There was a time when I could not read. I think it was the summer I was in the third grade that my folks realised this. My mother spent most of that summer tutoring me. Of course I hated it, but she persisted and I learned. I can never thank her enough.
Perhaps it is because I learned to read a bit later than most, but I clearly remember most of the fairy tales and other stories that we read that summer. The stories of Chicken Little, the boy who cried wolf and the boy with the new boots, were not just stories but lessons to be applied later in life.
Last night the story of the girl who painted herself into a corner came to mind. While I have never seen anyone literally paint themselves into a corner, figuratively speaking I see it every day.
Last night one of our Adseg inmates painted himself into a corner. He was complaining, loudly and belligerently, that he had a phone call coming. We looked up his file and found nothing to indicate that he did. No note from a caseworker and he was still on Disciplinary segregation, so, no phone call.
About 6:00 pm he told Sarge that he was gonna kick his door until he got a phone call. Sarge told him to go ahead, the door could take it. Then he switched gears and said he was gonna beat his cellies ass. He just backed himself a whole lot further into that corner.
Just like the robots of Robert Heinlein we have a couple of prime directives. Number 1: Protect the public. Number 2: protect the staff. Number 3: Protect the inmates.
To protect the cellie we now have to move the protagonist. He refused to cuff up. His available floor-space is shrinking exponentially. He began shouting to the rest of the wing that we would have to put a team together to remove him from the cell.
It takes an hour or so to get the 5 man extraction team together, pulling officers from their regular posts, getting them suited up in their armor, briefed on the situation and down to the housing unit. The LT showed up, talked to the guy and then began making phone calls.
I stepped outside and had a smoke, figuring to let the guy cool off a few minutes and then try to reason with him, just to save everyone the trouble of getting the team together. After my cigarette, I stepped to his cell door and asked if he really wanted to go this route. He ranted and raved about forcing us to do our job. He told me that the team didn't scare him, that he was ready to fight. Then he spilled that bucket of paint. "I am holding my cellie hostage!"
Prime directive number 3 kicked in. I informed Sarge of the hostage situation, he informed the LT, LT called the captain. The captain said " Get him out of there, now!".
Standing at his door, I directed him to cuff up, last chance. He refused and told his cellie, who was sitting on his bunk, " If you get off that bunk I will kick your ass!". We opened the door.
The look on his face was priceless. He began shouting that we weren't a team, that we couldn't touch him without a cameraman recording. He went down beneath a pile of meat. He didn't get to play with the team, he got to play with 6 officers in a hurry to get him out of the cell.
He ended his defiance with the orange paint of pepper spray on his face, not just on the soles of his shoes. Now he has time to read all those stories of our childhood. Those stories that were more than entertaining, those with life lessons hidden in the simple words.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Getting Noticed
We all want to be noticed. We need other people to see us and acknowledge, if not our uniqueness, at least our existence. My stories and blog posts are an example of this. I need my existence to be validated by others. This is, perhaps, one of our basic human traits. But, sometimes it all goes so very wrong.
Within the prison walls where I work there are a couple of thousand guys who wish they had not been noticed. Getting noticed got them caught, convicted and incarcerated. Some of them will modify their behavior and, when they get out live out their lives quietly, being noticed only by their families and friends. Some will never learn.
Some of these poor bastards are so starved for attention or recognition that they will do or say anything to anyone. In prison, if you attract the attention of the guards it is usually negative attention. Running “cadillacs” across the wing gets the attention of our control officer.
A cadillac is anything small, usually a piece of soap wrapped in plastic, tied to a string and tossed under the door. If two offenders want to pass something, both will toss a cadillac into the wing so that they cross and then one will retrieve both, thereby establishing a link between cells. Cadillacs are used to pass notes, known as kites, postage stamps which is are used for prison currency, and contraband. The most common form of contraband in Adseg is tobacco and lighters. Smoking is not allowed in Adseg.
We have general population inmates that come into the unit as workers. Some are there to serve the meals and some perform janitorial work. Some of them are mules carrying contraband into the unit. They will compress tobacco into the finger torn from a plastic glove and then “keister”, insert into their rectum, the “bullet” and bring it into the unit. Once inside the unit, after their strip-out, they will remove the bullet and drop it and kick it beneath a cell door.
That cell has now become a store. The control officer will see a flurry of cadillac activity centered on a cell and we know we have a store in operation. Cadillacs going in contain stamps or IOU’s and cadillacs coming out have tobacco and rolling papers. The store keepers have our attention.
As soon as we know a store is in operation we go in and search it. Both occupants are stripped out before we bring them out of the cell. Most of the time one or both will have the tobacco concealed in their clothing, beneath their scrotum or between the cheeks of their butts. Sometimes they don’t both hiding it, as they know when we enter the wing that we are coming to their cell and we will find the stuff.
My wingman and I are very good at what we do. Our control officer pays attention. This past week we collected 7 disposable lighters and several pounds of tobacco. They hate us. We cost them a lot of money. The newbies coming in are being told by our long term residents that cadillacing on our shift is a good way to get bad attention.
Within the prison walls where I work there are a couple of thousand guys who wish they had not been noticed. Getting noticed got them caught, convicted and incarcerated. Some of them will modify their behavior and, when they get out live out their lives quietly, being noticed only by their families and friends. Some will never learn.
Some of these poor bastards are so starved for attention or recognition that they will do or say anything to anyone. In prison, if you attract the attention of the guards it is usually negative attention. Running “cadillacs” across the wing gets the attention of our control officer.
A cadillac is anything small, usually a piece of soap wrapped in plastic, tied to a string and tossed under the door. If two offenders want to pass something, both will toss a cadillac into the wing so that they cross and then one will retrieve both, thereby establishing a link between cells. Cadillacs are used to pass notes, known as kites, postage stamps which is are used for prison currency, and contraband. The most common form of contraband in Adseg is tobacco and lighters. Smoking is not allowed in Adseg.
We have general population inmates that come into the unit as workers. Some are there to serve the meals and some perform janitorial work. Some of them are mules carrying contraband into the unit. They will compress tobacco into the finger torn from a plastic glove and then “keister”, insert into their rectum, the “bullet” and bring it into the unit. Once inside the unit, after their strip-out, they will remove the bullet and drop it and kick it beneath a cell door.
That cell has now become a store. The control officer will see a flurry of cadillac activity centered on a cell and we know we have a store in operation. Cadillacs going in contain stamps or IOU’s and cadillacs coming out have tobacco and rolling papers. The store keepers have our attention.
As soon as we know a store is in operation we go in and search it. Both occupants are stripped out before we bring them out of the cell. Most of the time one or both will have the tobacco concealed in their clothing, beneath their scrotum or between the cheeks of their butts. Sometimes they don’t both hiding it, as they know when we enter the wing that we are coming to their cell and we will find the stuff.
My wingman and I are very good at what we do. Our control officer pays attention. This past week we collected 7 disposable lighters and several pounds of tobacco. They hate us. We cost them a lot of money. The newbies coming in are being told by our long term residents that cadillacing on our shift is a good way to get bad attention.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Newton's Third Law or...What the Hell was I thinking?
Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action.
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
Monday, November 2, 2009
Newton’s Second Law of Motion or...
Does my ass make this bike look small?
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
Friday, October 30, 2009
The Practical Application of Newton’s Three Laws of Motion or…………AHH SHIT!
In Three Parts
I was never a star pupil in school. I was lazy, always was, always will be. The old fashioned report cards that the teachers sent home always said the same thing. “Curt shows promise but is unwilling to put forth the effort required to be an excellent student.”
This is what I have come to know as a “shit sandwich”. For those who don’t understand the term I will dissect the sentence. “Curt shows promise” is one slice of bread. Harmless all by itself and even a bit of flavor, perhaps leading the reader to prepare for the meat. The sentence ends with the words “excellent student”. So, a quick glance at the two slices of bread could lead one to believe that Curt shows promise and is an excellent student. But. I love that word. It is sort of like saying, “hold my beer” or “watch this”.
“but is unwilling to put forth the effort required”. This is the shit in the sandwich. It killed my self-esteem. Okay, not really, but it could have if I had cared. I didn’t. I was too busy riding motorcycles, fishing and being a boy to really care what some teacher thought about me.
I digress. The purpose of this article is to discuss the practical application of Newton’s three laws of motion. The first three paragraphs merely serve to inform the reader that I learn things the hard way, generally through the repeated application of pain.
Newton’s first law.
“An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
This law is often called
"the law of inertia".”
I learned this lesson early one Sunday morning as my parents lay sleeping. Mom’s new Yamaha 100 Twin sat in our basement garage next to Dad’s equally new Yamaha. This was back in the days when even small street bikes came equipped with the center stand that most cruisers lack today. I was a boy filled with curiosity and imagination and I loved those bikes. I was also forbidden to sit on them unless Dad was around. But, I am a slow learner.
This particular morning Dad was going to take me to the local ball field and let me ride his bike in circles while he and a friend drank beer and lied to each other. Of course I was too small to actually touch the ground or even the footpegs so Dad would put me in front of him, drop the bike into gear, ease the clutch out and , when the bike was in motion, simply stand up and let me ride out from under him. I would ride slow circles around the playground until they ran out of beer.
So, this Sunday morning I sat on the basement steps waiting for Dad. I imagined myself roaring around the world on the little 100 Twin and, like the fool I still am, I simply had to get on the damned thing. Absolutely certain that I would hear my parents rise from their bed in time to get off the bike, I climbed on the shiny new bike. I sat there, arms spread wide gripping the handlebars, making motorcycle noises and tearing across the landscape only my mind could conjure. I was wearing Mom’s new Bell helmet, yanking on the handlebars because, the way the bike balanced on the center stand, the rear wheel was in the air and the front was on the concrete and if I yanked hard enough to turn the bars that front wheel would somehow torque the legs of the stand and the bike would move. Sideways, but it would move.
Faster and faster I rode, the white lines on the imaginary highway becoming dots, the motorcycle sounds emanating from my 6 year old mouth becoming louder and louder until, my Dad asked as he stood at the bottom of the steps, “ What the hell are you doing?”. As I whipped my head around I yanked on the handlebars, the helmet fell forward over my eyes, my butt slid sideways on the seat and the bike fell to one to side.
This, this was my first motorcycle related “ahhh shit” moment. As the bike tipped it was suddenly clear to me that I was about to crash, not just Mom’s bike, but Dad’s as well.
AHHHHHH SHIT !!!!!!!!
Barely 6 and I was already dead. The tragic end to the greatest motorcycle rider ever to grace the face of this earth. Both bikes and I went down in a tangle of chrome, plastic, steel and a father’s wrath. I prayed that I would die in the crash. There would grandeur in that. Being beaten to death by my pissed off dad would just be anti-climatic.
When the sound of crashing finally ceased I lay in the twisted aftermath. I peaked from beneath the helmet, through the clutter of chrome and plastic, to see Dad sitting on the steps, face in his hands, moaning. He looked up, shook his head and said, “Come over here, I am going to beat you.” I went, he did.
I learned several things that day that relate to Newton’s first law. “An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force.” I was an unbalanced force that kept my father in motion for more years than I can count.
I was never a star pupil in school. I was lazy, always was, always will be. The old fashioned report cards that the teachers sent home always said the same thing. “Curt shows promise but is unwilling to put forth the effort required to be an excellent student.”
This is what I have come to know as a “shit sandwich”. For those who don’t understand the term I will dissect the sentence. “Curt shows promise” is one slice of bread. Harmless all by itself and even a bit of flavor, perhaps leading the reader to prepare for the meat. The sentence ends with the words “excellent student”. So, a quick glance at the two slices of bread could lead one to believe that Curt shows promise and is an excellent student. But. I love that word. It is sort of like saying, “hold my beer” or “watch this”.
“but is unwilling to put forth the effort required”. This is the shit in the sandwich. It killed my self-esteem. Okay, not really, but it could have if I had cared. I didn’t. I was too busy riding motorcycles, fishing and being a boy to really care what some teacher thought about me.
I digress. The purpose of this article is to discuss the practical application of Newton’s three laws of motion. The first three paragraphs merely serve to inform the reader that I learn things the hard way, generally through the repeated application of pain.
Newton’s first law.
“An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force. An object in motion continues in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.
This law is often called
"the law of inertia".”
I learned this lesson early one Sunday morning as my parents lay sleeping. Mom’s new Yamaha 100 Twin sat in our basement garage next to Dad’s equally new Yamaha. This was back in the days when even small street bikes came equipped with the center stand that most cruisers lack today. I was a boy filled with curiosity and imagination and I loved those bikes. I was also forbidden to sit on them unless Dad was around. But, I am a slow learner.
This particular morning Dad was going to take me to the local ball field and let me ride his bike in circles while he and a friend drank beer and lied to each other. Of course I was too small to actually touch the ground or even the footpegs so Dad would put me in front of him, drop the bike into gear, ease the clutch out and , when the bike was in motion, simply stand up and let me ride out from under him. I would ride slow circles around the playground until they ran out of beer.
So, this Sunday morning I sat on the basement steps waiting for Dad. I imagined myself roaring around the world on the little 100 Twin and, like the fool I still am, I simply had to get on the damned thing. Absolutely certain that I would hear my parents rise from their bed in time to get off the bike, I climbed on the shiny new bike. I sat there, arms spread wide gripping the handlebars, making motorcycle noises and tearing across the landscape only my mind could conjure. I was wearing Mom’s new Bell helmet, yanking on the handlebars because, the way the bike balanced on the center stand, the rear wheel was in the air and the front was on the concrete and if I yanked hard enough to turn the bars that front wheel would somehow torque the legs of the stand and the bike would move. Sideways, but it would move.
Faster and faster I rode, the white lines on the imaginary highway becoming dots, the motorcycle sounds emanating from my 6 year old mouth becoming louder and louder until, my Dad asked as he stood at the bottom of the steps, “ What the hell are you doing?”. As I whipped my head around I yanked on the handlebars, the helmet fell forward over my eyes, my butt slid sideways on the seat and the bike fell to one to side.
This, this was my first motorcycle related “ahhh shit” moment. As the bike tipped it was suddenly clear to me that I was about to crash, not just Mom’s bike, but Dad’s as well.
AHHHHHH SHIT !!!!!!!!
Barely 6 and I was already dead. The tragic end to the greatest motorcycle rider ever to grace the face of this earth. Both bikes and I went down in a tangle of chrome, plastic, steel and a father’s wrath. I prayed that I would die in the crash. There would grandeur in that. Being beaten to death by my pissed off dad would just be anti-climatic.
When the sound of crashing finally ceased I lay in the twisted aftermath. I peaked from beneath the helmet, through the clutter of chrome and plastic, to see Dad sitting on the steps, face in his hands, moaning. He looked up, shook his head and said, “Come over here, I am going to beat you.” I went, he did.
I learned several things that day that relate to Newton’s first law. “An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an unbalanced force.” I was an unbalanced force that kept my father in motion for more years than I can count.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Conspiracy
I wish that I believed in conspiracy theories. At least I would have the reassurance that someone was in charge, that there was a master plan. Alas, there is only average people trying to muddle through.
We have a new group of OJT's working their way through the system. This is not a bad thing. The bad thing is that when you replace an experienced officer with someone who has never even seen Adseg you pretty much ruin my day.
Yesterday they gave me an OJT. One would expect that they would schedule the new guy to work with the regular crew a few times before they throw him to the lions. Not in this place. The first hour is our busiest. We have to count and do med-pass between 3:30 and 4:30 count. With two experienced officers we usually get it done with a couple of minutes to spare. With a guy who has never counted a house or cuffed an inmate, it ain't gonna happen.
Throw in a nut job who refuses to take his meds and you have a cluster fuck. So, I have to teach the OJT how we count and then, while trying to hurry, also teach him how to cuff through the food ports. Hurrying in Adseg is a prescription for disaster.
When we hurry we forget things. When we are trying to explain things or have a guy asking questions we forget the little things, like cuffing the second guy in the cell before we pop the door. When we hurry we miss seeing things. Trying to keep an eye on two offenders, a nurse and an OJT requires more eyes than I have.
Sometimes, things go wrong in a heartbeat. Every time I open a door to give medication I ask myself, if this guy goes stupid, what do I do first? Push the nurse out of the way, slam the guy, block the guy, spray him? My job is to protect the nurse. But I have a brand new CO. Is he going to help me? These inmates can kick my ass one on one. Even with cuffs on, most of these guys can and will hurt me. It is a comforting to know that you always have backup. I lose that comfort when it is just me and an OJT.
So, yesterday, I worked scared. I don't like working scared and I cannot show that fear, that would be suicide in this place.
I wish there was someone in charge with a real plan.
We have a new group of OJT's working their way through the system. This is not a bad thing. The bad thing is that when you replace an experienced officer with someone who has never even seen Adseg you pretty much ruin my day.
Yesterday they gave me an OJT. One would expect that they would schedule the new guy to work with the regular crew a few times before they throw him to the lions. Not in this place. The first hour is our busiest. We have to count and do med-pass between 3:30 and 4:30 count. With two experienced officers we usually get it done with a couple of minutes to spare. With a guy who has never counted a house or cuffed an inmate, it ain't gonna happen.
Throw in a nut job who refuses to take his meds and you have a cluster fuck. So, I have to teach the OJT how we count and then, while trying to hurry, also teach him how to cuff through the food ports. Hurrying in Adseg is a prescription for disaster.
When we hurry we forget things. When we are trying to explain things or have a guy asking questions we forget the little things, like cuffing the second guy in the cell before we pop the door. When we hurry we miss seeing things. Trying to keep an eye on two offenders, a nurse and an OJT requires more eyes than I have.
Sometimes, things go wrong in a heartbeat. Every time I open a door to give medication I ask myself, if this guy goes stupid, what do I do first? Push the nurse out of the way, slam the guy, block the guy, spray him? My job is to protect the nurse. But I have a brand new CO. Is he going to help me? These inmates can kick my ass one on one. Even with cuffs on, most of these guys can and will hurt me. It is a comforting to know that you always have backup. I lose that comfort when it is just me and an OJT.
So, yesterday, I worked scared. I don't like working scared and I cannot show that fear, that would be suicide in this place.
I wish there was someone in charge with a real plan.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Unintended Consequences
Early one Saturday evening we got a call from our zone lieutenant telling us we were getting a lock-up from one of the dining halls. Lt gave me the guys number and I accessed his records via computer to prepare the paper work. He is a guest of the state for several reasons. Fairly typical of the inmates we deal with. In short, he is not a guy I would want for a neighbor.
However, the reason for him being sent to Adseg was, in my mind, bullshit. Seems he stole a lunch bag from the chow hall and got caught. Usually an infraction that gets you room restriction in your housing unit for a couple of weeks, not a trip to the Septic Tank.
My opinion aside, I assign him a cell and cellie based on his custody level and mental health score. His record in prison is actually pretty good, seems to be a quiet guy who doesn't get a lot of tickets. His new cellie is also a quiet guy who never gives us any trouble, so things should work out well.
One of the yard officers brings him from the chow hall in restraints, as we do with everyone coming to the Hole. During our interview in the office the guy appears calm though a bit chagrinned. Of course he is not contrite over stealing the lunch bag, only that he got caught.
I grab the paperwork and, along with another officer, escort our new resident to his new cell. I yell at the guy in the cell and he comes to the food port to be cuffed. About this time, Mr Lunch Bag says, "I really think I want a cell to myself."
This not being a Holiday Inn, I ignore him and apply restraints to the cellie as the other officer says, " The only one man cells we have this weekend are suicide cells, so I don't think you have much choice". And then Mr. Lunch Bag says, with a grin, "ok, I think I am going to kill myself".
I sigh.
I remove the restraints from his no longer to be cellie, close the chuckhole, turn to our genius and say, "Ok, you win, you get a one man cell". He grins from ear to ear. He knows he just stuck it to the man.
His arms are cuffed behind his back and, with one officer on either side holding him just above the elbows, we escort him to a one man cell in another wing of the housing unit. He is happy, smiling, laughing and feeling good. By this time our control room officer has called the sergeant and two more officers to assist us. Mr Lunchbag hasn't a clue.
Inside the 8 foot by 12 foot cell I direct the inmate to stand facing the back wall and say, "Mr Lunchbag, I am now going to remove your restraints. When the cuffs are removed you will turn slowly, face me and remove your shirt. You will hand me your shirt. You will then remove the rest of your clothing and hand me each item. Is this going to be a problem?"
He says, "Why I gotta strip out, man?"
I reply, "Sir, you have stated your intention to harm yourself. It is our responsiblity to see that you do not do that, therefor, you will be stripped out, your clothing stored in a locker and you will be issued a Kevlar smock until the psychiatrist tells us that you can have your property."
He whines, "Man, all I want is a one man cell."
The sergeant steps in, " Sir, your statement of self-harm has taken all decisions away from Custody and the only one who can get you out of this camera cell will be the psych".
"Camera cell?" he moans. " Man , I don't wanna be in no camera cell. This is bullshit, man." He looks around the concrete room, misery filling his eyes as he takes in the raised ledge that is the bed.
We strip him out without incident. He is given the suicide smock and he stands forlornly as we step out of the cell and the door slides closed. We exit the wing and I go to the officer, fill out the suicide intervention form, contact the zone lieutenant and fill out the Close Observation Log. Two minutes of paperwork and a phone call. Yup, he stuck it to me.
A few minutes later I am in the wing passing mail and he calls me over. He says, "So when do I see the shrink and get out of here"?
I smile and say, "Sir, this is Saturday. The psych works Monday through Friday."
He looks stunned, "You mean I ain't gonna see him tonight?"
"No sir, you will probably see him before noon on Monday."
" Fuck ! "
However, the reason for him being sent to Adseg was, in my mind, bullshit. Seems he stole a lunch bag from the chow hall and got caught. Usually an infraction that gets you room restriction in your housing unit for a couple of weeks, not a trip to the Septic Tank.
My opinion aside, I assign him a cell and cellie based on his custody level and mental health score. His record in prison is actually pretty good, seems to be a quiet guy who doesn't get a lot of tickets. His new cellie is also a quiet guy who never gives us any trouble, so things should work out well.
One of the yard officers brings him from the chow hall in restraints, as we do with everyone coming to the Hole. During our interview in the office the guy appears calm though a bit chagrinned. Of course he is not contrite over stealing the lunch bag, only that he got caught.
I grab the paperwork and, along with another officer, escort our new resident to his new cell. I yell at the guy in the cell and he comes to the food port to be cuffed. About this time, Mr Lunch Bag says, "I really think I want a cell to myself."
This not being a Holiday Inn, I ignore him and apply restraints to the cellie as the other officer says, " The only one man cells we have this weekend are suicide cells, so I don't think you have much choice". And then Mr. Lunch Bag says, with a grin, "ok, I think I am going to kill myself".
I sigh.
I remove the restraints from his no longer to be cellie, close the chuckhole, turn to our genius and say, "Ok, you win, you get a one man cell". He grins from ear to ear. He knows he just stuck it to the man.
His arms are cuffed behind his back and, with one officer on either side holding him just above the elbows, we escort him to a one man cell in another wing of the housing unit. He is happy, smiling, laughing and feeling good. By this time our control room officer has called the sergeant and two more officers to assist us. Mr Lunchbag hasn't a clue.
Inside the 8 foot by 12 foot cell I direct the inmate to stand facing the back wall and say, "Mr Lunchbag, I am now going to remove your restraints. When the cuffs are removed you will turn slowly, face me and remove your shirt. You will hand me your shirt. You will then remove the rest of your clothing and hand me each item. Is this going to be a problem?"
He says, "Why I gotta strip out, man?"
I reply, "Sir, you have stated your intention to harm yourself. It is our responsiblity to see that you do not do that, therefor, you will be stripped out, your clothing stored in a locker and you will be issued a Kevlar smock until the psychiatrist tells us that you can have your property."
He whines, "Man, all I want is a one man cell."
The sergeant steps in, " Sir, your statement of self-harm has taken all decisions away from Custody and the only one who can get you out of this camera cell will be the psych".
"Camera cell?" he moans. " Man , I don't wanna be in no camera cell. This is bullshit, man." He looks around the concrete room, misery filling his eyes as he takes in the raised ledge that is the bed.
We strip him out without incident. He is given the suicide smock and he stands forlornly as we step out of the cell and the door slides closed. We exit the wing and I go to the officer, fill out the suicide intervention form, contact the zone lieutenant and fill out the Close Observation Log. Two minutes of paperwork and a phone call. Yup, he stuck it to me.
A few minutes later I am in the wing passing mail and he calls me over. He says, "So when do I see the shrink and get out of here"?
I smile and say, "Sir, this is Saturday. The psych works Monday through Friday."
He looks stunned, "You mean I ain't gonna see him tonight?"
"No sir, you will probably see him before noon on Monday."
" Fuck ! "
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Lazy Bastards
Lazy bastards piss me off.
I don't mean the guy who lays around the house doing nothing, it is his house. He can be as lazy as he wants. No, the ones who piss me off are the ones who show up to work and then sit on their asses, knowing someone else will do the work that must be done.
Yeah, my job sucks, sometimes. Inmates whine and piss and moan, wanting this or wanting that. I can deal with that. I can deal with the captain calling asking why we are not chasing all the soap on a rope flying across the wings. I can even deal with the occasional utility officer who doesn't KNOW what needs to be done.
But, I can NOT deal with the lazy bastard who will sit in the office while 3 other officers are serving trays to four wings. I cannot deal with the asshole who sits in the office while those same three officers pull the trays from four wings. If you are going to sit in the office then at least sort the damned mail. Or maybe, finish the files on the 3 lockups we had during med-pass. Or staple up the property bags. Or check the 6 suicide cells.
Or better yet, get your feet off the fucking desk, and take your useless ass home.
I don't mean the guy who lays around the house doing nothing, it is his house. He can be as lazy as he wants. No, the ones who piss me off are the ones who show up to work and then sit on their asses, knowing someone else will do the work that must be done.
Yeah, my job sucks, sometimes. Inmates whine and piss and moan, wanting this or wanting that. I can deal with that. I can deal with the captain calling asking why we are not chasing all the soap on a rope flying across the wings. I can even deal with the occasional utility officer who doesn't KNOW what needs to be done.
But, I can NOT deal with the lazy bastard who will sit in the office while 3 other officers are serving trays to four wings. I cannot deal with the asshole who sits in the office while those same three officers pull the trays from four wings. If you are going to sit in the office then at least sort the damned mail. Or maybe, finish the files on the 3 lockups we had during med-pass. Or staple up the property bags. Or check the 6 suicide cells.
Or better yet, get your feet off the fucking desk, and take your useless ass home.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Health Care
Generally, I avoid political debate or commentary. Rarely , if ever, does anything contructive ensue. So, if you are looking for a political debate here, it won't happen. I am going to talk about the deception being perpetuated on the American people.
Debating how we, as a society, are going to pay for health insurance is not a debate on health care. I don't know when the two became synonomous in the eyes of most Americans but they certainly have. Right now, today, all over this country, if you have a need for medical treatment you can get it without health insurance. Yes, you have to pay for it. But isn't that the way it should be?
I don't understand why someone has the expectation that others should pay for his/her blood pressure medication. Does this same person expect others to pay his/her rent? Does this person expect others to pay for that Big Mac or Whopper? Going without food or shelter will kill you a hell of a lot faster than going without blood pressure meds.
In my opinion, and it is just that, my opinion, I won't post a link to some website or web article to back up my opinion, the high cost of health care is a result of people not giving a damn what it cost because health insurance was picking up the tab. Human nature being what it is, if we perceive something to be free, we will take all that we can get, whether we actually need it or not.
Here is my plan.
1: Employers STOP paying any portion of our health insurance premiums. Pay that amount to each employee in cash every payday. Put the money in the hands of the individual and let the individual decide whether to pay that money to an insurance company or directly to the entity that provides his/her chosen amount of healthcare.
2: Place a cap on malpractice settlements.
3: Make medical malpractice a criminal offense. Put a few bad doctors in jail and other doctors will begin to pay attention.
4: Ban pharmaceutical advertising on television. The cost of drugs will drop and, even better, we will stop turning ourselves into a nation of hypochondriacs.
Debating how we, as a society, are going to pay for health insurance is not a debate on health care. I don't know when the two became synonomous in the eyes of most Americans but they certainly have. Right now, today, all over this country, if you have a need for medical treatment you can get it without health insurance. Yes, you have to pay for it. But isn't that the way it should be?
I don't understand why someone has the expectation that others should pay for his/her blood pressure medication. Does this same person expect others to pay his/her rent? Does this person expect others to pay for that Big Mac or Whopper? Going without food or shelter will kill you a hell of a lot faster than going without blood pressure meds.
In my opinion, and it is just that, my opinion, I won't post a link to some website or web article to back up my opinion, the high cost of health care is a result of people not giving a damn what it cost because health insurance was picking up the tab. Human nature being what it is, if we perceive something to be free, we will take all that we can get, whether we actually need it or not.
Here is my plan.
1: Employers STOP paying any portion of our health insurance premiums. Pay that amount to each employee in cash every payday. Put the money in the hands of the individual and let the individual decide whether to pay that money to an insurance company or directly to the entity that provides his/her chosen amount of healthcare.
2: Place a cap on malpractice settlements.
3: Make medical malpractice a criminal offense. Put a few bad doctors in jail and other doctors will begin to pay attention.
4: Ban pharmaceutical advertising on television. The cost of drugs will drop and, even better, we will stop turning ourselves into a nation of hypochondriacs.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mentoring
Mentoring is one of those buzz-words that we have adopted in the past few years. It is also something that has been going on forever. Back in the "good old days" if you wanted to learn something, you found someone who was doing it and just hung around, asking questions and generally getting in the way until one of them took pity on you and showed you the ropes.
This is the way I learned pretty much everything that I know. Sometimes I learned the right way and sometimes I was almost killed by some bad advice or teaching. The lessons that stuck, though, were those that gave good advice followed by an "ahhh shit" moment when trying to implement the lesson.
One of those lessons can be summed up quite succinctly with the following statement. " Always park your motorcycle facing uphill." It sounds easy enough and even makes total sense from a physics point of view. Most of us understand that the kickstand rotates from back to front to a predetermined stop and it stands to reason that if the kickstand is down and the bike moves forward the stand will rotate back to the folded position and the bike will fall down. Simple, isn't it? But, there are always those who don't quite grasp that concept.
I met one of those guys a few days ago. My employer provides parking for about 20 bikes. The lot is on a slight slope. It is simple enough to pull forward into a space and be left with the bike facing uphill. Snap down the kickstand, leave the bike in gear, and the bike rests securely on three points of contact with the ground.
A few days ago I watched a guy trying to back his bike into a parking spot. He grunted and groaned, feet slipping on the asphalt as he backed the 600 pound bike uphill into the parking spot. Of course I had to watch, I like to see a good crash. As I was taking my helmet off he finally got it positioned where he wanted it, put the kickstand down and dismounted, reaching up to unfasten the chinstrap on his helmet.
His bike began to inch downhill. I shouted, he turned to look at me, saw me pointing at his bike, looked back, saw it moving and tipping as the kickstand folded up. He grabbed for the bike but it was too late. The bike fell, taking him down with it. I ran over. Ok, I waddled over.
The bike had him pinned but not hurt. I grabbed the handlebars, squeezed the front brake lever and tipped the bike upright. He lay on the ground as I popped the shifter down putting the bike in gear and dropped the kickstand. I turned to help him up.
"Hey, don't put the bike in gear, man," he said as I helped him up.
"Why not," I asked ?
"It fucks up the transmission or something," he said as he brushed himself off, "They need to put a parking brake on these things".
"Um, ok, so why don't you park facing uphill, like everyone else", I asked ?
He looked at me with pity, "Because it is easier to back it uphill than downhill with one foot on the ground".
I had to ask, you know I did, this was getting better all the time. "Why would you only have the use of one foot when you backed downhill"?
He sighed with exaspiration, "Because you have to have one foot on the brake".
"Ohhhh," I said, thoughtfully, looking confused, "Can't you use the front brake and keep both feet on the ground"?
"Hell no!", giving me that look reserved for total morons, "You can't use the front brake in parking lots at walking speed, it makes you crash"!
I closed my mouth, looked perplexed for a minute, wrinkled my brow and said, "But, if you are backing up, doesn't that make your front brake your back brake"?
I could see I had him now, he was seriously thinking about that. But, when you hook a real fish, there is no fun in just yanking him into the boat, you have to play him a bit.
"You can make a parking brake, you know", I said with a straight face, "you can either use a wheel chock, or just wrap a rubber band around your front brake lever when you get parked like this. I think I have one of the big rubber bands on my bike".
I opened a saddle bag and took a rubber band off my rainsuit and gave it to him.
He wrapped it around and around the brake lever until the lever was squeezed tight, then popped the bike out of gear. It stayed parked and upright.
As we walked across the parking lot, my new best friend chattered on, telling me his life story as I smiled and thought to myself, "this mentoring crap is fun".
This is the way I learned pretty much everything that I know. Sometimes I learned the right way and sometimes I was almost killed by some bad advice or teaching. The lessons that stuck, though, were those that gave good advice followed by an "ahhh shit" moment when trying to implement the lesson.
One of those lessons can be summed up quite succinctly with the following statement. " Always park your motorcycle facing uphill." It sounds easy enough and even makes total sense from a physics point of view. Most of us understand that the kickstand rotates from back to front to a predetermined stop and it stands to reason that if the kickstand is down and the bike moves forward the stand will rotate back to the folded position and the bike will fall down. Simple, isn't it? But, there are always those who don't quite grasp that concept.
I met one of those guys a few days ago. My employer provides parking for about 20 bikes. The lot is on a slight slope. It is simple enough to pull forward into a space and be left with the bike facing uphill. Snap down the kickstand, leave the bike in gear, and the bike rests securely on three points of contact with the ground.
A few days ago I watched a guy trying to back his bike into a parking spot. He grunted and groaned, feet slipping on the asphalt as he backed the 600 pound bike uphill into the parking spot. Of course I had to watch, I like to see a good crash. As I was taking my helmet off he finally got it positioned where he wanted it, put the kickstand down and dismounted, reaching up to unfasten the chinstrap on his helmet.
His bike began to inch downhill. I shouted, he turned to look at me, saw me pointing at his bike, looked back, saw it moving and tipping as the kickstand folded up. He grabbed for the bike but it was too late. The bike fell, taking him down with it. I ran over. Ok, I waddled over.
The bike had him pinned but not hurt. I grabbed the handlebars, squeezed the front brake lever and tipped the bike upright. He lay on the ground as I popped the shifter down putting the bike in gear and dropped the kickstand. I turned to help him up.
"Hey, don't put the bike in gear, man," he said as I helped him up.
"Why not," I asked ?
"It fucks up the transmission or something," he said as he brushed himself off, "They need to put a parking brake on these things".
"Um, ok, so why don't you park facing uphill, like everyone else", I asked ?
He looked at me with pity, "Because it is easier to back it uphill than downhill with one foot on the ground".
I had to ask, you know I did, this was getting better all the time. "Why would you only have the use of one foot when you backed downhill"?
He sighed with exaspiration, "Because you have to have one foot on the brake".
"Ohhhh," I said, thoughtfully, looking confused, "Can't you use the front brake and keep both feet on the ground"?
"Hell no!", giving me that look reserved for total morons, "You can't use the front brake in parking lots at walking speed, it makes you crash"!
I closed my mouth, looked perplexed for a minute, wrinkled my brow and said, "But, if you are backing up, doesn't that make your front brake your back brake"?
I could see I had him now, he was seriously thinking about that. But, when you hook a real fish, there is no fun in just yanking him into the boat, you have to play him a bit.
"You can make a parking brake, you know", I said with a straight face, "you can either use a wheel chock, or just wrap a rubber band around your front brake lever when you get parked like this. I think I have one of the big rubber bands on my bike".
I opened a saddle bag and took a rubber band off my rainsuit and gave it to him.
He wrapped it around and around the brake lever until the lever was squeezed tight, then popped the bike out of gear. It stayed parked and upright.
As we walked across the parking lot, my new best friend chattered on, telling me his life story as I smiled and thought to myself, "this mentoring crap is fun".
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Chaos...
is no longer just a theory. We are living it.
In the Septic Tank there is a constant background of words. Many profane, but even the profane ones have no real meaning. An inmate calls me to his door and says he has a question. I try to listen as he launches into a long and winding dissertation.
" Hey, CO, can you do me a favor?"
"Sorry, I don't do favors, but what is your question?"
"Look man, the motherfuckers locked me up this mornin', right?"
"OK."
"and like, I got a motherfuckin' TASC day, right?"
" No sir, you do not have a TASC day. You have to be here 24 hours before you get a TASC day"
" Look motherfucker, I gots me a TASC day!"
"No sir, you have to be here 24 hours before you get a TASC day."
" aight, aight, aight, well look , I needs me a phone call"
" Sir, you don't get a phone call until you have a TASC day and you have to be here 24 hours before you have a TASC day."
" HEY, DAWG!!!!!" shouted into my ear as the inmate yells across the wing to someone in another cell, "WHA CHOO DOIN', MAN?"
The response is an unintelligible burst of noise echoing across the wing from the other inmate.
"MOTHERFUCKIN' COP THINKS EYES A NEWBIE !!!!! TELL 'IM DAWG, EYES A GANGSTA MOTHAFUCKA, DAWG, HEAR ME?"
As I turn to walk away the little white guy that wants his TASC day says, "Where you goin' muthafucka ? I gets me a phone call, aight! I knows I gets me a phone call, you fat fuckin' faggot !"
I smile and begin to walk away and then, in a pleading, generic whitebread tone of voice he asks, "CO, can I get some toilet paper?"
In the Septic Tank there is a constant background of words. Many profane, but even the profane ones have no real meaning. An inmate calls me to his door and says he has a question. I try to listen as he launches into a long and winding dissertation.
" Hey, CO, can you do me a favor?"
"Sorry, I don't do favors, but what is your question?"
"Look man, the motherfuckers locked me up this mornin', right?"
"OK."
"and like, I got a motherfuckin' TASC day, right?"
" No sir, you do not have a TASC day. You have to be here 24 hours before you get a TASC day"
" Look motherfucker, I gots me a TASC day!"
"No sir, you have to be here 24 hours before you get a TASC day."
" aight, aight, aight, well look , I needs me a phone call"
" Sir, you don't get a phone call until you have a TASC day and you have to be here 24 hours before you have a TASC day."
" HEY, DAWG!!!!!" shouted into my ear as the inmate yells across the wing to someone in another cell, "WHA CHOO DOIN', MAN?"
The response is an unintelligible burst of noise echoing across the wing from the other inmate.
"MOTHERFUCKIN' COP THINKS EYES A NEWBIE !!!!! TELL 'IM DAWG, EYES A GANGSTA MOTHAFUCKA, DAWG, HEAR ME?"
As I turn to walk away the little white guy that wants his TASC day says, "Where you goin' muthafucka ? I gets me a phone call, aight! I knows I gets me a phone call, you fat fuckin' faggot !"
I smile and begin to walk away and then, in a pleading, generic whitebread tone of voice he asks, "CO, can I get some toilet paper?"
Monday, August 31, 2009
Playing God
Sometime around the first week of June someone dropped four dogs into our world. We didn't want a dog and we really didn't want four of them. My wife and I pretended to ignore them for a week or so, but they kept hanging around. I went around to the neighbors to see if they belonged to anyone. They didn't.
I called the sheriff's office and was told there was nothing they could do about stray dogs but that I had the right to protect my property and livestock. We don't have livestock so to rationalize killing the dogs to protect my property was a bit of a stretch. I ignored them for another week or so.
Even though we were not feeding them they began to get territorial, sleeping under the cars and charging out barking when anyone approached. On my next day off, with my wife at work, I took the .22 rifle out. Two of the dogs charged out from beneath my pickup truck and I shot them. The other two ran in directions that made it unsafe to shoot. I spent the rest of my day off disposing of bodies. I hoped that the other two would not come back.
They did. A few days later my wife came home from work and found one of the dogs under the pickup with a new litter of pups. Twelve of them. Being who she is, she of course made a bed in the barn and moved the pups and mother into the barn and went to town and bought food. This is one of the reasons that I love her. She is sometimes loud and gruff but she is one of the kindest people that I have ever known.
Ma was starving at that point, so emaciated that every rib stuck out, and she was covered with ticks. I expected most of the pups to die. They didn't. Of course, since we were feeding the mother we had to feed the other stray. Flea and tick collars took care of the tick problem and both dogs began to eat and gain weight although Ma was slow to recover due to nursing 12 pups.
I know, most of you are thinking, "You should have killed the pups then and been finished with it". I didn't. I couldn't. It was never the dogs fault that they were here. I could have killed whoever dropped them off, but killing the dogs was not easy for me.
Over the next couple of weeks we bought material to make a pen for the pups as they got older and took Dumbass, the other stray to the vet and had her spayed, thinking it would be easier to give her away if she was healthy and spayed. No one would take her.
As we began to see the personalities of the adult dogs emerge we, of course, became attached to them. Dumbass is turning out to be a pretty good dog. She stays outside, comes when you call her and generally protects the place. One evening , after dark when my wife was home alone, Dumbass began to make a racket, barking, growling and snarling. Shortcake turned the porch light on to find a man at the bottom of the steps. Dumbass stayed between her and the stranger until the man left. She is a keeper.
Ma, on the other hand, was not a keeper. As the pups got older and she left them for longer periods she spent her time chasing cars, barking at mouse farts two counties away and chasing anything that moved. She wouldn't come when we called her but would slink away only to reappear and start raising hell again. The yard looks like a war zone where she has dug huge holes. We gritted our teeth because of the puppies.
Now the pups are weaned, most of them gone to homes with people who wanted them. We have three left but two are spoken for. I guess we will keep the third.
Today I killed Ma. I did not "put her down". It wasn't euthanasia. It was murder. Premeditated. I had tried to shoot her before but she seemed to have a sense of when to place herself where I could not get a shot. Today, I tricked her. I coaxed her to me with a dog treat and soft words. Then I placed the muzzle of the pistol to the back of her head and squeezed the trigger.
I called the sheriff's office and was told there was nothing they could do about stray dogs but that I had the right to protect my property and livestock. We don't have livestock so to rationalize killing the dogs to protect my property was a bit of a stretch. I ignored them for another week or so.
Even though we were not feeding them they began to get territorial, sleeping under the cars and charging out barking when anyone approached. On my next day off, with my wife at work, I took the .22 rifle out. Two of the dogs charged out from beneath my pickup truck and I shot them. The other two ran in directions that made it unsafe to shoot. I spent the rest of my day off disposing of bodies. I hoped that the other two would not come back.
They did. A few days later my wife came home from work and found one of the dogs under the pickup with a new litter of pups. Twelve of them. Being who she is, she of course made a bed in the barn and moved the pups and mother into the barn and went to town and bought food. This is one of the reasons that I love her. She is sometimes loud and gruff but she is one of the kindest people that I have ever known.
Ma was starving at that point, so emaciated that every rib stuck out, and she was covered with ticks. I expected most of the pups to die. They didn't. Of course, since we were feeding the mother we had to feed the other stray. Flea and tick collars took care of the tick problem and both dogs began to eat and gain weight although Ma was slow to recover due to nursing 12 pups.
I know, most of you are thinking, "You should have killed the pups then and been finished with it". I didn't. I couldn't. It was never the dogs fault that they were here. I could have killed whoever dropped them off, but killing the dogs was not easy for me.
Over the next couple of weeks we bought material to make a pen for the pups as they got older and took Dumbass, the other stray to the vet and had her spayed, thinking it would be easier to give her away if she was healthy and spayed. No one would take her.
As we began to see the personalities of the adult dogs emerge we, of course, became attached to them. Dumbass is turning out to be a pretty good dog. She stays outside, comes when you call her and generally protects the place. One evening , after dark when my wife was home alone, Dumbass began to make a racket, barking, growling and snarling. Shortcake turned the porch light on to find a man at the bottom of the steps. Dumbass stayed between her and the stranger until the man left. She is a keeper.
Ma, on the other hand, was not a keeper. As the pups got older and she left them for longer periods she spent her time chasing cars, barking at mouse farts two counties away and chasing anything that moved. She wouldn't come when we called her but would slink away only to reappear and start raising hell again. The yard looks like a war zone where she has dug huge holes. We gritted our teeth because of the puppies.
Now the pups are weaned, most of them gone to homes with people who wanted them. We have three left but two are spoken for. I guess we will keep the third.
Today I killed Ma. I did not "put her down". It wasn't euthanasia. It was murder. Premeditated. I had tried to shoot her before but she seemed to have a sense of when to place herself where I could not get a shot. Today, I tricked her. I coaxed her to me with a dog treat and soft words. Then I placed the muzzle of the pistol to the back of her head and squeezed the trigger.
Friday, August 28, 2009
In the beginning...
there was man. There was woman. There was nature and cute little critters that man could kill and woman could cook. Life was good. Man and woman killed, cooked and procreated. They procreated a lot. They made more men and women who went forth killing, cooking and procreating. They were happy.
One day man tried to procreate with woman after a successful kill and cookout. Woman was tired from the cooking, complained that her back hurt from kneeling and bending to cook. Man thought and thought. Procreating face to face was invented by necessity. Life was good.
Soon after the advent of what we now know as the "missionary position" man attempted to procreate with woman. In this position womans mouth was near mans ear. She talked. Man, to his amazement, learned that woman was unhappy. Her back hurt from bending over to skin and butcher the animals which he killed. Procreating was not as much fun now.
Man went out with other men to hunt. They found fermented berries and sat under a shade tree eating berries and napping. That night, during prcreation, woman talked even more. Man fell asleep.
The next morning woman went out gather wood with other women. They talked, a lot. There was no procreating by anyone that night. Or the next.Or the night after that.
One morning, after a night of drinking fermented berry juice and no procreating, man took his stone ax out to the woods. He cut down a huge tree. He didn't need to cut down the tree, but he needed to release some pent up "energy". He finally wandered deeper into the woods and got a grip on himself.
He returned to the cave to find woman smiling and happy. She thanked him for cutting down the tree. She used the stump for a table and tonight, her back did not hurt. They procreated.
Soon after, all the other men in the tribe cut down trees for their women and all were happily procreating. Soon there were stumps everywhere with women happily working away. Then it rained.
They retreated to the cave and woman began to complain as she knelt on the ground preparing dinner. Man could not drink his fermented berry juice in peace. He went out in the rain, climbing over and through the fallen trees to sit gazing at the field of stumps. He sat and thought. He saw how an over-turned birds nest kept the ground beneath it dry. He took the nest apart. That night there was no procreating.
Early the next morning he began building a huge upside down birds nest over womans stump. it was warm and dry and they procreated. A lot. The other men heard the procreation. The other women heard the prcreation. After the procreation woman proclaimed loudly how warm and dry the upside birds nest was.
In the ages that followed men rose early to build upside down bird nests. Sometimes we even get to procreate if woman likes the birds nest.
One day man tried to procreate with woman after a successful kill and cookout. Woman was tired from the cooking, complained that her back hurt from kneeling and bending to cook. Man thought and thought. Procreating face to face was invented by necessity. Life was good.
Soon after the advent of what we now know as the "missionary position" man attempted to procreate with woman. In this position womans mouth was near mans ear. She talked. Man, to his amazement, learned that woman was unhappy. Her back hurt from bending over to skin and butcher the animals which he killed. Procreating was not as much fun now.
Man went out with other men to hunt. They found fermented berries and sat under a shade tree eating berries and napping. That night, during prcreation, woman talked even more. Man fell asleep.
The next morning woman went out gather wood with other women. They talked, a lot. There was no procreating by anyone that night. Or the next.Or the night after that.
One morning, after a night of drinking fermented berry juice and no procreating, man took his stone ax out to the woods. He cut down a huge tree. He didn't need to cut down the tree, but he needed to release some pent up "energy". He finally wandered deeper into the woods and got a grip on himself.
He returned to the cave to find woman smiling and happy. She thanked him for cutting down the tree. She used the stump for a table and tonight, her back did not hurt. They procreated.
Soon after, all the other men in the tribe cut down trees for their women and all were happily procreating. Soon there were stumps everywhere with women happily working away. Then it rained.
They retreated to the cave and woman began to complain as she knelt on the ground preparing dinner. Man could not drink his fermented berry juice in peace. He went out in the rain, climbing over and through the fallen trees to sit gazing at the field of stumps. He sat and thought. He saw how an over-turned birds nest kept the ground beneath it dry. He took the nest apart. That night there was no procreating.
Early the next morning he began building a huge upside down birds nest over womans stump. it was warm and dry and they procreated. A lot. The other men heard the procreation. The other women heard the prcreation. After the procreation woman proclaimed loudly how warm and dry the upside birds nest was.
In the ages that followed men rose early to build upside down bird nests. Sometimes we even get to procreate if woman likes the birds nest.
The Information Super-Highway
Many years ago my job required that I obtain access to the internet at home. The company that I had my tractor/trailer leased to was joining the information super-highway and the only way to get loads would be through their website. I was actually pretty excited about this and we acquired a custom built pc and an extra phone line.
It worked out pretty well for the business. There were also some amazing side benefits and some real disappointments. Being a fan of pornography I was delighted with the selections available. I admit that there were times I actually fell asleep waiting for the pictures to load on dial-up but it was cheaper than buying the magazines.
Another perceived benefit were the numerous writers forums that I discovered. At last I felt that I would be able to connect with a group of people who would understand my compulsion to write. I immediately began submitting poems and stories for critiquing on various forums. I should have read some of the forums before I began posting.
Those doing critiques, almost without exception, fell into two general categories. The first group looked for the "hidden" meaning in anything they read. In their world it appeared as if there was no such thing as simple entertainment. There had to be a message or, at least, an insight into the authors personal psychosis in anything that was ever written. They never understood that some people simply like to tell stories.
It worked out pretty well for the business. There were also some amazing side benefits and some real disappointments. Being a fan of pornography I was delighted with the selections available. I admit that there were times I actually fell asleep waiting for the pictures to load on dial-up but it was cheaper than buying the magazines.
Another perceived benefit were the numerous writers forums that I discovered. At last I felt that I would be able to connect with a group of people who would understand my compulsion to write. I immediately began submitting poems and stories for critiquing on various forums. I should have read some of the forums before I began posting.
Those doing critiques, almost without exception, fell into two general categories. The first group looked for the "hidden" meaning in anything they read. In their world it appeared as if there was no such thing as simple entertainment. There had to be a message or, at least, an insight into the authors personal psychosis in anything that was ever written. They never understood that some people simply like to tell stories.
This is only a test
Today's entry is more of a test than anything else. I added a hit counter and a place for my faithful followers to post their comments. Only positive comments will be tolerated. I need the ego boost.
Some of you may not like the turn that this blog will be taking. Too bad, it is my mind and I will use it as I see fit. I will attempt to make social comments disguised as intellectual philosophy. Mostly I will vent and whine.
Some of you may not like the turn that this blog will be taking. Too bad, it is my mind and I will use it as I see fit. I will attempt to make social comments disguised as intellectual philosophy. Mostly I will vent and whine.
Monday, January 5, 2009
What They Don't Tell You About Dentures
A few years back I got tired of paying for my dentists' new car every year and decided that dentures were the answer. Years of neglect, motorcycle crashes, cowboy crashes and hitting fists with my teeth had taken their toll. Caps would no longer stay in place and the thought of one more root canal caused my testicles to retract to where my tonsils once resided.
Appointments were made, pictures taken, referrals made, appointments made and at last I found myself reclining in a chair doing some really, really, really good drugs. All of the teeth were removed at once and the gums were then sewn closed and I awoke at home, drooling on myself with my wife asking if I was ready for my strained carrots. At that point, to stay in character, I soiled my diaper. Who's laughing now, Barb?
The following day the drugs wore off and I began to whine. Barb left early for her job at the prison and I sat pouting. And then my tongue found a thread. Now, I have actually seen the trick where a woman ties a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue and was impressed. Not any longer. Almost of its' own accord my tongue quickly learned to untie a surgeons knot. This in turn quickly led to a feeling as if I had one of those curly little hairs stuck in my mouth.
Midday found me standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to shine a flashlight in my mouth with one hand while the hand that held the scissors tried to clip all the dangling threads. This led eventually to blood on the guest towels, which in turn led, after Barb returned from work, to knots on my head.
Three weeks and several cases of strained carrots later my mouth was healed and it was time for the fitting of dentures. Being the frugal sort, I went to a place called "de Sades' Dentures in a Day". For a mere $300 you wait in a tiny room full of old people until it is your turn, then a cute young thing escorts you to a "fitting room". You get to pick out the color of teeth you want so I chose the ones prestained with nicotine and coffee knowing they would bring out the color of my eyes.
Now the cute young thing smiled and stuck her gloved finger down my throat. Holding back my gag reflex caused my eyes to water and my nose to run. After exploring my rectal cavity from the top side, she chose a plate the size of a Frisbee, slathered it with blue goop and stuffed it in my mouth. I gagged! The Frisbee ejected from my mouth and blue goop covered the cute young thing. She stopped smiling. She also went for help.
Help was a guy with hands the size of a catchers mitt. She slathered goop as he cracked his knuckles and moved to stand behind me. On some signal that I obviously missed, she slammed the plate in my mouth and his hands clamped on the top of my head and my chin. I gagged! He held on. I gagged harder. He held on. I thrashed, snot ran and tears flowed! He held on. I puked! He held on. I swallowed and gagged again. Strained carrots are not very good the second time.
At last he released me, I gasped for breath and she deftly removed the plate. She said, “That wasn't so bad, was it?" I wanted to hit her fist but I had no teeth. I was then told to return in three hours to get my dentures and have them fitted.
The fitting went reasonably well, I only gagged a few times and then I was on my way. Outside I slipped on my helmet and mounted my Suzuki, fired it up, dropped it into gear, forgot to breathe through my nose and and gagged. I popped the clutch, dropped the bike, ripped off my helmet which tore off my glasses, spit the dentures into the grass, and BREATHED. I lay for a while in the grass, savoring the fresh mown smell. Finally, with no dignity whatsoever, I righted the bike, put the dentures in my pocket, strapped on the full face helmet and rode the short distance to Wal-Mart. An open face helmet, I reasoned, would allow me to remove the dentures if I began to gag while riding.
Later that day, cheap helmet in place I headed toward home, zipping along quite nicely, dentures in my mouth, breathing well, getting used to things. A few miles from home I encountered a road patching crew and as I eased past I caught a whiff of tar. And sneezed. The top denture flew out of my mouth and being right handed, I released the throttle to catch it. The bike immediately slowed to a danger level as I slapped the denture rather than catching it, so I let go of the handlebar with my left hand to grab for the plate.
The road crew watched in fascination as I juggled the plate between hands and rode the cruiser into the narrow gap between a dump truck and a front end loader. I captured the flying denture in my left hand just as the bike dropped off the shoulder and into the ditch. I grabbed the grip with my right hand, somehow twisting the throttle, shooting the bike straight down the ditch and into a creek. I managed to get my feet down in the water just as the bike died.
The workmen gathered on the creek bank, watching, and then one blurted out, "What the hell are you doing?”
I casually leaned over, swished the errant plate in the flowing stream, glanced back and said, "Washing my dentures".
October 16, 2007
Appointments were made, pictures taken, referrals made, appointments made and at last I found myself reclining in a chair doing some really, really, really good drugs. All of the teeth were removed at once and the gums were then sewn closed and I awoke at home, drooling on myself with my wife asking if I was ready for my strained carrots. At that point, to stay in character, I soiled my diaper. Who's laughing now, Barb?
The following day the drugs wore off and I began to whine. Barb left early for her job at the prison and I sat pouting. And then my tongue found a thread. Now, I have actually seen the trick where a woman ties a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue and was impressed. Not any longer. Almost of its' own accord my tongue quickly learned to untie a surgeons knot. This in turn quickly led to a feeling as if I had one of those curly little hairs stuck in my mouth.
Midday found me standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to shine a flashlight in my mouth with one hand while the hand that held the scissors tried to clip all the dangling threads. This led eventually to blood on the guest towels, which in turn led, after Barb returned from work, to knots on my head.
Three weeks and several cases of strained carrots later my mouth was healed and it was time for the fitting of dentures. Being the frugal sort, I went to a place called "de Sades' Dentures in a Day". For a mere $300 you wait in a tiny room full of old people until it is your turn, then a cute young thing escorts you to a "fitting room". You get to pick out the color of teeth you want so I chose the ones prestained with nicotine and coffee knowing they would bring out the color of my eyes.
Now the cute young thing smiled and stuck her gloved finger down my throat. Holding back my gag reflex caused my eyes to water and my nose to run. After exploring my rectal cavity from the top side, she chose a plate the size of a Frisbee, slathered it with blue goop and stuffed it in my mouth. I gagged! The Frisbee ejected from my mouth and blue goop covered the cute young thing. She stopped smiling. She also went for help.
Help was a guy with hands the size of a catchers mitt. She slathered goop as he cracked his knuckles and moved to stand behind me. On some signal that I obviously missed, she slammed the plate in my mouth and his hands clamped on the top of my head and my chin. I gagged! He held on. I gagged harder. He held on. I thrashed, snot ran and tears flowed! He held on. I puked! He held on. I swallowed and gagged again. Strained carrots are not very good the second time.
At last he released me, I gasped for breath and she deftly removed the plate. She said, “That wasn't so bad, was it?" I wanted to hit her fist but I had no teeth. I was then told to return in three hours to get my dentures and have them fitted.
The fitting went reasonably well, I only gagged a few times and then I was on my way. Outside I slipped on my helmet and mounted my Suzuki, fired it up, dropped it into gear, forgot to breathe through my nose and and gagged. I popped the clutch, dropped the bike, ripped off my helmet which tore off my glasses, spit the dentures into the grass, and BREATHED. I lay for a while in the grass, savoring the fresh mown smell. Finally, with no dignity whatsoever, I righted the bike, put the dentures in my pocket, strapped on the full face helmet and rode the short distance to Wal-Mart. An open face helmet, I reasoned, would allow me to remove the dentures if I began to gag while riding.
Later that day, cheap helmet in place I headed toward home, zipping along quite nicely, dentures in my mouth, breathing well, getting used to things. A few miles from home I encountered a road patching crew and as I eased past I caught a whiff of tar. And sneezed. The top denture flew out of my mouth and being right handed, I released the throttle to catch it. The bike immediately slowed to a danger level as I slapped the denture rather than catching it, so I let go of the handlebar with my left hand to grab for the plate.
The road crew watched in fascination as I juggled the plate between hands and rode the cruiser into the narrow gap between a dump truck and a front end loader. I captured the flying denture in my left hand just as the bike dropped off the shoulder and into the ditch. I grabbed the grip with my right hand, somehow twisting the throttle, shooting the bike straight down the ditch and into a creek. I managed to get my feet down in the water just as the bike died.
The workmen gathered on the creek bank, watching, and then one blurted out, "What the hell are you doing?”
I casually leaned over, swished the errant plate in the flowing stream, glanced back and said, "Washing my dentures".
October 16, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
