Word on the street is that I don’t know how to tell a real emergency from yet more fake emergencies, but the truth is that I was directly involved in many an emergency over the course of my checkered health past. Did you know that I hang glided into a wall of rocks and broke ribs?
No, sorry, it was my cousin’s ex-boyfriend who did that. I’m much less clumsy than that guy! I’ve almost never broken ribs. Only in car accidents, beer-league softball games and via falling off bikes. It’s much less sexy to break your ribs falling off a bike that you shouldn’t have been on in the first place (icy roads) than by hang gliding. It’s like snapping a tendon in your left middle finger while trying to remove a sock. Who does that? (I did, but only once).
However, my most consistent exposure to emergency situations was provided by network tv in the 1970s via the aptly-named program Emergency! Each week, paramedics Roy DeSoto and John Gage were faced with several riveting emergencies. Choking victims; heart attacks; scorpions hitch-hiking back in luggage from exotic destinations, and so forth. One time, there was a construction worker whose leg was irrevocably wedged between collapsing beams in a building, and the whole shebang was about to come down upon him, his co-workers and our heros Gage and DeSoto. This called for the white-haired Doctor (Joe Early, according an Emergency episode I just watched on youtube) to come and do a quick amputation. He arrived with his kit bag (do they really have amputation tools in those?) but the team managed to extricate the victim and his numb leg before we could see the bloody details.
My favorite weekly Emergency! treat was to see the obligatory cardiac arrest, which required one of our paramedic heroes to karate-chop the dying patient in the chest in order to break ribs and facilitate chest compressions. That was always followed by defibrillator usage. “Clear!”
Now that it’s the future, we have learned that CPR can be done without karate-chopping, but it was so fun to see that back in the 1970s.
I don’t remember any episode involving an emergency wall being built, but maybe I just don’t remember all the episodes.
I thought I might give you a heads up about what my retirement party should look like. You’ll thank me later when I retire and you’re well-prepared. There’s no futzing around with emails to colleagues and friends about what the party should look like. Who wants that? All the headaches of who should pay need to be worked out well before I’m ready to stop working. And you might set up a committee to decide what kinds of drinks should be served.
Full bar is what I’m thinking. Not that the drinks are so important, but a full bar means you can concoct all sorts of goofy drinks in my honor, which almost never happens anymore. The last time someone concocted a goofy drink in my honor was, what, back in the ‘80s? “The Wintry Micks” they called it, naming it after me and a couple of other Irish guys, due to all the Irish liquor in the drink, and it became enormously popular among people who liked a Bushmills and Jameson mashup, with a jigger of Baileys and a shot of Murphy’s, steeped in wild-caught sleet and then flash-frozen.
Of course, they got in some trouble with the name later in life and lost it all. Ah, the vagaries of drinks-naming.
But my retirement party really should have that kind of can-do drinks-naming attitude. People should be given the opportunity to creatively name drinks after me, which will live on well-past my 150 years (or so) of life. Oh, sure, my “life” might be only a few remaining cells of tissue attached to a concoction of plastic, wires, microchips and so on, but in the future that will be all that’s needed, and the public will think it’s really hot.
I’d also like a hot tray of baked ziti.
Why is it that every Super Bowl has to be played on a Sunday?
How do you think that makes other days of the week feel? Mondays and Tuesdays must be crushed! Knowing that they have no chance, which just kills them.
Wednesdays figure, well, given their status as “hump days,” Roger Goodell might at some point get a soft spot for Wednesday, that ol’ galoot, and have Super Bowls staged right in the middle of the work week (no chance).
Thursdays figure, come on! There is a Thursday night game virtually every week. Let’s go all-in and have a Thursday Super Bowl.
Fridays say: Two days to recover = the most sensible plan off all.
Saturdays say: Best to have a full day to prep. Can’t do that while we’re at work, now can we, Mr Big Shot Friday?
My personal gripe with Super Sunday: tired Monday.
Not that I’ll be watching.
What ever became of that addition to my estate, which I had loudly and boisterously claimed I was going to have constructed to increase the size of my house by about a quarter, and make room for a regulation-size snooker table?
Thanks very much for asking. It’s done!
OK, not exactly. We don’t actually have a finished floor yet, or paint, electrical outlets that work, or light fixtures. And I did not succeed in my quest to have fainting couches installed in each room (I’m very prone to fainting, or at least needing a nap). The rest of my family seems to think fainting couches are a frivolous waste of our hard-earned dollars (!!).
What’s more incredible than no fainting couches in a manor as stately and graciously appointed as mine is that no one can figure out where to put the TV.
I know what you’re thinking: “Put it in the TV room.” What, are you nearly 55 years old or something? Do you think this is 1975 and your parents are putting on an addition? Back then people carved out space for their televisions and called them “tv rooms,” but nowadays they call them “home theaters.”
But, yeah, we forgot to include one of those as well.