Fridays Can Suck
I'm not one to list the events of my day on my LJ, not normally. Unless there's a story or two, of course.
First story. As many of you know I drive a transit bus for a living. Happily, I don't often get notes from my passengers, especially notes that read "man sitting behind you with the big knife he make me nervous."
Here it is, a beautiful Friday morning, and now I am made aware of a nervous making guy right behind me with a big knife?
Sure enough, I glance to my right to see one of my regulars staring strangely at people and wielding an open knife with at least a five inch blade. Oh, did I mention this regular has some obvious mental or emotional problems?
Great.
I'm pretty tolerant. I really am. Some of the drivers I know get freaked out about the silliest things. So I thought about this one. I've been known to stare at people strangely, usually when I am off in some mental la-la land completely unrelated to my surroundings. I have also been known to play with knives.
But not in public.
I thought about just asking him to put the damn knife away, but then I got . . . . How do I explain it?
I got the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was psyching himself out for something else, something I never really consider.
Mark McLaughlin
1954-1998
I see this guy's picture all over all the bases. As this link explains, driving a bus is not always just stabbing the pedals and steering.
Speaking of stabbing. . . .
My morbid thoughts were obviously going through more than my head. Through the passenger mirror, I saw the wary, wide-eyed faces all keeping that damned knife in their sights.
Fine. It's go time.
We drivers have a Secret Emergency Button. It's not big and red. It's not even visible. But once a driver presses it, Loud Bells and Whistles and Big Red Lights can be heard and seen at headquarters.
In about 30 seconds, I get a call on my little hand-held communicator. I simply say, "Police requested," in a soft, calm voice.
"What's the problem?"
"Things are a little close to say." He was in the seat right next to my kidney, fer crying in the night.
"Can I confirm if there is a weapon involved?"
"Affirmative," I say, again in a soft soothing voice . . . that is increasingly difficult to maintain with my testicles ascending to my throat.
I drive. I keep glancing in the mirror at the faces I can see without turning around. If one of them flinches, I think, I'll just jam the brakes a bit, then floor it. It's hard to accurately thrust a knife perpendicular to the path of a vehicle that fluctuates wildly in speed.
Finally, traffic comes to a stop at a light. In my mirrors comes a patrol car with lights blazing, no siren, skidding in his lane. That cop must have been doing 80. Sweet. It only took them 2 minutes. This was looking up.
I set my brake and flashers, checking out the cop with gun drawn (double sweet!) telling the two cars behind me not to fucking move.
Now I realize a conundrum. I confirmed a weapon. Weapons can go bang, too. That's why Officer Friendly is at the back of my coach 60 feet away, peering forward and wondering how safe things are.
My bad. I should have been more specific.
I unbuckle, stand calmly, and open the door. Drivers sometimes have to leave their coaches to check tire pressure or check lug nuts or take a whiz. Happens all the time. I calmly mention I'll be "right back."
Half the witnesses give me a "oh, sure, leave me with this fucker!" look. The other half aren't thinking that far ahead.
I wave the cops forward (another patrol car has joined the party), and point to the back of Stabby McGee's head.
I walk back on, followed by police and a bunch of confusion.
Folks, let me assure you, if you find yourself picking the dirt out of your nails with a big-ass blade, don't do it in front of a cop.
Guns were pointed directly at the chest. A struggle ensued, simply because this moron didn't realize threatening cops with a knife was a Bad Thing. They had to physically take the damn thing out of his hands.
He was cuffed and escorted out. Nothing left but the paperwork.
And to try to coax my balls out of my throat, of course.
Addendum, June 1: After being processed through the police system, Mr. McGee (not his real name, I know, but I kinda like the name "Stabby McGee") has been returned to Western State Hospital, the main treatment/isolation facility in the State. He has also been forcibly reintroduced to his medications.
After fun at work, I had to consider that my wife is not only sick, no one in the medical community knows what ails her.
Sadly, it's true. Her first problem took a while to diagnose. Ever heard of celiac? Essentially, anyone with celiac must stop eating any wheat, barley, oats or spelt. I swear they threw spelt in the list just so people can ask, "What the fuck is spelt?"
Anyhoo, if they continue to ingest those evil, evil grains, a protein called gluten will aggravate the intestines, causing scarring of the instestinal celia (hence the name) and a raft of other painful shit, like scalloping of the duodenum. Nice.
As a result of this diagnosis a few years ago, we have a freezer and several cupboards filled with the wife's preferred goodies. Pastas and pizzas, cookies and snacks, all concocted without a grain of wheat, and therefore all purchased at Very Great Expense. About six months ago, further tests revealed that almonds and sesame seeds were to be added to the verboten list.
Luckily, I have a wife that deplores feeling ill. If she has to take a pill at one a.m. on a full stomach, she will rise at oh-dark-thirty to wolf down some grub for pill time. If she has to stand on one leg and recite Coleridge's Xanadu before the pill, you may bet your ass she will weave a circle 'round her thrice and close her eyes in holy dread before injesting the prescribed honeydew. Every time.
So about three months ago, all health hell breaks loose. To make a long story short, no one has a clue as to the cause. . . except me.
I notice about a month ago that her symptoms worsen after she eats, and really worsen when she eats any starches. Starches, folks, can be found in grains and tubers. Wheat is a starch, as are barley, oats and spelt. They are not alone in the starchy category, though. There are potatoes. Corn. Rice. Tapioca. Furthermore, in crafty combinations non-gluten flours made from these other starches can be mixed and coaxed into very wheat-like pastas and pizzas, cookies and snacks.
Just for fun, I tell her to lay off, well, all starches.
It works. She nearly recovers.
Explaining that to the now six doctors trying to recognize something familiar in her ailment, though, is like slapping smarts into a dog. Can't be done. The dog stays dumb, gets pissed and your hand hurts.
Does anyone out there know what ailment reacts poorly to starch? Anyone?
For my next story, I do have some more uplifting news concerning intestinal worms. I recently posted about health, autoimune disease and hygeine. Essentially, a new group of medical professionals out there theorizes that our lack of parasites common throughout human and pre-human existance may cause the body distress. Think of an army during peacetime, a bunch of heavily armed people trained to kill and capture but given nothing to kill, nothing to capture.
When faced with no parasites to repel, the body attacks itself. After all, the likelihood of a parasite-free individual in even our most recent past was almost nil. We lacked the hygeine and the knowledge of how these critters like to reproduce. Therefore, a parasite "free" zone was to an active immune system just the presence of a parasite that has learned to evade detection. The system goes to defcon 11, and attacks elements of the body that hosts it.
One of my wife's doctors is not a total tool. She doesn't breeze in the exam room with your chart, flip it open for the first time that day, glance at his notes and ask airily "How are you feeling?" No, when you have an appointment, you get the hour you paid for. The full hour. You talk about your care in depth, exploring standard medicines and treatments, as well as naturalpathic ones. No prejudices.
Since I was the one who made the starch connection, I tagged along for the chat. My wife's medicine has made her loopy and unable to always remember to mention inportant details. I was her backup.
Ever since I read that passage in Zimmer's Parasite Rex, though, I have found myself on a mission to spread the word of this new theory. I've become a bit of a bore about it, I know.
I offer no apologies. I feel this path is the most promising, the one most likely to make my wife healthy once more.
So I told the doctor about the helminth worm study at the University of Iowa. I told her about the remission rate for the Crohn's and colitis patients.
Far from scoffing, she told us about an herbal treatment for colitis she gave to one of her patients, a treatment from China, an efficacious treatment for an incurable disease . . . a treatment that contains ground earthworms.
True, earthworms are in a different phylum than the most common intestinal parasites; but maybe the body doesn't know that. Maybe to an imune system, a worm's a worm's a worm.
That was the bright moment in my Friday of unusual events. It's nice to know I might be moving along on a theory that can help countless people, especially and including my own wife.
After the doc, I took a four-hour nap.
First story. As many of you know I drive a transit bus for a living. Happily, I don't often get notes from my passengers, especially notes that read "man sitting behind you with the big knife he make me nervous."
Here it is, a beautiful Friday morning, and now I am made aware of a nervous making guy right behind me with a big knife?
Sure enough, I glance to my right to see one of my regulars staring strangely at people and wielding an open knife with at least a five inch blade. Oh, did I mention this regular has some obvious mental or emotional problems?
Great.
I'm pretty tolerant. I really am. Some of the drivers I know get freaked out about the silliest things. So I thought about this one. I've been known to stare at people strangely, usually when I am off in some mental la-la land completely unrelated to my surroundings. I have also been known to play with knives.
But not in public.
I thought about just asking him to put the damn knife away, but then I got . . . . How do I explain it?
I got the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was psyching himself out for something else, something I never really consider.
Mark McLaughlin
1954-1998
I see this guy's picture all over all the bases. As this link explains, driving a bus is not always just stabbing the pedals and steering.
Speaking of stabbing. . . .
My morbid thoughts were obviously going through more than my head. Through the passenger mirror, I saw the wary, wide-eyed faces all keeping that damned knife in their sights.
Fine. It's go time.
We drivers have a Secret Emergency Button. It's not big and red. It's not even visible. But once a driver presses it, Loud Bells and Whistles and Big Red Lights can be heard and seen at headquarters.
In about 30 seconds, I get a call on my little hand-held communicator. I simply say, "Police requested," in a soft, calm voice.
"What's the problem?"
"Things are a little close to say." He was in the seat right next to my kidney, fer crying in the night.
"Can I confirm if there is a weapon involved?"
"Affirmative," I say, again in a soft soothing voice . . . that is increasingly difficult to maintain with my testicles ascending to my throat.
I drive. I keep glancing in the mirror at the faces I can see without turning around. If one of them flinches, I think, I'll just jam the brakes a bit, then floor it. It's hard to accurately thrust a knife perpendicular to the path of a vehicle that fluctuates wildly in speed.
Finally, traffic comes to a stop at a light. In my mirrors comes a patrol car with lights blazing, no siren, skidding in his lane. That cop must have been doing 80. Sweet. It only took them 2 minutes. This was looking up.
I set my brake and flashers, checking out the cop with gun drawn (double sweet!) telling the two cars behind me not to fucking move.
Now I realize a conundrum. I confirmed a weapon. Weapons can go bang, too. That's why Officer Friendly is at the back of my coach 60 feet away, peering forward and wondering how safe things are.
My bad. I should have been more specific.
I unbuckle, stand calmly, and open the door. Drivers sometimes have to leave their coaches to check tire pressure or check lug nuts or take a whiz. Happens all the time. I calmly mention I'll be "right back."
Half the witnesses give me a "oh, sure, leave me with this fucker!" look. The other half aren't thinking that far ahead.
I wave the cops forward (another patrol car has joined the party), and point to the back of Stabby McGee's head.
I walk back on, followed by police and a bunch of confusion.
Folks, let me assure you, if you find yourself picking the dirt out of your nails with a big-ass blade, don't do it in front of a cop.
Guns were pointed directly at the chest. A struggle ensued, simply because this moron didn't realize threatening cops with a knife was a Bad Thing. They had to physically take the damn thing out of his hands.
He was cuffed and escorted out. Nothing left but the paperwork.
And to try to coax my balls out of my throat, of course.
Addendum, June 1: After being processed through the police system, Mr. McGee (not his real name, I know, but I kinda like the name "Stabby McGee") has been returned to Western State Hospital, the main treatment/isolation facility in the State. He has also been forcibly reintroduced to his medications.
After fun at work, I had to consider that my wife is not only sick, no one in the medical community knows what ails her.
Sadly, it's true. Her first problem took a while to diagnose. Ever heard of celiac? Essentially, anyone with celiac must stop eating any wheat, barley, oats or spelt. I swear they threw spelt in the list just so people can ask, "What the fuck is spelt?"
Anyhoo, if they continue to ingest those evil, evil grains, a protein called gluten will aggravate the intestines, causing scarring of the instestinal celia (hence the name) and a raft of other painful shit, like scalloping of the duodenum. Nice.
As a result of this diagnosis a few years ago, we have a freezer and several cupboards filled with the wife's preferred goodies. Pastas and pizzas, cookies and snacks, all concocted without a grain of wheat, and therefore all purchased at Very Great Expense. About six months ago, further tests revealed that almonds and sesame seeds were to be added to the verboten list.
Luckily, I have a wife that deplores feeling ill. If she has to take a pill at one a.m. on a full stomach, she will rise at oh-dark-thirty to wolf down some grub for pill time. If she has to stand on one leg and recite Coleridge's Xanadu before the pill, you may bet your ass she will weave a circle 'round her thrice and close her eyes in holy dread before injesting the prescribed honeydew. Every time.
So about three months ago, all health hell breaks loose. To make a long story short, no one has a clue as to the cause. . . except me.
I notice about a month ago that her symptoms worsen after she eats, and really worsen when she eats any starches. Starches, folks, can be found in grains and tubers. Wheat is a starch, as are barley, oats and spelt. They are not alone in the starchy category, though. There are potatoes. Corn. Rice. Tapioca. Furthermore, in crafty combinations non-gluten flours made from these other starches can be mixed and coaxed into very wheat-like pastas and pizzas, cookies and snacks.
Just for fun, I tell her to lay off, well, all starches.
It works. She nearly recovers.
Explaining that to the now six doctors trying to recognize something familiar in her ailment, though, is like slapping smarts into a dog. Can't be done. The dog stays dumb, gets pissed and your hand hurts.
Does anyone out there know what ailment reacts poorly to starch? Anyone?
For my next story, I do have some more uplifting news concerning intestinal worms. I recently posted about health, autoimune disease and hygeine. Essentially, a new group of medical professionals out there theorizes that our lack of parasites common throughout human and pre-human existance may cause the body distress. Think of an army during peacetime, a bunch of heavily armed people trained to kill and capture but given nothing to kill, nothing to capture.
When faced with no parasites to repel, the body attacks itself. After all, the likelihood of a parasite-free individual in even our most recent past was almost nil. We lacked the hygeine and the knowledge of how these critters like to reproduce. Therefore, a parasite "free" zone was to an active immune system just the presence of a parasite that has learned to evade detection. The system goes to defcon 11, and attacks elements of the body that hosts it.
One of my wife's doctors is not a total tool. She doesn't breeze in the exam room with your chart, flip it open for the first time that day, glance at his notes and ask airily "How are you feeling?" No, when you have an appointment, you get the hour you paid for. The full hour. You talk about your care in depth, exploring standard medicines and treatments, as well as naturalpathic ones. No prejudices.
Since I was the one who made the starch connection, I tagged along for the chat. My wife's medicine has made her loopy and unable to always remember to mention inportant details. I was her backup.
Ever since I read that passage in Zimmer's Parasite Rex, though, I have found myself on a mission to spread the word of this new theory. I've become a bit of a bore about it, I know.
I offer no apologies. I feel this path is the most promising, the one most likely to make my wife healthy once more.
So I told the doctor about the helminth worm study at the University of Iowa. I told her about the remission rate for the Crohn's and colitis patients.
Far from scoffing, she told us about an herbal treatment for colitis she gave to one of her patients, a treatment from China, an efficacious treatment for an incurable disease . . . a treatment that contains ground earthworms.
True, earthworms are in a different phylum than the most common intestinal parasites; but maybe the body doesn't know that. Maybe to an imune system, a worm's a worm's a worm.
That was the bright moment in my Friday of unusual events. It's nice to know I might be moving along on a theory that can help countless people, especially and including my own wife.
After the doc, I took a four-hour nap.