. Clair, where a number of excellent restaurants are located, such as Crop, Johnny's, Metropolitan Cafe, and Nauti Mermaid. The Mercury Lounge is tucked in there somewhere near Starbucks.

In the mid-afternoon, dog treats and water are supplied by Johnny's. And when you see Stacey, ask her about Eddie Van Halen and the afternoon at the Nauti Mermaid.

Detroit-Superior Bridge

I try to avoid walking my pack of dogs down the hill on the east bank of the Cuyahoga River, one of the sites where Moses Cleaveland might have landed before surveying this part of the Northwest Territory for the Connecticut Land Company, which was to be Connecticut's reparations from the Revolutionary War. Cleaveland left the malaria-infested swamplands at the mouth of the crooked river a few months later, never to return. My pack of dogs doesn't tolerate interlopers; and Settler's Landing has, in recent years, become a popular gathering spot for the urban-dwelling canine population and their human companions.

My dogs are not special; they have their pack and do not play well with others. I avoid the area during rush hour after the 9 - to - 5'ers get home and head for the grassy knoll above the river with their various dogs so as to prevent confrontation and needless bloodshed.

A few nights ago, at about sunset, which was about 8, hours after the Chihuahua/Pug/Yorkie crowd had retired, I spent a few minutes at Settler's Landing, which affords a view of the night-lit Detroit-Superior Bridge, which was the world's longest concrete and steel span in the world when built nearly a century ago.

This weekend, Friday night, from 4 to midnight, and Saturday, from noon to midnight, the The Bridge Project, celebrating the visual and performing arts, free of charge, takes place on the bridge's lower level, the level that carried trolley traffic until it was closed about 50 years ago and will be opened once again for two days; and the catacomb-like structure will serve as the locus of the event.

All are invited. You may catch me on the Conference Bike when you are there.

Free Stamp

I've decided to start a new project for my half of the blog, as if anyone checks it out anymore. I'm taking pictures with my iPhone when I'm out walking the dogs, mostly of the mundane things in which the dogs are interested, such as fire hydrants, but not just fire hydrants.

Claes Oldenburg was commissioned to do a sculpture for the Standard Oil Company, which was started by homeboy, John D. Rockefeller, and came up with the Free Stamp, a symbol of the freedoms we enjoyed at one time in this country, except that British Petroleum bought Standard Oil and the guy in charge of BP didn't like the sculpture or the idea. BP eventually donated it to the City.

There was a lot of discussion about where it was going to be erected, and it sat for a few years in storage; but, finally, the sculpture was erected in Willard Park, which is adjacent to City Hall, across the street from the steel and glass federal office building, and up the hill from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum.

It's All in the Execution

I went for my yearly -- or almost yearly, well ... year-and-a-halfly, sometimes longer, if I really think about it, physical exam. I had to give a few viles of blood, and the phlebotomist (who was probably a vampire because what's the problem with taking an extra vile here or there and sipping throughout the day -- oh, and in case you didn't know, that old wives' tale about vampires and daylight is just that, an untrue old wives' tale) missed the vein and moved the needle a little to my left, then shoved it clear through and pulled it back out a little, finally getting some rich, red elixir.

Now, that took all of maybe a minute and a half. I'm trying to imagine this procedure taking a couple hours -- trying to find some vein in the lower arm, the prime injection sites, jabbing, twisting, turning the needle, trying the other arm, moving to the upper arms with a tourniquet attached, jabbing, poking, rotating the rig, and then going on to the back of the hands and the wrists.

After two hours of trying to hook Romell Brown up to an I.V. so that the State of Ohio could humanely kill him, the governor, an ordained minister, stayed the execution for a week, apparently to give Mr. Brown time to heal -- or so that the State of Ohio could hire an experienced intravenous drug user to do the job.

I'm not in favor of the state-imposed death penalty. Due Process of Law is not perfect. Mistakes have been made.

A Christmas Carol

"This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom."

It's not Christmas, yet; but given the President is speaking tonight about health care -- and it seems that universal health care is out of the question -- maybe we should consider whether Dickens was correct when he drew the conclusion over 150 years ago.

In most screen versions of A Christmas Carol, that part of the book -- one of the most important parts of the book -- isn't included. Too fucking depressing.

A CBS poll seems to indicate people are in favor of being kind to one another. What's the problem?

AS YOU WERE.

i thought i might be done with my political ranting -- at least for a bit, but noooooo -- here it comes again.

america, as the republicans have long tried to define us, does not exist. as it turns out, providing health care for all americans is a pretty unpopular idea. as the democrats fight the charges that we will all be forced to have the plan proposed to those who need a choice, the republicans can yell louder. and (seriously, i have no clue why this surprises me), fools believe the lies. fools.

americans are fools. we scream that it's political for a president to address our children to try to encourage them to aspire to higher things. we can't allow our children to hear that. fools. ohmygod. they might try to be better than US. fat chance of that, morons.

compassionate choices for healthcare is political.

education is political.

we're just idiots. the rest of the world knows it.

we can't just be a nation of flag-waving, "pious," pledge-reciting cub scouts to prove to the world that we are "special." we have to put our money where our mouth is. literally. nobody, NOBODY believes that such a shift (ohmygod -- EVERYBODY GETS HEALTH CARE????!!!!) will be easy. there will be adjustments. do we have the balls to deal with them for such a goal? obviously not. and my asking the question shows what a fool i am -- that i would assume for a second that people think it's not ok that everybody doesn't have access to health care is a monumental error.

i'm ashamed.

The Walgreen's Experience

I stopped at Walgreen's on the way home the other day. I don't know if there are Walgreen's in other parts of the country; so, I'll say that it's supposed to be a pharmacy and unrelated to Wal-Mart. The pharmacy counter is hidden way in the back of the store, but I go to Walgreen's because the milk is always much cheaper than everywhere else; so, if passing by, I'll stop if we need milk.

I must tell you a brief story. In a recent trial out of town, I needed to get a photo printed -- I had enlarged the digital copy and cropped it so as to show something in the distinctive interior of a vehicle -- so, I went to a Walgreen's right before closing time (it was a small town -- the Walgreen's near us is open all the time) and put my memory stick into the picture ordering thing and ordered a print and asked the lady behind the counter, the "Photo Developing Specialist," if I could get a print before closing, to which she replied that she could get it done. The next morning at the trial, the other attorney called the wife of the guy who had sued to testify that he never had any back or neck problems in his life. And that's how I found out the lady behind the counter was a Photo Developing Specialist, the Photo Developing Specialist, who when asked if she told her husband when she got home that she developed a picture of the distinctive interior of her vehicle for me, she said "no." No further questions, your Honor.

I apologize for the digression. I stopped at Walgreen's for milk after picking up the pizza. Unless the customer at Walgreen's is single-mindedly determined to get only the item intended to be purchased, it's very difficult to defend against the marketing assault on the five senses. Even while paying, the customer cannot let down the shield against the subliminal and liminal threats to security.

The display -- the 15-foot long display immediately adjacent to the line to the cash register -- has an infinite variety of instant stimulants, children's toys, adult toys, candy, food items, National Enquirer, medications and pseudo-meds, probably made by Pfizer, cigars, big and little, pudding, marshmallow circus peanuts, suckers, socks, sock monkeys, and cigarette lighters and flame throwers.

I noticed the Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters. An entire foot of one of the shelves was devoted to Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters; and upon closer examination, there were different kinds of Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters. Oh, there were just plain Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters, but there were Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters with flashlights on the end, Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters with LED's, and Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighters with magical sound in an Ed Hardy Tattoo Lighter extravaganza. And they were on sale! For only $1.99! How could a normal person resist? My hands were getting full, though, what with two gallons of milk, six bottles of Just Lemonade, and a couple or three bags of marshmallow peanuts.

I reached the counter and cascaded my cache onto the counter to the delight of the cashier. The cashiers at Walgreen's are always very friendly; and, if you have ever been there, they always ask if you want the special deal item on display right there at the register. The cashiers get a bonus for sales of that stuff, by the way; so, how could I resist the new OREO Brownie for 99 cents? I bought two.

The new OREO Brownie? Don't waste your money. I threw the one I opened in the dumpster on the way into the garage after one bite. The other one is in the glove box. If you want it,. I can mail it to you.

I'm sure it will still be inedible.

WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT

crazy fuck.

this guy is so freaking lucky he didn't run into a parent like me.

NOT CARRIE NATION

i have been having a hard time putting into words my feelings about drugs and alcohol in a way that makes sense. this post has been a work in progress for quite a while.

i AM NOT CARRIE NATION. i do NOT believe that alcohol -- and even many drugs* -- are evil and should be banned. i don't. i do believe that many drugs are useful medically (duh), but should NOT be used recreationally. further, i believe some drugs should not be used under ANY circumstances.

i do believe that we in america have developed our own weird cultural attitude about alcohol. we have a pathological relationship with it. also, i do NOT believe we are alone in the world in this. i DO believe that as we move farther and farther from the traditional european attitude wherein alcohol is considered a "food," (as opposed to the american view of alcohol as a "toy"), we become increasingly sick. i had a conversation with a friend recently who said that it became clearer and clearer to him on a recent trip to europe that the only drunks in the pubs, restaurants, etc., were tourists -- mostly americans.

i do NOT believe that alcohol and drugs are a toy. and let me be clear about this part: i do NOT see any difference between alcohol and marijuana. alcohol users can get all self-righteous about this point if they want because marijuana is (horrors!) illegal. perspective, people. time and space. that's a whole research paper devoted to the arbitrary and capricious nature of laws as a reflection of cultural mores. not goin' there. nope.

as an adjunct to the legal "thing," i actually DO believe that the "war on drugs" has been ineffective and an amazing waste of time and money. shocker ahead: i do believe in the decriminalization of marijuana* and maybe some other drugs. wow. breathe. you can do it. take your time. i'm still here.

we've demonized drug users to the point where we've actually made it HARDER for addicts to seek treatment and recovery. "how's that workin' for you, america?"

i do believe that we as a culture have some growing up to do as a culture (and the hard work that goes along with it) to change our childish and slavish devotion to alcohol as a necessary adjunct to "grown-up" playtime. the more we "try" to pretend we're grown up (as opposed to actually growing up), the more ridiculous we look. and EVERYBODY is paying the price for that.

*marijuana, peyote, etc. although i think that the marijuana of today is NOT the mostly safe marijuana of our childhood. notwithstanding the gateway-drug argument, of course. just like alcohol.