Out of the ashes of Iraq come soldiers dressed in fatigues of fire Wearing helmets secured in smoke They've choked off the lies spewed out of the mouth of a burning bush
The true warrior's existing wake
Who's flames burned them at the stake
Cremated their bodies
And stuffed them in an urn wrapped in red, white, and blue....
Rummaging through a forest set ablaze by one lethal match
With witty catch phrases forever attached to the side of their kingdom
Operation Iraqi Freedom
Links to Al Qaeda
Eminent threats
And weapons of mass destruction.....
They've been skillfully thrown into the lion's den
Out of the frying pan and into the furnace
Their courage exceeds any measuring stick
But they can hear the footsteps of death creeping around the corner
For they've been led into the eye of the storm
Transformed into peacekeepers
Lending a helping hand for the poorly planned post-war strategy......
Friday, September 30, 2005
Livestrong ride
Thought you might want to hear about the Livestrong ride.
Notice the two spikes in the elevation chart. Those are known as “ball-breakers”. Ergo, one for each testicle. I didn’t do 100 miles cause I didn’t reach the 2nd loop turn-off in time. Probably just as well. They started people in different groups. I was in lane 7 and started about 45 minutes after lane 1. Also, had a flat and almost all the remaining 100 milers passed me while I was fixing it. When I left Bald peak, the second spike, there were only two other riders.
However, when I got back on the 40 mile course there were still lots of riders, some the 100 milers that had done the other loop and slow 40 and 70 milers. I did 74 miles, plus pegged another 4 miles looking for my car on the Nike campus where all buildings and parking lots look the same. Never saw Lance, but I heard him, or else someone that sounds like him. He gave a little speech. The only thing I remember was he said something about sperm donation, and now I wonder if that had to do with the two climbs on the route. I fear my sperm production is katrina-ed.
I think I might have had a better time if I could have ridden Lance’s bike.
After the ride, they had a concession area next to the Lance Armstrong Center. I didn’t see Lance or George Hincapie or Eddie Merx. They were greeting the cancer survivors who finished the ride. I did get to tour the Center, but they wouldn’t let me swim in Lance’s pool.
The Nike campus is impressive. There were security people all over and I thought I shouldn’t touch anything, lest I smudge the patina of corporate power. It reminded me of the setting of the movie “Scanners”.
All said, it was a fun ride and well supported. I didn’t get to have a heavy rap with Lance, but I did meet some nice people on the ride.
Next year?
Bill
Friday, September 16, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Hemingway's Operative Report
The other day I took a book with me into the OR to read between cases. It was a book of Hemingway's comments on writing. There were frequent comparisons to lovemaking and war and good clarets and lots of gutsy existentialism. Then I thought about the mindless writing of medical documents and wondered how Papa would have dictated an appendectomy.
HEMINGWAY'S OPERATIVE REPORT
The steel went out of her eyes as they ran the juice into her. Steel. It was a man's metal, not like zinc or molybdenum. Her sleep came on like the dreamless fog of a good claret. I grasped the knife, the dog of a knife, and cut into her. Was it her skin or mine that I cut? Did it really matter? Layers were divided. We are nothing but layers, and when the last layer is gone there is nothing. Yes, there was blood. There is always blood. Her blood reminded me of a certain vineyard in the Alsace, where the blood of battle could not be separated from the blood of the grapes and all was the harvest of cannon and madness. They said the bottling that year was the purest vintage anyone could remember. It was like drinking the tears of the Madonna, they said, and it brought on both joy and sadness, though none would touch it and the bottles cried in their caves degustation till they ran to vinegar. With my finger curled in the shape of a milk white thigh, like the thigh of a certain girl, no she was a woman, but she fooled all the pining lads in the village, who would have died for her for less than a kiss, but she had no desire to harvest the lives of fools, for she was a woman even at that age, I brought the diseased old man, whose name means less than nothing, into the light that was no longer dark. One tie and a purse string, made of moth's vomit, were all it took to bring him down. He did not beg, for he was one who had lived and he had no fear of death. Death to him was like the swirl of a good Pernod sweating down the side of Alsatian crystal on a night when Hatchet Jim came back with a fresh load of Cubanos and the table stakes occasionally contained a woman's name. We parted friends and that is the best way and maybe the only way, since any other parting is not that at all. With the final layer closed, the soft, sad one that hides everything and yet speaks every language known to man, I stood, or did I sit, and with the urge that was obsession only to myself, I began to write, for writing, as lovemaking, can truly begin only when there is nothing left to say.
HEMINGWAY'S OPERATIVE REPORT
The steel went out of her eyes as they ran the juice into her. Steel. It was a man's metal, not like zinc or molybdenum. Her sleep came on like the dreamless fog of a good claret. I grasped the knife, the dog of a knife, and cut into her. Was it her skin or mine that I cut? Did it really matter? Layers were divided. We are nothing but layers, and when the last layer is gone there is nothing. Yes, there was blood. There is always blood. Her blood reminded me of a certain vineyard in the Alsace, where the blood of battle could not be separated from the blood of the grapes and all was the harvest of cannon and madness. They said the bottling that year was the purest vintage anyone could remember. It was like drinking the tears of the Madonna, they said, and it brought on both joy and sadness, though none would touch it and the bottles cried in their caves degustation till they ran to vinegar. With my finger curled in the shape of a milk white thigh, like the thigh of a certain girl, no she was a woman, but she fooled all the pining lads in the village, who would have died for her for less than a kiss, but she had no desire to harvest the lives of fools, for she was a woman even at that age, I brought the diseased old man, whose name means less than nothing, into the light that was no longer dark. One tie and a purse string, made of moth's vomit, were all it took to bring him down. He did not beg, for he was one who had lived and he had no fear of death. Death to him was like the swirl of a good Pernod sweating down the side of Alsatian crystal on a night when Hatchet Jim came back with a fresh load of Cubanos and the table stakes occasionally contained a woman's name. We parted friends and that is the best way and maybe the only way, since any other parting is not that at all. With the final layer closed, the soft, sad one that hides everything and yet speaks every language known to man, I stood, or did I sit, and with the urge that was obsession only to myself, I began to write, for writing, as lovemaking, can truly begin only when there is nothing left to say.
The Samaritan
The Samaritan
Here’s what happened.
I had no cases on a Tuesday. The weather prediction was “sunny”, though a dense fog came around at night and was still hovering in the morning. Usually, the valley fog here in Oregon burns off to give sun.
So, I decide to take a ride, a bike ride, down the Upper Clackamas. It’s a ride I usually do in the summer, since there are no facilities for the 25 miles to the Ripplebrook Ranger Station, except in summer the marina’s open and I can get Gatorade and burritos. Once, I ran out of water and had to drink from a waterfall. But, I have a fanny pack that holds two water bottles, plus the one on the bike and I think I’ll be OK.
When I take my bike off the hooks in the garage, the rear tire is flat. I change the tube and it holds air. Hmmm. I drive to Estacada and the tire is still tight.
The three-mile hill out of Estacada goes fine, though the tire seems a little splayed. Then, the downhill where it drops into the river gorge of the Clackamas. It’s a picture postcard right after the crest with the river winding blue through the big forest canyon and a Montana sky above.
The marina is closed. Fine. I have the three water bottles and a tasty steelhead pita sandwich in the fanny pack. Also, have my Ipod. Me, myself and Ipod.
At mile 36.5 (Estacada is mile 25) there are road crews and a woman flagger where the big slide happened last week. But, it’s open. I stop to take the plastic bags off my socks since it’s getting warm. The cattle dog in the woman’s truck barks fiercely, but when I talk to it, it sits down behind the door. She tells me it’s a “red” and her husband is at the truck on the other side with their other heeler, a “blue”. I tell her about the two cattle dogs that always chase me on the climb up to Sandy. They run right out on the highway. The last time I went there, they were gone. She says they don’t recommend bikes going through since there are big rocks on the road. I say, “It doesn’t bother me.” There are always big rocks cracking off the basalt cliffs in the canyon.
So, the tire seems to be holding and I cruise into the flats by the river. Soon I’ll see kayakers. They road trends upward since it’s upriver, but you don’t really notice it until you come back and realize you’re riding faster.
I’m at twenty miles and looking for the hill before the ranger station. It warms so I pulled over to shed the Lycra.
The back tire is spongy. Shite. I take out the tube and inflate it and find the leak. I had checked the inner tire in my garage, but now I know where to look and sure enough there is a razor thin rock sliver, about 3 millimeters, in the tire. I get it out with my knife and put the spare tube in. It seems OK. Soon as I saddle I know it’s bad. Total flat. OK, patch kit.
I find the leak in the first tube and sand the rubber. I pull off the glue cap with my teeth. All the glue is dried. Old kit. Defeat.
The first car that passes is a shiny Subaru and it doesn’t even slow. Maybe my cycling glasses make me look sinister. The next car, an old dust-brown Fairlane pulls over.
He looks Mexican, but says “ju”, so I think, maybe Cuban, but, no, he is from Mexico City. The speed limit is 40, but he drives between 10 and 15 mph. Sometimes a car passes and sometimes he pulls over. He is driving down the river to enjoy nature. “I like seeing the nature.”
There are bible quotes stuck all over the car. I relax.
I remember the drive from Vera Cruz to Mexico in Rube’s old truck. “This area looks a lot like the mountains between Vera Cruz and Mexico City,” I say.
“You know Vera Cruz?”
“Well, we stayed in a little place called Tuxpan.”
His voice rises. “You know Tuxpan? My mother lived very near there. The river runs into the ocean.”
“Yes, I remember that. There was a white sand beach that went for miles with no one, except a few horses.”
He smiles.
I tell him how we all got sick in a restaurant. He tells me how he always gets sick when he comes back from Mexico to the U.S.
I tell him the story of my flats. He tells me how he got a flat once taking a short cut from Highway 26 to the Clackamas through Timothy Lake. “You don’t have to go through Sandy.”
I’m curious. It would be quicker to stay on the highway. That’s a very long short cut, I think, over a lot of rough dirt road, but then I remember he likes to drive through nature and I get it.
He tells me someone stopped to help him fix his flat. It seems life is balancing.
After a while, he asks me if I read the Bible.
“Sure.”
“How did God make the Red Sea open? How could he do that?"
I say, “Maybe an earthquake.”
He looks puzzled.
“You know, the land comes up.”
Still puzzled.
“Well, what I’d like to know is how they walked across that. It must have been thick mud, you know, a total swamp.”
Still puzzled. Brow wrinkles.
“You know, there’s no roads on the bottom of the ocean.”
Finally, he laughs a little.
I ask him if he knows Luis, my neighbor, who owns three Mexican restaurants, all named Cha Cha Cha.
“Cha cha cha,” he says very rapidly. Then, he pauses. “I don’t know him.” He pauses. “The Mexican restaurants are becoming very popular.”
We climb up the hill at 12 mph. He says, “You ride up this hill? It’s a big hill.”
“Yes, but then I get to cruise down the other side all the way to Estacada.”
It turns out his name is also Luis and we marvel at the coincidence. I buy him a Gatorade and chips at the market and invite him to share lunch on my tailgate. Suddenly he says, “Amigo, I have to get going,” and launches into an explanation.
“No problem. You were very nice to pick me up.”
We shake hands. “Con Dios,” I say.
His grin is wide now. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
Here’s what happened.
I had no cases on a Tuesday. The weather prediction was “sunny”, though a dense fog came around at night and was still hovering in the morning. Usually, the valley fog here in Oregon burns off to give sun.
So, I decide to take a ride, a bike ride, down the Upper Clackamas. It’s a ride I usually do in the summer, since there are no facilities for the 25 miles to the Ripplebrook Ranger Station, except in summer the marina’s open and I can get Gatorade and burritos. Once, I ran out of water and had to drink from a waterfall. But, I have a fanny pack that holds two water bottles, plus the one on the bike and I think I’ll be OK.
When I take my bike off the hooks in the garage, the rear tire is flat. I change the tube and it holds air. Hmmm. I drive to Estacada and the tire is still tight.
The three-mile hill out of Estacada goes fine, though the tire seems a little splayed. Then, the downhill where it drops into the river gorge of the Clackamas. It’s a picture postcard right after the crest with the river winding blue through the big forest canyon and a Montana sky above.
The marina is closed. Fine. I have the three water bottles and a tasty steelhead pita sandwich in the fanny pack. Also, have my Ipod. Me, myself and Ipod.
At mile 36.5 (Estacada is mile 25) there are road crews and a woman flagger where the big slide happened last week. But, it’s open. I stop to take the plastic bags off my socks since it’s getting warm. The cattle dog in the woman’s truck barks fiercely, but when I talk to it, it sits down behind the door. She tells me it’s a “red” and her husband is at the truck on the other side with their other heeler, a “blue”. I tell her about the two cattle dogs that always chase me on the climb up to Sandy. They run right out on the highway. The last time I went there, they were gone. She says they don’t recommend bikes going through since there are big rocks on the road. I say, “It doesn’t bother me.” There are always big rocks cracking off the basalt cliffs in the canyon.
So, the tire seems to be holding and I cruise into the flats by the river. Soon I’ll see kayakers. They road trends upward since it’s upriver, but you don’t really notice it until you come back and realize you’re riding faster.
I’m at twenty miles and looking for the hill before the ranger station. It warms so I pulled over to shed the Lycra.
The back tire is spongy. Shite. I take out the tube and inflate it and find the leak. I had checked the inner tire in my garage, but now I know where to look and sure enough there is a razor thin rock sliver, about 3 millimeters, in the tire. I get it out with my knife and put the spare tube in. It seems OK. Soon as I saddle I know it’s bad. Total flat. OK, patch kit.
I find the leak in the first tube and sand the rubber. I pull off the glue cap with my teeth. All the glue is dried. Old kit. Defeat.
The first car that passes is a shiny Subaru and it doesn’t even slow. Maybe my cycling glasses make me look sinister. The next car, an old dust-brown Fairlane pulls over.
He looks Mexican, but says “ju”, so I think, maybe Cuban, but, no, he is from Mexico City. The speed limit is 40, but he drives between 10 and 15 mph. Sometimes a car passes and sometimes he pulls over. He is driving down the river to enjoy nature. “I like seeing the nature.”
There are bible quotes stuck all over the car. I relax.
I remember the drive from Vera Cruz to Mexico in Rube’s old truck. “This area looks a lot like the mountains between Vera Cruz and Mexico City,” I say.
“You know Vera Cruz?”
“Well, we stayed in a little place called Tuxpan.”
His voice rises. “You know Tuxpan? My mother lived very near there. The river runs into the ocean.”
“Yes, I remember that. There was a white sand beach that went for miles with no one, except a few horses.”
He smiles.
I tell him how we all got sick in a restaurant. He tells me how he always gets sick when he comes back from Mexico to the U.S.
I tell him the story of my flats. He tells me how he got a flat once taking a short cut from Highway 26 to the Clackamas through Timothy Lake. “You don’t have to go through Sandy.”
I’m curious. It would be quicker to stay on the highway. That’s a very long short cut, I think, over a lot of rough dirt road, but then I remember he likes to drive through nature and I get it.
He tells me someone stopped to help him fix his flat. It seems life is balancing.
After a while, he asks me if I read the Bible.
“Sure.”
“How did God make the Red Sea open? How could he do that?"
I say, “Maybe an earthquake.”
He looks puzzled.
“You know, the land comes up.”
Still puzzled.
“Well, what I’d like to know is how they walked across that. It must have been thick mud, you know, a total swamp.”
Still puzzled. Brow wrinkles.
“You know, there’s no roads on the bottom of the ocean.”
Finally, he laughs a little.
I ask him if he knows Luis, my neighbor, who owns three Mexican restaurants, all named Cha Cha Cha.
“Cha cha cha,” he says very rapidly. Then, he pauses. “I don’t know him.” He pauses. “The Mexican restaurants are becoming very popular.”
We climb up the hill at 12 mph. He says, “You ride up this hill? It’s a big hill.”
“Yes, but then I get to cruise down the other side all the way to Estacada.”
It turns out his name is also Luis and we marvel at the coincidence. I buy him a Gatorade and chips at the market and invite him to share lunch on my tailgate. Suddenly he says, “Amigo, I have to get going,” and launches into an explanation.
“No problem. You were very nice to pick me up.”
We shake hands. “Con Dios,” I say.
His grin is wide now. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
Movie Review
Review: The Aristocrats
Pat enticed me to go to this movie, which I hadn’t heard of. He gave me a short intro before the reel rolled. I’ve just read some reviews, which were all sub-rave positive. My take? If you’re trying to establish or maintain the image that you are a sophisticated intellectual, who can see beyond the social prison imposed by conventional morality, tell your listeners you really liked this movie. Say you now have a deep understanding of comedians and what makes them tick. If your self-image, like mine, is pleasantly fermenting in a landfill, protected by an acid stench that only certain birds will penetrate, feel free to groan and let that groan turn into a mantra that takes you beyond the sad comedy of this clubby documentary. I did laugh a few times, but mostly mildewed as the reservist roster of PROMINENT COMEDIANS OF OUR TIME let us into their inner sanctum by reciting their oh-so-creative versions of this anally retentive non-joke. It’s the comedian version of jock bravado. We’re so brave we let the vile-adolescent-in-us-all out to play. Hey public, if you were that brave, you’d get to sell tickets to the schmucks and tell this joke backstage, because only true pros can handle this genitalia. Maybe it’s the climate here in the rainy Pacific Northwest that makes me cynical. Maybe if I still lived in Arizona or moved to L.A. the sunshine would allow me to appreciate even the faintest entertainments. Ah, Kurt Cobain. Now there’s a funny fucking story.
Pat enticed me to go to this movie, which I hadn’t heard of. He gave me a short intro before the reel rolled. I’ve just read some reviews, which were all sub-rave positive. My take? If you’re trying to establish or maintain the image that you are a sophisticated intellectual, who can see beyond the social prison imposed by conventional morality, tell your listeners you really liked this movie. Say you now have a deep understanding of comedians and what makes them tick. If your self-image, like mine, is pleasantly fermenting in a landfill, protected by an acid stench that only certain birds will penetrate, feel free to groan and let that groan turn into a mantra that takes you beyond the sad comedy of this clubby documentary. I did laugh a few times, but mostly mildewed as the reservist roster of PROMINENT COMEDIANS OF OUR TIME let us into their inner sanctum by reciting their oh-so-creative versions of this anally retentive non-joke. It’s the comedian version of jock bravado. We’re so brave we let the vile-adolescent-in-us-all out to play. Hey public, if you were that brave, you’d get to sell tickets to the schmucks and tell this joke backstage, because only true pros can handle this genitalia. Maybe it’s the climate here in the rainy Pacific Northwest that makes me cynical. Maybe if I still lived in Arizona or moved to L.A. the sunshine would allow me to appreciate even the faintest entertainments. Ah, Kurt Cobain. Now there’s a funny fucking story.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
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