On TV Personalities Who Eat Each Others Moist Butt Flesh, Cut and Sloughed Off From The Bone

A disturbing Story from Yahoo out of The Netherlands. Two television personalities, as mentioned in the article below, volunteered to eat chunks of each others flesh. This footage is scheduled to be aired tomorrow. As sick as this is, it may have an audience among both foreign soccer teams and woodland bears. I am trying to not have it affect me personally, but the thing is, whenever a woman asks me to go "Dutch" again at a meal, I am going to be extremely creeped out. On a positive note though, it appears the experience wasn't two bad for those involved, so they should consider themselves lucky they weren't game show hosts, for if that was the case the flavor may have been just a little too gamey. Finally, everyone should consider themselves blessed that this horrid story wasn't made more horrible by the two involved by opting to eat other chunks of their personal nether lands.


From Yahoo News:

TV presenters eat each other's flesh

A Dutch television stunt is generating headlines around the world - for all the wrong reasons.

The two presenters of TV show Proefkonijnen (which means guinea pigs or test rabbits) brought reality television to a whole new level when they ate each other's freshly cooked flesh.

Dennis Storm and Valerio Zeno were earlier filmed while they were under local anaesthetic as a surgeon cut a piece of their muscle at a clinic.

Storm watched as flesh was cut from Zeno's abdomen, and Zeno returned the favour when muscle was cut from Storm's bottom.

A chef was brought in to fry their flesh on their TV show, in front of a studio audience.

Zeno and Storm then sat for a candlelit dinner - complete with wine - to dine on each other's muscle.

Storm told ABCNews in the United States that the muscle was cooked to medium-rare in sunflower oil without seasoning.

"Nothing is really that special when you're talking about the taste of the meat, but it is weird to look into the eyes of a friend when you are chewing on his belly," Storm told ABCNews.

"The punchline of the show is to get really simple answers on stupid questions, such as can you shave with ketchup or can you drive blind?

"And we wanted to find out how human flesh tasted."

Storm said the stunt was worth the pain in his behind.

"It was just a few centimetres of meat," he said.
"And now I have a good story about that scar."

Storm and Zeno said the stunt was legal because both entered into the cannibalistic pact voluntarily, Britain's Daily Mail reported.

"A lawyer advised the program's producers that while cannibalism is not itself against the law, the presenters or the surgeon who operated on them could run in to legal difficulties," The Mail said.

"The presenters also claim that there is no risk of ill health, as long as the human meat is properly cooked."

International news headlines ranged from "Cannibalism on Dutch TV generates world-wide repulsion" to "In the worst possible taste: Sick TV stunt features presenters eating EACH OTHER".

The pre-recorded episode will air on December 21.

On Technological and Online Intrusions Into Personal Privacy

Maybe I am too much of a romanticist, but I miss the old days, absent of all the technology which obtrusively permeates today's current social landscape. It's not those technologies which contain inherently a purpose which makes our lives better and healthier on a day to day basis I raise issue with, but those which, much like this blog, are completely arbitrary. I remember the day when starved for attention, I could do misdirected stupid stuff, act like a complete moron, and not have to fear someone taking a picture or video of my mischievous, although harmless, frolicsomeness. At the risk of sounding too much like Thoreau, I prefer those bygone days, where technology was there for those who sought it out, but remained somewhat distant, at least relatively, in our private lives. Now I can't even run through the mall shirtless, in cut off denim shorts, while mimicking the Macarena without being placed on YouTube.

How can we defeat this intrusion and how did it get so bad in the first place? I believe the culprit is not so much the photographic devices themselves and their ability to capture images, but rather how small and somewhat inexpensive they have become, not to mention their inclusion in cell phones. To fix, what I consider a large part of the problem, we need to take these camera's out of cell phones, first and foremost, then force companies which manufacture camera's and camcorders to emphatically increase their size, to no less then three feet wide, four feet long, and over 60 pounds. This way, you would at least need a tripod to operate it, and you wouldn't be able to carry it around all the time in your fanny pack or man purse to pull out whenever you see anything even remotely amusing. At the very least, give cell phones somewhere in the neighborhood of over 300 buttons, most of which won't do anything, or randomly change their functionality during the operation of the device. However, keep the most basic functions intact and easy to accomplish, so that functions like making a phone call will be the most frequently used out of all the features.

There are numerous cell apps,like FourSquare, that will let you, "check in," at your present location. These are becoming increasingly popular and to stop this trend they should simply change the names of the apps to inform the user, appropriately, that they indeed are a loser. Perhaps something like, "No one gives a crap where you are at app," would be most affective, or at least, "Hey, if I liked you at all, I would be there with you already now wouldn't I?" Actually, come to think of it, it seems more-so that they would have to like you personally, to even entice them to invite you to their current location. Great, now every time I see one of those check-ins on Facebook I am going to get really depressed. Terrific. Sometimes I really hate writing blogs. I never thought of that. I despise those check-ins where everyone was apparently invited except you, then they rub it in your face like a jackass. Dammit.

Facebook, though has been cited by many for trespassing against individual privacy, though to be honest, Facebook, I feel, isn't the main perpetrator of this, given the choice of our decision to join the social networking site and the numerous privacy options Facebook gives its members. The real online threat to privacy, is the online search engine powerhouse which is Google. I wish I could say, that due to this I have jumped on the Bing bandwagon, but I haven't. I do use Google as my default search engine, so if I had any logical continuity concerning my convictions then I would cease to be the hypocritical person I am being today. Yet, because I occasionally indulge in my hypocrisy, I feel strangely comfortable attacking Google.

For a long time now Google has been creeping society out by their peeping-tom like indulgences, and, although sometimes it does take the hassle out of being a peeping tom, by alleviating those chance encounters like being chased by a dog, accidentally hiding behind some poison ivy, or falling out of a tree, what you can see or discover is somewhat limited. A real shame. Yet, overall, I find the service, which you aren't even civilly ffered to opt into, to be crossing a boundary into being completely inappropriate. In fact, I have taken up quilting, and by me taking up quilting I mean forcing my family members into quilting, so that I can cover up my house and car-part laden lawn from aggressive satellites.

They followed up this endeavor, obviously not satisfied with their satellite view featured on Google Earth, due to its lack of possible partial nudity, by something called "Street View." When I first heard about this, I was nervous about the venture, because I was frightened they might catch me with their camera equipped vehicles washing my van while, of course, dressed in my form fitting one piece swimsuit. I don't mind my neighbors viewing, in fact I encourage it, despite their colorful verbal objections, but me being all over the internet is quite another matter.

Now Google has announced the "Find Your Face" feature for Google+. With this technology, you can scan your face and Google will inform you whenever someone has posted a picture of you. Great, exactly what I want to be informed of, whenever someone places my ugly mug on the internet. I don't like being photographed and I would rather live in ignorance of the profound degree of my ugliness. Now if this technology was used in the confines of social media, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad, it would just be like Facebook's "tag" function, but automatic. Yet, of course, this feature will help in supplying evermore intrusions into our daily life.

The movie, "Minority Report," contains similar technology which is currently being developed. In the movie, John Anderton, played by Tom Cruise, is bombarded with ads that recognize his face and appropriately, or inappropriately, display advertisements specifically suited for him. This very thing is being developed today, and currently, the technology will be able to determine race, weight, color of hair, and other physical characteristics and display ads which jive with the computers conception of you. I anticipate seeing a lot of Krispy Kreme, dog food, and Kaopectate ads in the not too distant future.

When many people hear of such emerging technologies, there is a school of thought, in which the reply is simply why worry about it if you don't something to hide? To me the biggest issue is that our inclusion and participation in such technologies is just assumed by large corporations and this is increasingly putting us in an environment where we are constantly being recorded on private systems 24 hours a day. Thus, our individualism is being belittled by those in possession of this technology, often times simply for the purpose of acquiring more capital from us by accosting us with unnecessary intrusions into our lives. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with capitalism or the concept of advertisements, but with how frequent they are getting, I can't help but feel annoyed by it. In fact, sometimes, if the ads are repeated or annoying enough, I won't buy the product just out of spite.

Remember the days when you could go see a movie, or watch something on YouTube without ads being thrown in your face? Ads in movie theatres to me is ridiculous, that's one of the reasons I pay for a movie if I choose to go, to not be advertised to in the form of commercials. Yet, now a long list of commercials plays before the movie. It won't be long before our DVD's are filled with ads, which we will be unable to interrupt by skipping through to the movie menu in order to enjoy our purchased film. The scariest part is that I think the governments application of like technologies is already pronounced in our lives and if we were aware to what extent, no citizen would stand for it. Thus, I have to say it is the ol' "slippery slope" I am most against. Even given that these technologies present no danger, the fact is, the someday could.

It is easy to allow such freedoms to the government and corporate giants when we don't see any effect, but this doesn't mean big brother won't become a hindrance to freedoms in the future. How much this technology is progressing is evident in a rocket that was just launched yesterday by Japan. The rocket has the ability to zoom in and present details on any place on earth within a three foot square parcel of land, or anywhere on earth for that matter. I try to not be a paranoid person, but its not hard to imagine how much vast information is being gathered by those who can afford such technology. Can we really trust such people to only use it properly 100% of the time? I also wonder if they are honest with us on the full extent concerning the information gathering properties of any like devices.
I heard from an old boss, who happened to know, supposedly, that in the Vietnam Era the US had a satellite that was advanced enough that it could read the license plate off a car. Now, this is complete hearsay, but if it is true, who knows how much people can be spied on, tracked, and viewed without any warrant or congressional order currently. In addition, can we assume its only visual information that is being collected. I think such "slopes" need to be examined and spoke out against by the general public, not because of how it may be used currently in a peaceful fashion, if one is to assume this as fact, but because all it would take is some corrupt officials to break the rules of decency to trample on our right of privacy.

On The Evermore Present Frustration in Watching The Foosball

One thing I never thought I would write a whole blog entry on, other than my chronic flatulence, is sports. Its not that I don't like sports or fail to watch them regularly, its more so I never had any reason to write on it, and I often don't know what I am talking about most the time concerning sporting issues. Thereby, a blog entry on sports was extremely improbable. I don't know how people are so knowledgeable in it, but I find myself quite impressed when people rattle off stats, who was traded where, and what sports star just got charged with possession of a firearm, DUI, or for exposing himself in public. Indeed, every time I sit in on a conversation, or more likely, since I spend a lot of time alone, eavesdrop in on a conversation, I feel like I might as well be sitting in on Mike Greenburg and Mike Golic. I am pretty clueless when it comes to such issues, and if I was invited in on a serious sports conversation, I would be the Dexter to the conversation as a whole and just murder it completely, by stupid, obvious comments which have no consequence to any particular subject or individual engaging in the discourse.

This is why the blogging medium is so great, because people can't tell me to shut up, or pull my underwear halfway up my back (I have custom made them to rip once they reach a certain height) when I blather on about nonsensical issues. I only regret that a blog needs a coherent subject, otherwise I would just keeping going about things like socks, air conditioning, stamp collecting, forest rangers and green sequin skirts. Not necessarily in that order. (Those topics might not be funny, but I challenged myself to write down the first subjects that come to mind. The last one kind of scares me.)

Because I don't know how to make a segue from green sequin skirts, to football officiating other than thinking that green sequin skirts on refs would be pretty stylish, I will just begin now, my thoughts on refereeing in the sport of football today.

It should be obvious to the casual observer that, me being reared in Seattle, may have a sort of pseudo-bitterness towards referees in sports, particularly football, due to Seattle's ill-fated visit to the Super Bowl a number of years ago against the Steelers. You couldn't be more wrong. I have a full-fledged bitterness towards referees in sports due to that. I recall a year after the disaster, I took a trip down to Mexico while in a equally ill-fated relationship with my accompanying counterpart. Anyways, we went inside a Jewelry store and after some conversation with the clerk, he asked us where we hailed from. I informed him of my Seattle grunge roots, to which he replied, "Wow, did you guys get screwed in the Super Bowl." I remind myself that he was trying to sell us merchandise, but the fact he even knew about the whole fiasco and arguments concerning the game, was pretty impressive to me. I didn't buy anything, but due to his declaration, I decided to skip his store later that night while on my crime spree.

Now, I am obviously not Nostradamus and, in fact, any quatrain I try to write turns somehow into a dirty limerick, so this obviously gives valuable insight into my psychic abilities. At any rate, I don't know, if the officiating was perfect, who would've won that game, the Steelers might have very well one, who knows? What I do know is that the final score was altered in some way by the terrible officiating. Perhaps its because of this I find myself sensitive and abusive when confronted with a bad call on my television or indeed on someone else's. Its almost to the degree it gets so frustrating to me that I want to turn off the game no matter what team its against, though obviously it is less upsetting if its against the opposition of the team I wish to be victorious. However, it doesn't stop me from making a mental note of it, and when it comes down to it, I would prefer a game without such terrible calls, despite who may benefit from them.

That's somewhat the problem. The consequences of such calls from the officials have the inherent power to impact a game, change the momentum and the overall tide whether it be ebbing or flowing. With such a huge responsibility, you would think those who officiate the games would be more scrutinized by those organizations over them, but this seems hardly to be the case. To have better officiating one would need to understand the consequences that arise from a bad call and make it equitable to the official. Years ago this would have been a tall order, but now because of the increase in technology integrated in every sport, I don't believe this to be a impossible undertaking and it is sorely needed.

At this point many officials can represent their mood, favoritism and death threats by the mob they have received in their calls, which at times seems to triumph over their professionalism. Indeed, quite recently I have seen more than a couple games where bad calls occurred, but the aftermath went beyond people just the crowd booing the official testifying to my point. Their was an official review in one case, in another case one of the coaches challenged and in all angles and replays, the final conclusion that everyone was waiting for seemed apparent. This was confirmed by the crowd and by the announcers, only to have the opposite chosen by the officials, which caused a uproar of sorts, enough to be talked about in a negative light by the narrators of the game, and sports casters after the game and score were finalized.

Do mistakes happen? Yes, of course they do, to say they don't would be a completely moronic position to take. Just look at my blog(s). I think every human has the right to err to some degree, and referees aren't excluded from that. Yet, there are errors and there are grievous errors, and I think it is the latter which upsets the general fan the most and should be subject to review and perhaps disciplinary action. However, in my view, a bad call doesn't have to concern a game changing call to require disciplinary action, but also those little nitpicking calls, like holding or illegal contact, which though such calls have their place, a lot of time seem silly. In fact, depending on the game, some of them get so overwhelming that you wish the damn refs would just let them play the game.

Lets not kid ourselves. Football is a rough sport, I think most people of sound mind will agree. To look over and examine conduct among players in the normal course of the game with a fine toothed comb, to me, is ridiculous. I believe, because of its physical and somewhat violent nature, you could find an infraction with and in every play if you wanted to. Therefore, this grants ample opportunity for favoritism to be represent. I most often see this "nitpicking" concerning holding and illegal contact calls. Again, it doesn't make such calls ridiculous, but there needs to be some sort of standard of force, duration, or hindrance displayed within such infraction in order for it to get called. Its football, not ballet.

Its getting to the point where you don't know if you can cheer for a touchdown anymore before its reviewed. It used to be, in simplistic terms, once that ball crossed over into the end zone, more or less, a touch down. Now, they need to maintain control throughout the play, which sounds great and pretty straightforward. However, after watching some games and this rule cited when pulling points away from teams, I don't find it as straightforward as much as I find it dependent on personal interpretation. All calls somewhat are based on that, but although well meaning, this rule has turned out to be ridiculous to many fans, myself included. Again, not the rule itself, but its application when an official review or challenge is sought.

Unfortunately, what I feel they don't call enough is personal fouls. Every game there is some moron who takes a swing at another player, despite the fact he is wearing a helmet. What damage can they possible do, I mean other than break their hand? In football don't you kind of need your hands, so what good can possibly come from that? Such incidents are broken up, but often not called. To me it not only seems so pointless because of all the protective gear, but also because a large portion of the game concerns hitting each other. It makes as much sense in football as it would in boxing. They should get called, not for damage they may cause or inflict, but simply for being an idiot.

Obviously there are referees that make great calls and thus I hope nobody concludes that officiating is worthless in my view. Certainly a number of calls are necessary and correct, but it always seem like the ones that have the most impact are the ones where the referee should see some kind of consequence for it. Perhaps they should go to some form of merit pay.

On No More Omar, 49 Rounds For 56 Escaped Animals, and The Occupy Wall Street Movement

Greeting and Salutations Once Again,

So, I am sitting in bed a while ago picking at my face, when I see breaking news come on the television. Now, the breaking news most often featured on our local TV stations here in Seattle, usually consist of puppies or kittens that get stuck in a drain pipe somewhere. Yet, this time it was somewhat different. Instead, it was the cruel Libyan dictator Kaddafi hiding in a drain pipe. I sat up when the flashy “breaking news” graphic flashed across the dusty screen of my RCA 18” tube television (it’s not that bad – it’s the lightest in the series, only weighing a measly 85 pounds). The anchorman announced over my headphones (the only thing that functions as speakers for my TV due to a mishap with Sunny Delight and vomit) that Omar Kaddafi was indeed dead. They immediately followed this report with a video of an extremely graphic nature, which despite my love of horror films and amateur wrestling, made me want to throw up. I was going to put the Omar death video I saw on here, but I decided that due to its graphic nature, I would instead post this video of bunnies.

Immediately after, it suddenly occurred to me that one really needs to be impressed with the abilities of Arabs to search random scattered holes in the ground and other subterranean edifices for the evil dictators who are fleeing their eventual judgment or demise. Indeed, if Elmer Fudd had an Arab ancestry, I am convinced he would have no problem tracking down that infamous wascially wabbit in his wabbit hole before the hare could surface and carry on with his mischievous shenanigans or hijinx.

I would like to offer my advice to all evil dictators in the future. Perhaps find a hiding place above ground. Maybe in a box car or something. They would blend in just fine with all the city hopping hobos, who all speak gibberish anyway, though admittedly the ex-dictator would have to settle for a somewhat lower quality harem.

Anyway, after this fascinating and somewhat, admittedly joyous news story, came one of the Ohio escaped animal fiasco. The anchorman was quick to warn the viewers that some of the following story would contain "disturbing images." Then, the narrator began to report the story with a long distance camera shot with a field containing several animals dead. Now they never showed blood on this particular report, only a collection of animals which could have been sleeping for all I would have known if it hadn't been for the narration. This was interesting to me because they had just showed Kaddafi getting his head blown off with no such warning, but were quick to label the animal involved story as "disturbing."



Although, the stories themselves were quite interesting, and truly tragic when it comes to the animals, but for some reason, perhaps because of my lack of social life and friends, I found this to be intriguing detail concerning the juxtaposition between the two subjects and their portrayal in the local news. Why is it that you can show a real person getting a bullet to his head, or the aftermath of it, and nobody is disturbed by human blood and brain matter, but showing a dead animal is assumed to have the ability throw people into conniptions without a cited warning before the footage is aired? I find there to be several reasons for this, including the desensitizing of society through movies or TV, and media ethics, which culminates to the eventually effect that human life seems to be increasingly devalued over that of animals. I think there are several more reasons, but number one, I believe I have narrowed it down to it somehow being the Disney corporations fault.

Truth be told, I am an animal lover (not in the gross sense). I like animals and despite my jokes or comments on here, I have never hurt an animal. While kids were frying ants and caterpillars on the sidewalk, I could never partake for some reason because I just felt bad for the insect, dying and tortured at my hands just for the sake of some form of twisted entertainment. So I would distance myself from such activity and go play with my sisters dolls instead. That in itself has led to many years of social awkwardness. I like household pets as long as they aren't mine and they don't relieve themselves on my carpet, any personal belongings, or my person. Yet, I am not a extreme animal lover either. That is, I don't mind hunting and fishing, as long as the carcass isn't just left there to rot and though there are examples of zoos or enclosures that seem somewhat like torture because of their limited size, I don't think a zoo, or enclosed habitat, is in and of itself terrible or by those facts alone we can presume that the animal is mistreated or tortured. Yet, again, a habitat does need to be of considerable size relative to the animal displayed within it. Further, I am not a vegan and frequently partake in the eating or wearing of the flesh of an animal, though my friends tell me I should really take the extra time to cure the flesh first before I wear it. Even what I don't use, like hide, legs, head and such, I find uses for. Like tossing it over an overpass for a cheap laugh and a brisk run immediately afterwards. I clarify my feelings towards animals just so nobody jumps to the wrong conclusion in these examples and concludes somehow that mistreatment of animals is somehow permissible in my view. I assure you it is not. Even with the overpass thing it wasn't mistreated while it was alive mind you.

In the case of Libya, and indeed within many countries in the region, humans are very much treated like animals, or worse. Their rights are stripped away to such a degree that even the basic human right, the one to survive, is stripped of them. Protests and riots have erupted from Africa to the Middle East proper as is evident every night in news broadcasts, and in these protests, the participants are not threatened with pepper spray or having a tent confiscated, but rather death at the hands of the dictatorial government. Though we have seen a number of corrupt autocratic government systems collapse within the last few years because of such uprisings, before it is all said and done, many of the protesters are tragically killed for declaring their dislike for government or policies. If one looks across the world at how many citizens or members of the press have been killed for stating or writing something against those in power, its truly astounding.

It is almost silly to juxtapose such horrible events with the protests of the current Occupy Wall Street (OWS) movement, where, in essence, all they have to worry about it getting booted out of a public park, maybe feel a little dope sick when their drugs are confiscated, and sent back home to occupy, once more, their parents basement. That may seem unfair, and though I will concede every individual still engaged in the movement may not hold to that globalization, I think it is the direction, what may be called, the dregs of the moment are going.

Coming from Seattle I see the occasional protest, most notably the 1999 WTO protests and riots that caused havoc downtown. In that case, and indeed the case of the OWS protests, everything, for the most part, starts out alright. A notice is put out to invite people of like minds, to use their constitutional right to free speech and they quickly organize in a specific location in order to best profess whatever their mission statement may be. Though I may disagree with a particular groups ideology, the right to organize without the fear of death or violence is one protection this country gives us, and I particularly like the idea of ordinary citizens getting involved in the political process, no matter if it is OWS or the Tea Party. Yet, Tea Party excluded, there seems to be a pattern in these modern examples of protest. When the initial participates organize to protest, everything is somewhat and relatively calm. Those individuals within the group wave signs, maybe yell a little bit, but for the most part, everyone eventually goes separate ways after the rally dies down, though admittedly there might be a couple days of "camping out." After the movement gains momentum, and gets media attention, more people are attracted to the protest and rallies, some with pure motives, while still others are probably on so many drugs they think they are protesting for Denny's to cut their prices on their "Moon's Over My Hammy" meal.

Obviously, this isn't a absolute conclusion, but I do know that as of a few weeks ago, at least three people had to go to the hospital from Portland's OWS protest due to heroin overdoses. In addition, local Seattle protests have been shuffled around more than Air Force One when Obama has something important to do in Washington. These reasons are frequently reported to be health concerns due to needles being found in the area immediately surrounding the encampments. It has got to the point that though, at first, someone would know why are they are really there and give a coherent message to a reporter, that such questions from reporters are responded to now with incoherent and contradictory statements. In general, I would say when such protests move from daily rallies to camping indefinitely, the message gets lost and the movement becomes occupied by fist bumping, tattered clothing wearing college aged kids who raise their fists against the establishment, capitalism, and at the same time have no issues with demanding your spare change.

Recently while watching the news coverage of the Black Friday shopping madhouse, they briefly focused on some OWS protesters, protesting Black Friday. The man, who to his credit was standing their quietly with a sign, did say he and his colleagues were protesting consumerism. Now, if I wasn't so busy trying to teach my dog how to tap dance, I would have laughed outright at the screen. The man apparently had no concept of where his clothes came from, his Fox racing beanie, or how he got those markers to make the sign and which he sniffs on a nightly basis (Marker huffers are an untapped market. How you think you got those there genius?(When writing this it occurred to me that marker huffers are an uncapped market. Thus, I am currently in negotiations to make my own line of pen, "Snuffies.")

Capitalism isn't a perfect system, but its the best. No perfect system will exist as long as imperfect people exist. Its one of the harsh realities of our world, but we do have the ability to speak out and change the tide of "progress," but what makes it affective, is not only how much sense it makes in its message, but the methodology behind the protest. When we look at such affective protests of the past, in our country alone, it usually doesn't take people throwing things through mini-mart windows or random acts of violence. The most effective have been those that have been civil. For instance, most recently, when Bank of America announced their five-dollar debit card fee, people organized and encouraged people to move their money elsewhere. This was so effective that Bank of America eventually dropped the charge. Though the OWS movement at the beginning was charged with not having a coherent message, I think what was displayed with OWS and The Tea Party is quite clear, the frustration the public is having with their current political leaders and corporations. When it comes to corporations, I have no problem with the mere existence of corporations, but rather those economic powerhouses who make profit by price gouging the public. I understand due to inflation sometimes prices need to go up, but I perceive that the general public is increasingly under the impression that they are being taken for a ride by many corporate entities and politicians. This, above anything else, is an important message which should be heeded by those who provide services and those in power. However, if people like those who now have hijacked the OWS movement, continue to speak for such groups and propose to be under their banner, then the message or possible influence the rally might have had might as well be tossed out the window, for as the respect decreases, so does the power of a particular group to produce change.

You really need to feel bad for the police who are given the responsibility to keep such groups under control. I am sure on occasion a cop oversteps the bounds of his authority, but for the most part I feel cops are well trained to handle such situations and their actions display as such. Yes, being pepper sprayed isn't exactly pleasant, but when it comes down to it, its probably one of the most "humane" ways to control an unruly crowd, especially when considering all the other methods. I always hear people complaining about the police and their conduct to some reporter on the news, but the next moment footage shows some moron swinging a big metal bat or pole at police. What's to be done? Police hardly ever pepper spray without warning unless attacked or threatened, and ample warning, sometimes in fact for days prior, is given to the protesters to disperse.

If a cop rushed one of the protesters and beat him with a nightstick people would call foul, but still when a 84 year old woman is pepper sprayed by getting caught in the crossfire, people still call foul. I feel bad for the old woman, but pepper spray isn't as accurate as say a night stick, but that would be unacceptable. What was she doing there in the first place? Perhaps her family should look after her a little closer. To her credit though, she was rather humorous and good natured when asked about the whole ordeal. If cops threaten to arrest or spray then you should probably heed the warning and not consider it a joke. Most cities have been more then accommodating to the movement, but cops have a duty to make sure that nobody else's rights are infringed upon by their presence. The most tragic thing about all this was when I saw the elderly pepper sprayed woman doing a interview on TV and realized that it was Keith Olbermann interviewing her. Yes, Keith Olbermann is back! That is the most horrendous thing about this whole story and soon I expect protests to arise just from this fact alone. Horrible. Horrible.

In closing, finally, I would say in America the word to live by when protesting and speaking ones mind should be, "civil," or depending on the extent of which one is fighting for their rights and what that right is, possibly even, "civil disobedience." Of course, the extent of these can change relative to the cause, but I feel its a more than an essential rule of thumb especially if one considers what they want the eventual outcome to be, successful or unsuccessful. Basically, the ends must justify the means. The man who got this process exactly right was the brilliant Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., which he outlined in his famous, "Letter From Birmingham Jail." His boycotts and protests changed the world profoundly and the methodology which made it so successful has been long since forgotten by those who stage protests and those who participate in them.

On Great Steps Forward in Urinal Gaming and Technology

Get ready to play with yourself or with friends in a bathroom near you.

Its about time someone got with the program and developed Urinal video games. Although, its not quite that streamlined or popular yet, considering that its only in a bar in South London at this time, but the possibilities are, nevertheless, endless. After all, the deeds at the urinal and the processes that make yellow snow possible are the original first person shooters, so its only natural that someone would decide to bring that process into the gaming and machine age.

Is it really so surprising? Society has been conditioning us for this possibility for a long time now. Perhaps you recall going to your local carnival, grabbing a water gun, and aiming it towards a miniscule hole in a board which, after firing a stream of water into it, made a cardboard horse move above all the individual participants stations, the obvious goal to be the first to cross the finish line by the mere dexterity of your aim. Then, if you did indeed win, you would be rewarded with a mutated looking stuffed animal, which hardly ever resembled anything existing in the animal kingdom, smelling of foul cheese and hepatitis, incomplete with a googly eye missing, matted "fur," obvious charring from cigarette burns, and stitching draping from the dreadful thing in long ribbons.

It may take a few years to get to America, but I think its great. If it does go global then maybe I don't have to stare at nasty elongated boogers formed into abstract shapes on the wall in front of the urinal anymore. Furthermore, it may keep those creepy people's eyes from casting errant sideways glances at you and your stream. Also, maybe I can actually use a urinal without getting all shy and flustered, having to instead opt for the stall, where I have to sit down and pee like a prissy little girl. Yep. Besides the fact I can't kiss the controller for good luck, I don't see anything negative about this at all.

However there are very many questions that still need to be answered concerning this technology, like, what about Multiplayer? I mean is there room for Co-Op or will it be just Drenchmatch? Will there be cheats available, such as the up-down-up-down-select-start?

For those of you who are curious about what kind of games we can expect, a few days ago I took advantage of a discrete leak and was able to find this list of upcoming urinal game titles developed by Urinthegame Studios for the PeeEZPee Urinal Console.

These include:

Grand Theft Yellow
Silent Spill
Lebron James' "Dribble"
Whizzers and Warriors
Splash Bandicoot
Mist
Shaun White's Snowgoing Road Drip (To be released on the upcoming Nintendo Wee)
Centipeed
Portal-Potty
Septic
Ghostbusters: Don't Cross The Streams
Urinal: Asparaguses Fragrance
Modern Pourfare
Bladder Master
Where in The World is Carmen Going-to-go?

Although I wish this product success, I just hope they don't carry it to the next level and never, ever, develop toilet games like:

A Boy and His Glob
Call of Dookie
Poo Pong
Kingdom Sharts
Freeway Rest Stop Story (For cell gamers)
World of Bowelcraft
Tiger Woods' Loaf
Wolfensteaming
Harry Squatter
Fallout #2: New Pants

Though, admittedly, I guess some toilet word processing would be pretty cool, like:

Microsoft's "Turd," or, of course, "Turdperfect."

On My Near Death: The Second Account

People always say that bad things occur in sets of three. I absolutely don’t believe this to be the case, for bad things can happen in singles, doubles, triples, and even more. In fact, I would bet that most people have been through times in their life where they encounter hardship after hardship to the degree that they feel almost jinxed and conspired against by the three fates. We have all experienced those periods while we journey through life when, just when you think all things are going well, you are blindsided by tragedy or adversity.

The hardship I have lived through continues to this very day, though admittedly much less. The onslaught of sickness which racked my body and made it necessary for doctors to put me into a coma, was more or less defeated, but I soon after was the subject of another medical emergency that set me back significantly. This secondary medical condition, oddly, turned out to produce more concern in the long term than did my initial sickness, from which I was on my way to recovering from.

To those of you who have had the privileged joy of reading my previous entry, you may recall I had just gotten out of ICCU and was moved a couple floors up to recover. Again, by coincidence, some of my friends showed up and kept me company for a while in my brand new spacious room. Finally, I was one step closer to getting home, or so I figured. Yet, from the time I came out of the coma, to this particular point, many would tell you I didn’t look exactly normal. That is to be expected when just coming out of a coma of course, but my eyes looked rather odd, for they were as big as saucers and were nearly bugging out of my skull(which people also tell me on occasion is very thick by the way). Though this was brought up to the doctors, they figured it was just me coming off the massive amount of drugs I had been on in the ICCU ward.

My friends eventually left, and despite me being in a coma for over two weeks, I was still really exhausted for some reason. I had no problem lying in the bed and slipping off into slumber. Yet, it was interrupted after just about fifteen minutes by one of the nurses, who informed me somebody got their wires crossed and this wasn’t my room after all, but was reserved for someone else. They promptly rolled me down the hall in a wheelchair to another room, which I had to share with an older gentlemen who was fast asleep and I found myself immediately jealous. After I was helped into bed on the other side of a sea blue curtain, it didn’t take me long until I too fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke I heard the chatter of the man's family surrounding him. I had the odd unreasonable recollection of how peaceful the ICCU was, which of course was nonsense. Yet, I felt extremely shy and for some reason vulnerable in that place, in a room filled with people I didn’t know. I was pretty uncomfortable there, even more so concerning the man’s private condition, which I won’t disclose. However, it wasn’t long until I was itching, not in the literal sense, to get out of that particular room. The nurses informed me that they were trying to find a private room for me, for which I was grateful. Even my family and friends didn’t stay too long in that room, because either they felt uncomfortable as well, or it was due to the lack of space.

Either way, I was extremely pleased the next day when they found me another room. A private one as well. However, this round of “musical rooms” wasn’t over just yet. Once they found me a room, they informed me of my continuing need for dialysis. After getting settled, they discovered that the room couldn't handle a dialysis machine because, from what I gathered, the room couldn't supply the power it takes to run the machine. They did have another room available though, to my delight, which somehow was able to shine through my frustration, and I was quickly transported there. I wasn’t very angry at the nurses though, I am sure it happens. Plus, it must have not been very fun for them. I had quite a few nick-knacks, boxes full, that people had brought in for me and that the nurses had to carry over every time I moved rooms. Finally, I was in the room I was to stay in . . . for a while.

My eyes were not getting any better and despite frequent inquires the doctors stuck to their guns more than a bitter Midwest republican, and informed my family, again, it was just due to the drugs wearing off. As for me I didn’t worry about it too much, although my family and friends were kind of weirded out by it, similar to how my friends are weirded out every time I wear a skirt. I probably would have been worried as well, but at this time I didn’t have a mirror to look at myself yet so, as far as I knew, such fears could've been motivated by an understandable paranoia. I would eventually find out this wasn't the case.

I didn’t have much in the room, but I was glad that I had a TV and my cell phone at least. This turned out to be a necessity, for although I could have read, my mind would easily lose focus and I would have to reread things over and over again. In addition, my bill on that particular 1-900 number was overdue, so much of my social life through my cell was thereby incapacitated. It was horribly frustrating, so I watched TV, which may say something about the very nature of television since I was able to pay attention to that quite well. It turned out to be good though because I don’t know if any of you have had the pleasure of having dialysis, but its not exactly exciting and I came to dread it after a while. Although they encouraged me to rest pretty much all the time, I found myself getting anxious and staying up to the wee hours of the morning. Thank you Al Bundy for keeping me company during those trying times.

Most the times the dialysis was completely painless and worked as it should, but on occasion there were some issues. I had a stent which was inserted in the right side of my neck just below my jaw which served for the dialysis treatment and gave me a series of five scars. What would happen at times was the stent was having trouble cycling my blood, which would set off an alarm on the machine itself that was rather annoying and relentless at times. Also, it would tend to build up backpressure which would cause pain. This made the doctors nervous and they decided to call it quits and continue the next day. As I recall, I was hooked up to the machine for about an hour to 90 minutes at a time, so I learned awfully fast to use the restroom before I was hooked up. Especially because they had me constantly hooked up to an IV to flush out my kidneys so it was like ever 15 minutes that I would have to urinate. It wasn’t very fun. Hows that for some T.M.I?

This was another cause for humiliation as it turns out. I do like my privacy as does everyone when it comes to this kind of thing. Well, they should anyway. I have certainly seen hobos downtown that could stand to be a little more modest. Anyways, They requested I urinate in a, turns out, a very badly designed container so they could measure how much of the fluids my kidneys were processing. Yet, I was so embarrassed a few times I got out of bed on my own, not a good thing by the way, and I was scolded for going to the toilet on my own (I still can’t believe I made it), as well as getting out of bed without assistance. They happened to be rather more upset about the latter than the former. Yet, they took pity on my pitiful self and only on occasion requested I use the aforementioned container, but still said that I had to call the nurse at the front desk every time I felt the urge. This was another reason for embarrassment, but I didn’t complain. Why make their job harder than it is? I’m sure it was a duty they weren’t exactly thrilled to perform.

I needed several treatments of dialysis and each time I hoped it would be my last, but alas, that was not to be. In addition, every time the IV bag would run out of fluids I would hope they wouldn’t bring another in. It was so great to be disconnected and free to “move about,” but most the time they would just bring in another bag and hook me up to it. I almost felt like reaching up, grabbing the bag, and squeezing so the fluids would get into me faster, under the false hopes that the current bag would be my last. So, whenever I wanted to get up and use the restroom, I would have to lug that terrible coat rack looking stand around which was more of an obstruction than you would think.

It was around this time and in this room that I first caught a sight of myself in a mirror. I didn’t really even recognize myself. Turns out my friends and families “understandable paranoia” was actually quite accurate. I not only looked rather creepy, but under the influence of the most expensive speed money could buy. My eyes were wide and bulging out of their sockets, but not only that, I also had a huge sore on my tongue from the tubes that had been down my throat for so long. Due to its appearance, this almost bothered me more than anything and I asked more than a couple doctors what could be done. They informed me it was an ulcer and nothing could be done, it would have to heal on its own, which would take some time. It certainly did. I didn’t think it was possible to scar your tongue, but apparently it is. It’s hard to notice, but every time I slap my tongue against an Otter Pop you can tell its there.

It was not long after this, that a physical therapist visited me and informed me that I was to try and walk with her down the hall the next day, which I didn’t feel so good about, for my weakness was very pronounced. Yet, I also felt a little excited to be able to get mobile again. True to her word, she showed up the next day with a wheeled walker and a wheel chair. My folks were there at the time so she requested my father to follow me with the wheelchair right behind in case I fell. We started off right outside my door and I struggled to make my way down the hall with the walker, whose wheels were worse than a grocery store shopping cart, but this could have been due to the fact I put almost all my weight on the thing. The nurse walked along side me guiding the IV stand. After only about ten feet or so my legs would shake almost uncontrollably and was forced to sit down after twenty feet. I believe I walked two more times in increments of twenty and was exhausted. They wheeled me back to my room and I got back into my bed ashamed my will power wasn’t able to provide my muscles any extra strength to toss away the walker and sprint throughout the ward. The physical trainer eventually asked me, and recommended, that I go to a rehabilitation center for a couple weeks, which I turned down. I felt embarrassed enough as it was needing help to move around and I opted to rehabilitate myself after I had left the hospital.

She didn’t reply either negatively or positively and kept working with me from time to time. At other times it was just the nurses who would help me walk about, and slowly I kept building back strength in my legs and proceeding further down the hall. I began to walk halfway and then the full length of the hall. As we walked I had many interesting conversations with the nurses there that kind of startled me and gave me further insight into how serious my condition really was. They asked me what was to be the purpose of my life, for one of them suspected it must be something great to live through such a thing. One asked me how it would profoundly change my life, and still another asked, maybe half jesting, if I saw “a light” or anything, which I didn’t. However, to be confronted with such a menagerie of profound questions, prompted some serious reflection as well as another reminder what I had just been through. After a few days, I was given the great news I would be off dialysis and my kidneys had significantly improved. They tore the stent out of my neck, which smarted and bled profusely. I had to maintain pressure for about twenty minutes, which I did almost to the degree I bruised myself, for some reason paranoid I might bleed out if I didn’t. Finally, they took the blood soaked gauze off my neck and replaced it with just a regular Band-Aid patch. I still had those pesky IV fluids going in, but I felt freed up immensely.

I continued to walk, sometimes with the physical trainer, sometimes with nurses, and sometimes with my family. Eventually, I was able to circle the ward once, twice and finally three times. My legs got relatively much stronger and one evening I was able to, finally, with my father, circle the ward three times. I returned to my room tired in both a sleepy sense and physical sense. My father realizing this stayed a few moments and said he was going to leave. He wished me good night and left. Though my appearance was still messed up, more so than normal, I was feeling good and very positive. The doctor came in and told me I was to go home the very next day and I was so excited I don’t think he left the room completely before I got on the phone and called my folks. Needless to say they were very thrilled that I was to be discharged. After a brief and happy conversation I hung up and prepared to doze off for the evening, if my excitement would let me that is.

A few minutes after that, my friends Amber and Aaron strolled into the room to visit me much to my surprise. I was quick to tell them the news and they were indeed thrilled I would be out of there the following morning. After some brief BS-ing, I was informed that it was my friend Aaron’s birthday and they were to be somewhere for a party and celebration, so they couldn’t stay long. I offered him a happy birthday and regrets that I couldn’t be there. As we sat there talking the alarm on my IV started going off indicating the bag was empty. I asked Amber what the noise was, which I should have known for I heard it several times before. Thus, this probably indicated I was feeling a great deal of confusion. She informed me that it the alarm for the IV because the fluid was empty. I’m pretty sure I would have checked that out myself and saw the bag empty, but I didn’t for some reason. Again, I asked Amber what the noise was, which she found odd to say the least and informed me a second time. The third time I asked she knew something was definitely wrong with me, though she has probably always known that to a degree being my friend, but even more so this time. My hand began to shake which I just stared at for a couple seconds and then I began to seize.

Now, other than the IV, I wasn’t hooked up to anything else. No monitoring equipment or anything. So, the only alarm that was beeping was from the IV. From what I hear it was kind of panic and pandemonium in the room, but thankfully they knew instantly what must be going on. Immediately Amber and Aaron helped turn me on my side as I slipped into a full blown grand mal seizure. After they got me on my side Amber held me while Aaron ran to the emergency button by the door, which would immediately call the nurse. The following events are so wild that if it wasn’t such a serious and potentially deadly situation, I think it would be almost comical. Indeed, some Benny Hill music behind the events would be most appropriate.

Aaron pressed the button on the door, which was faulty in some fashion and it didn’t work at all. Not missing a beat, he took off out the door and down the hall to the nurses desk, only to find no nurse on duty. He ran down the halls calling for help and couldn’t find a single person until he ran into a cleaning lady. He pleaded with her to find a nurse and told her I was having a seizure, and according to him, unbelievably, this lady just took her time strolling down the hall casually telling him she would find some one.

Eventually, a doctor and nurses did eventually show up and quickly took over Amber’s duties and tried to calm me down. Amber immediately called my parents, who were shocked, and quickly ran over to the hospital. Now, I don’t know what kind of actions they used to stop my seizing, if any, but whatever they did or didn't do, didn’t do the trick and I kept thrashing about. By the time my parents got there, they were wheeling me out and down the hall with me still seizing on the gurney, it had been almost an hour. They ran up to the doctor and asked her what was happening and for all the details she could provide.

Now, I had already met a rather rude doctor when I was first admitted into the emergency room, but this lady, whom I will call Dr. M, was completely tactless and not on the same page as any of the other doctors. This caused some great confusion in a moment of grief and panic, which further resulted in anger. As they talked to this doctor she informed them she believed I was faking the seizure to get more drugs. That would be some dedication there to fake a seizure for a whole hour. Nobody could believe what she was saying and my friend Amber, from what I hear, looked like she was going to jump up and punch her in the grill. My mother was in hysterics and panic stricken when she lamented, “He was to go home tomorrow.” The doctor replied, “Well, I guess he isn’t going to be going home tomorrow now is he?” I don’t know what she was thinking, but how about some consistency there? I’m faking, but your not going to not discharge me?

She somehow came to the conclusion that I was still ill with ARDS, which I had been cleared from, and said that I still had it and could get worse, which doctors before and after denied wholeheartedly. I think this woman was such a, well, “brat,” because she knew she dropped the ball and it took some cleaning lady to be able to find any staff. Yet, at this time I had about six or more doctors and nurses there all for a guy who is supposedly faking a seizure. They couldn’t get me sedated which prompted the doctors to ask what kind of substances I frequently took part in, through which they learned, other than the occasional drink, I was clean. They tried to call the elevator, but for some reason the elevator was not working and they struggled to restrain me while trying to figure it out. Eventually, they got another elevator to work and I again was taken down to the ICCU and away from the worst doctor I have ever encountered.

While I was taken back for the doctors to work on me, my parents and friends sat outside, my mother so upset a nurse called a Chaplin to talk to her and provide some level of comfort and strength. My friends provided this as well, my friend even turning down his own birthday party stating that there was no place he would rather be. I need to take this opportunity to thank them for the strength the provided my mom. As I was wheeled into the ICCU some of the nurses who were very familiar with my case were depressed when I showed back up saying, “Oh no, not our Brandon.” Its amazing the impression you can leave people with without even realizing it. However, I wasn’t conscious at this time to hear these near flattering remarks.

They Finally got me sedated I began to drift in and out of consciousness. I recall them turning me over and giving me a lumbar puncture at one point. At any rate, they once again, not knowing exactly what had occurred, put me into a coma. This time, however, it was not for over two weeks, but for two days while they ran tests to determine exactly what had happened. They determined I needed an MRI and I was eventually pulled out of the coma. I came to and was curious why I was in a different room, which looked surprisingly familiar. It hit me quickly that I was back in the ICCU. Crap. Hoping it wasn’t the case, I immediately reached down to check to see if I had a particular obtrusive tube in, hoping it indeed wasn‘t the case. Double crap. I was simultaneously confused and depressed at the same time. Yet, this was quickly removed prompting the same intense discomfort I had described in the previous entry.

I was transported down to the basement floor where their MRI equipment was located. I was put in the machine, but due to my drowsiness from the sedation, I promptly fell asleep. They had to pull me back out of the machine and wait a good fifteen minutes or so before I became more awake. Meanwhile, this made my mother nervous, for it was taking a little while longer than it should have. After the procedure was complete, I was pulled from the claustrophobic tube and taken back upstairs, where my family and I were informed that my brain was bleeding towards the back of my skull. Something they called a subarachnoid hemorrhage. Figures. I have always hated spiders.

With this revelation came a new medical mystery. Was it the hemorrhage that caused the seizure or did the seizure cause the hemorrhage? The hospital decided they were ill equipped to deal with the situation and though I did speak to a neurologist at their facility, it was determined that I should be transported to downtown Seattle to their neuroscience department. There, they said, I would be seen by several specialists in order to determine the nature and severity of my particular condition. They quickly summoned a ambulance for transport. In retrospect, I would have preferred if they just gave me a bus pass, due to the figures that would arrive at my house concerning the bill for this brief transportation.

I was discharged, thanked everyone for the care I received, and was wheeled down a corridor to the elevator. When coming so close to death as I had, you would be surprised at the kind of things you will find joy in. As the paramedics rolled me down the hall way, one side was bordered by fake trees, upon which hung pure white Christmas lights, which reminded me instantly of the season. Its hard to determine such things like the passage of time when your surrounded by like opaque walls wherever you go. This sight, for some reason, gave me such a profound sense of joy, I still have a hard time making complete sense of it. Although, I was headed towards another medical facility, the idea that I was leaving this one combined with the sight of the simple decorations, gave me such a feeling of joy, I could have almost wept. It was far to soon, if you ask me, when they rolled me into the elevator and the doors closed, enclosing me once again in a all too small enclosure.

The doors opened unto the lobby and I was pushed across, to some embarrassment, into a waiting ambulance. The sun did not shine that day and it almost seemed as dreary and grey as had been my stay within the multiple hospital rooms, wards, and their accompanying decor. Yet, I found the bustling of the people outdoors, going about their daily lives, on foot and within their vehicles, to be a subject of intense interest to me. I began to fantasize about where they were going and what they were doing, missing the freedom I had to move about in such a manner as that. On the way down to Seattle, I had a delightful conversation with a female paramedic, who kept my spirits up until we arrived at the hospital which had the semblance of a old cathedral with a hint of gothic architecture. Although, some might be put off by the spires and exterior decor, I found it quite beautiful as I was ushered indoors.

Yet, the interior wasn’t nearly as interesting to me as I was met with the familiar walls and unimaginative furnishings as my hospital before. I was somewhat disappointed, but realized my trip was one of necessity and thus I kept my feelings to myself, determined to do whatever I could in my power to find the answers the doctors and I were seeking concerning my health. Fortunately, they were expecting me and I had a room to myself. I didn’t have to move even once and I quickly settled in, trying to be as positive as I could. From here on out I was in the care of three specialists, a neurologist, a rheumatologist, and a nephrologist, who visited frequently offering up loads of theories, speculations or possible treatments. The rheumatologist, whom I will refer to as Dr. “R” came in and was, by his own account, shocked. He had received my medial history and was amazed at how talkative I was. In addition to that, he later put in his notes I was surprisingly chipper and of good countenance, which shocked him. He told me that he expected the antithesis to the point of me being quite sickly, depressed and sedate. The odd thing was that my eyes were back to normal. They were no longer wide and protruding from the sockets.

It was his hypothesis, along with the neurologists, that I may have been experiencing “micro seizures” during that time. He hypothesized I may have lupus or vasculitis. However, there was some concern that I may have a blood clot or inflamed arteries in my brain and told me they wished to do an angiogram. I wasn’t too thrilled, because I knew what the procedure was and how it was performed. Basically, what it is, for those who don’t know, is they take a catheter and enter through the groin, running it up through your heart and into your head where they inject a dye which can be picked up by x-ray. Thus, they can look at the blood vessels in your head and see if there is any blockage. Again, I wasn’t too thrilled. Yet, I agreed to the procedure, simply on the grounds that it had to be done, and I was scheduled for the next day, though they were a little hesitant. This hesitance was because my kidneys were not back to normal and they were concerned about my bodies ability to filter out the dye and expel it. After weighing the options and risks however, they decided on following through with the procedure.

I was again transported to the bowels of a hospital and was surrounded by nurses. They administered some sedation and pain medication. Yet, this was not enough to keep me from blushing when they informed me that they needed to shave me. They, as the nurses were at the hospital before, were very professional and kept me covered as much as they could. They moved me into a room that reminded me of the main deck on the Nebuchadnezzar in “The Matrix.” There were flat screens everywhere, some tilted over me, others on the wall, while still others above a desk. All ran separate programs, while others showed rotating 3D renderings of blood vessels, I assume of some other patient.

The doctor came in, obviously former military due to his camouflaged doctors hat, and described briefly the procedure to me. I was told to lie flat and stare straight up, which I did, not wanting to even see the needle they used to do this particular operation. I was informed that I would be notified of the results in real time which was kind of rough for me to hear, for if the results were bad, I would know right away by their words and the tone of their voice. Thus, I became extremely nervous.

The operations started and I felt an immense pressure, much like a large brink was sitting upon me. They told me not to move, and I complied to the best of my ability. Other than the pressure and a little pain of the actually incision, I didn’t feel anything while the ran the catheter up through my body and up into my head. There, they injected the dye and I heard the faint sound of them conversing as my blood vessels were explored. The vessels appeared on the monitors, which I looked at more out of curiosity than necessity. I viewed the black outline of my blood vessels as the dye coursed through my brain, and didn’t see anything outwardly unnerving, but I didn’t look long, due to my nervousness. Thus, I waited as patiently as I could and was surprised that I didn’t have long to wait, which I was thankful for because it had seemed to me that the local anesthetic applied before the incision was wearing off, the pain increasing to a large degree. Just when I noticed the pain increasing, they informed me that it was done and pulled out the catheter and bandaged me up. The doctor came up alongside me and informed me as far as he could tell, there was nothing out of the ordinary with my blood vessels, which was a relief for me to hear.

I was moved back upstairs into my room, while being informed that the results would be sent to all the specialists involved in my care. I did need a few pain killers the following days from the procedure, but was quickly switched to Ibuprofen, which did the trick. It appeared to Dr. N. that I was negative for Vasculitus, but not cleared yet for Lupus. Yet, they seemed a little confused as to what exactly was going on and all sort of options were pondered over. In the meantime, I gave plenty of blood, 12 vials in one day as I recall, and my kidneys were closely monitored for ill effects from the dye. Some of my blood work revealed some abnormalities that pointed towards a auto-immune disease, but were far from being conclusive. One doctor mentioned that I may consider a brain biopsy, which I immediately didn’t want to do, finding it too explorative and thus breaking the Hippocratic oath. Yet, I was informed by the kidney doctor that I could do a Kidney biopsy which is less evasive. I was told that often things that occur in the brain can be detected in the kidneys, which I found interesting on an intellectual level. Yet, due to some of the danger from kidney damage it was decided it would be too risky to do such a procedure.

Daily blood work showed that I was improving, but still I had a bed alarm, which would notify the nurses if I got up. Like the hospital before, the nurses would occasionally visit me and converse over a whole variety of topics. It was during one of these visits she made it clear the bed alarm was necessary for many of the patients there who were recovering from brain surgery. Yet, since I had yet to get brain surgery, my bed alarm was taken off, much to my delight, for every time I moved the dang thing would play a horrible serenade of the nursery rhyme, “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I had previously asked if there was anyway they could change the terrible song, to which I was notified that nobody knew how to change it. I find this interesting that they could care for brain surgery patients, but couldn’t figure out how to change the song of an alarm.

Even though mine was disconnected, many of my neighbors weren’t offered this luxury for their own safety. I had a older gentleman in the room next to mine, whose bed alarm would go off most frequently. The nurses would come in and try to get him to lay back down, but he wasn’t really able to grasp that he was in the hospital, due to perhaps the pain medication, the surgery or both. He informed the nurses he was tired of playing slot machines and wanted to go into the bar to get himself a beer. They spent many of nights trying to persuade this poor man that he was in the hospital and not in a Vegas gambling establishment.

As my vitals continued to improve, I was informed that I was in great enough health to go home the day before Christmas, much to my delight. It had been a long ordeal and I was anxious to see the outside world once again. However, they told me I would have to come back for periodical check ups and tests, for the answer still alluded all the doctors concerning my seizure. I agreed and I quickly called my folks and arrangements were made for my transport home. It was during this time that I caught my first glance of my tragically confused neighbor. He was an older gentleman, shaved bald with a large horseshoe incision on the right side of his head. It was held together by staples and he wandered out of his room. Why his alarm didn’t go off I can’t say, but perhaps he was granted exercise once in a while, much like I was. He seemed to immediately come over to my room and stood outside the door looking in.

It was a little awkward, but knowing what he must have gone through, me and my family offered him pleasant greetings. He inquired of us where Patricia was. We had no idea, both where she was, or even who she was. We told him we didn’t know, but that perhaps she would be there soon, thinking it must be a visitor or family member of his. He informed us that Patricia was to come over to fix his TV. We stammered a little bit in reply, offering our hopes that this woman would eventually come to visit. He seemed to feel that he was still in his home and nurses walked up to him and led him off gently, while my folks and me looked at each other awkwardly. I do hope Patricia showed up, whoever she is. Nobody should spend the holidays alone.

We packed up my things and I left, being led with a wheel chair, obviously not allowed to walk out of the hospital on my own accord. Though I quickly began to control the wheelchair on my own as we went into the pharmacy to get my anti-seizure medication and a long detailed list of how to take them. I got into the car and was driven back to my parents house. The doctors had told us I should not be alone, thus I wasn’t able to go back to my own home, but went with my folks to spend the holidays and a month or so recovering. Much of the time I was completely immobile. My legs and arms had deteriorated to the point I couldn’t walk down a hall or up some stairs without feeling like I was going to fall or getting exhausted. It was extremely frustrating. Luckily, my mother, who just had knee surgery, had a recumbent bike that I would get on and ride to build up some muscle. It was slow going. Not only did it hurt, but my heart rate would spike and I would have to remove myself from the bike every ten or so minutes.

My legs were still numb due to nerve damage and as the feeling came back, it was if as my body registered it as pain. This is something I still have to contend with to this day, but the damage is supposedly reversible. I still have pain and numbness, but the overall area of which this was occurring as shrunk immensely. I was forbidden to go back to Alaska for the first herring season, which has set me back financially somewhat, but was eventually granted permission to go for the second herring season and the subsequent salmon season as well. This I am grateful for and hopefully it will build up my strength quickly.

I continued seeing several specialists and have almost got a clean bill of health. My kidney doctor still wishes to keep an eye on me every six months due to some protein found in my urine and my neurologist as well. Lupus was eliminated as a possible cause and eventually the neurologist found a diagnosis. The condition I had concerning the seizure was something called PRES or Posterior reversible encephalopathy syndrome. The interesting part about this diagnosis, is that it has never been seen in the particular part of the brain where it occurred in me and my case is to be soon written up in a medical journal, name withheld of course. Not the kind of fame that I would wish for, but it is what it is.

As of now, I have yet to have another seizure and most issues I am battling concern getting back into the same shape I was before all this happened. I feel fortunate about getting back to work, being in relatively good health and gaining some independence back. I continue to see doctors, but as said before, its only every six months or so. I am off all medications dealing with my near death, but through this I was diagnosed with another non-serious condition and I have to take medication for that. For anyone who has known me, they may have noticed I have a slight nervous twitch about me, which remained undiagnosed for sometime. Indeed, some doctors just wrote it off as some sort of “tic.” The kind of tic that creates small muscle spasms, not the one that burrows into your skin.

After spending some time with the neurologist he inquired about why I walked around twitching like a pigeon. I told him exactly what I had been told and he quickly diagnosed me as having a genetic disorder called “benign central tremors.” I was prescribed a blood pressure medication, simply for this particular disorder and not any blood pressure problems. I am happy to report it has seemed to help and I now seem to have a relatively steady hand, which I haven’t had in years.

Thus ends my adventure, I hope, and despite how challenging and scary it was, I found the constant support of family and friends to be a constant source of strength. I would like to end this entry with, once again, thanking all those who were praying for me, keeping me in their thoughts, visiting, inquiring about my condition, and were overall concerned. In addition, I would like to thank those who kept my family and friends strong through this because, as mentioned before, in a lot of ways they were worse off than I was. Finally, thank you to the doctors and nurses who provided great care, support and did all they could to keep my dignity intact. I love you all and God bless you.

Brandon Myhre clear.