Alternative Surgery |1:41 PM|
Yesterday was my 90 day review, a wee bit late. It went tremendously well, and though I couldn't be given a raise until December (corporate policy), my boss arranged for me to get a bonus. This is incredible, I've never gotten a bonus after a review, even after terrific ones. I wonder how my boss would react if he knew I spent a good portion of the cash on replacement bars for my nipple piercings. Newer metal, with less nickel, and a bit longer. A day later and I can already tell the difference. But enough about nipples, especially un-exciting male ones.
I was discussing airline safety concerns with a friend the other day, and I brought up that there are cases where you'd want a knife or blade on the plane, such as emergency tracheotomies. Granted, this is not a common concern on a plane, but if a medical professional says "Great, I need a hole in this dude's throat because I can't get that ping pong ball out. If he goes without oxygen much longer he'll be even dumber than when he started.", it probably has to happen in a hurry.
Thing is, he'll have better luck gnawing a hole into the dude's windpipe than he will using what few simple tools he'll be able to fashion on board. Conceivably, he could break the glass on a laptop screen and do that, just be careful of the mercury. It was brought up that there might be air marshals on the plane, and that they will have guns. It would take some pretty intensive training to be able to use the ceramic bullets those guns fire to poke an air passage through a guy's neck. "Sir? Sir? I need you to lie PERFECTLY still."
I could certainly see some adaptations of this for emergency appendectomies as well.
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Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Later, gator. |12:53 PM|
The other day I was discussing Alligators and their distress calls with a couple of friends. From my understanding, any alligator, male or female, who hears the distress cry of an infant alligator will respond, and with aggression.
I had this idea, for a murder mystery scenario, what if you got your hands on someone's cell phone, and changed one of the custom ringtones to the distress cry? Now all you have to do is get them near some alligators, and call them. Even if the cops found enough chunks to ID the guy, they'd just assume he pissed off the wrong Alligator mississippiensis.
There was something else I meant to bring up, but I totally forgot. Here is the sound of baby alligators asking for help. alligatordistress.mp3
Don't play this at the zoo.
Update: Now I remember. I wanted to let you folks know about a mnemonic device I came up with, for dealing with alligator attacks. Here's the thing, if you're confronted with what you think may be a coral snake, and you're trying to remember if it's red on yellow, harm a fellow, or if it's black on red, no friend of jack, here's an idea, get the fuck away from the goddamn snake. You're a human, you've got thumbs. Get a rock and throw it at the goddamn thing if for some reason you need to fuck around with what might be a deadly snake. I dunno, maybe it's between you and the fire exit and the hotel is burning down. Maybe it's on top of the neighbor's phone and you have to report a gas leak. Anyhow, my mnemonic device is the other way around, you're not going to have time to think of it if the situation comes up. It's for escaping from alligators, as they can run at up to 30 miles an hour, but only in a straight line. So, zig zag, don't get snagged. Problem is, if a goddamn prehistoric monster comes at you, running 30 miles an hour, fronting a biological bear trap, you're not really going to be in a state of mind conducive to remembering cute rhymes. I'm pretty sure the only rhyme that would be passing through my mind is "FUCK. FUCK A DUCK."
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Monday, March 13, 2006
A river rock runs from it |11:02 PM|
This is a post about rocks. My head is filled with them.
My girlfriend, her roommate, the roommate's boyfriend, and a mutual friend went to a place called "Uchi" the other night. Goddamn, I must have spent $30 alone on one kind of sushi, but it was worth every penny. The total for the evening was some staggering amount of money, that I don't even want to type lest I suffer a wallet related aneurysm. The more notable part of the evening (for me, at least) was the appetizer I ordered, or more to a point, the way it was prepared. I've been to places that let you cook your own meat at the table, that's nothing special. This was all about the presentation, the method. They serve a (fantastic) cut of raw meat, and provide you with a salted, 800 degree flat river rock "from Japan". You sear the meat on this rock, which is sitting on salt and small pebbles, and it's hot enough to cook meat for about 5 minutes or so. It was amazing, and straightforward. Did they actually go to the trouble of importing a damn rock from Japan? I don't care, it was still innovative and surprising. The dish was called, naturally enough, "Hot Rock". Who'd have thought you could take the chore of cooking your own meal, add a dangerously heated rock, and voila, $7 that I was happy to spend.
While I was dropping Wonderlust off at Cas's place a couple weeks back, I walked past what could have likely become a "Domestic Disturbance". There was a dude who I judged by his cover (White trash as all get out), a very young girl probably about 8, standing in front of a door that opened just as I walked by. The dude asked quickly of the woman that had partially emerged from behind the door "Can we talk?" With a hint of both aggression and frustration in his voice.
The woman, who I saw only briefly, had that tired, sallow look, hair pulled back, dressed in a bathrobe and clothes that barely ranked above pajamas. She recognized the guy and the look on her face spoke volumes. Surprise, anger, a little fear, and this strange kind of frustration, I'd get that look of frustration if I found out that after having my leg broken once, the doctors were going to have to do it again. A much more minor version of that "I have to put up with this BULLSHIT again?" feeling that villages being attacked by Vikings again might have felt. As I headed towards the elevator I heard the little girl say "Mommy!" Stretching the y sound to make it clear she was excited and hadn't seen her in a while.
This was a bad scene.
I got to the first floor (they were on the second) and lacking a phone with which to call the cops if it got ugly, I looked around for a brick. I was hoping a nice solid chunk of masonry would be handy for my plan. My plan was, hang around for a few minutes, if things started to sound ugly for Mrs. "I keep my bissel power steamer outside of my house for some reason", I would throw the brick at the dude, yell some truly clever remark, and run like my ass was on fire.
I continued to look for a proper brick when I found a big pile of river rocks. Someone had gone to the trouble of erecting a strange concrete planter-thingy in the center of Cas's complex, and part of the ornamentation were these very smooth, very pretty stones, that also happened to be the perfect size for throwing at a redneck. If you asked a master rock craftsman to make the rock you needed to toss at the head of someone you wanted to distract, he'd probably say "I don't fucking exist, idiot." but it's possible he'd give you a rock like this. I gave up on trying to come up with a witty comment to go with throwing the rock, something like "Tally-ho, why not tangle with someone who doesn't regard you as a monument to every wrong thing they did in their life!" It was probably going to have to be "HEY FUCK-O!". Luckily by this time it sounded as though the argument was winding down a bit, and I mosey'd off.
I would probably have forgotten this anti-climatic tale if I hadn't left the damn rock at my girlfriend's place. I don't want to just toss it out, but bringing it all the way back to Cas seems an awful waste. Hopefully there isn't some Hawaiian curse on the damn thing.
SXSW |4:42 AM|
I just got back from the post-screening festivities. An official selection of the South By Southwest film festival, no less.
Of course, the movie was about a disease. A disease causing poultry to tear its way out of people's asses. High art indeed.
Laughter is welcome, but it is still an "Official Selection". We get to use the seal and everything. My director submitted a bunch of films to Reel Women, among them a cheesy romance, an experimental horror movie, some other film, and chicken ass. The woman in charge of Reel Women was up in Dallas showing her sick mother the selections on a DVD player, and when they reached our film they "keeled over laughing". I assume when they described the keeling over, it was not actually lethal. The mother insisted that the movie be in the festival, and the family has apparently been talking about it all day.
Bitchin'.
The movie also got into "Horror Dance" down in Houston, so I might travel down there for gripping and grinning, glad-handing, networking, power-lunching, all that manner of grabass-ery.