On My Near Death: The 1st Account

I am sure I have mentioned this several times before, but within my blog entries, I prefer to give my opinion rather than delving too deeply into anything personal. Mainly, I believe, because I am cowardly, worthless pile. It is much easier to criticize than to open yourself up to the same criticism. Thus, I tend to avoid topics where I could play a central figure, or would need to personally include myself in the narrative, for this might give the reader ample evidence and all the information they would need to reach the inevitable conclusion that I am a complete loser. This is a fact I try and obscure from people at all costs. So, it is with some trepidation I get into the following account of my recent illness. Indeed, this might turn out to be the most personal blog entry I have ever written.

Now, the reader should be aware that I have several different phobias. Some of these include: flying, spiders, flying spiders, showering, undergarments, and, as it turns out, MRI machines and lumbar punctures. In addition, like many people, I don’t particularly enjoy visits to dentists, doctors or hospitals and will do anything I can to avoid such places and those who work within the profession.

Thus, when I got sick just before Thanksgiving the last thing I wanted to do was to go to the hospital or see a doctor. I thought at the time, surely, I just had a flu. It should be mentioned here antibiotics make me nervous and I have always had this thought, which may or may not be completely irrational, that antibiotics impede the bodies natural defenses against disease or infection. I had made a unspoken pact with myself that only in emergencies would I use antibiotics. I furthermore had a fear of contracting some “super bug” due to frequent antibiotic use. A question now occurs to me: Which is more dangerous, taking antibiotics often when finding yourself ill and risking getting a "super bug", or never taking them, risking a illnesses progressing from bad to worse, in turn weakening the immune system and perhaps opening oneself up to more forms sickness or disease, which may be potentially as lethal as any “super bug” one may contract. Prior to this experience, I had the opinion perhaps the former was more dangerous, though now I am starting to change my tune a little. Yet, for these very reasons, the phobias and the vow, I may have waited just a little too long to go to the doctor when I probably should have. In fact, the doctors later said given one more day without going to the hospital, I would not be here to ramble on needlessly long, forgoing any form of conciseness in this entry for the mere purpose to entice pity from females (Ladies e-mail me: brandmyhre@gmail.com). The whole experience turned out to be the closest brush with death I have ever had. What started off as a minor cough would, in the end, lead to an ordeal that looked very much like an episode of "House."

Anyhoo, I believed, again, that I just had a flu. I was sick for a couple days with a temp of 99 to 100, which is common for a light to moderately strong flu. I just sat around, rested, watched some football, while drinking massive amounts of water, Sprite, and Gatorade. To keep my fever down as much as possible, I took plenty of Ibuprofen and Tylenol, which worked for a little while. However, as my fever progressed, the effectiveness of the medications on my fever wanned and my temperature started to build. More symptoms appeared (which I will try and to put as gently as possible) concerning mucus that seemed to originate in my lungs and was of a suspiciously white or grayish pink color. In addition, it was, curiously enough, of a rather solid nature.

I called my folks at their house and asked their advice, though I did downplay the symptoms somewhat so as not to concern them too much about my condition. They immediately brought over some more medication, including Mucinex, some beverages to keep me from being dehydrated, a thermometer, and a little food, for I was way too dizzy to be able to be driving anywhere to shop. My temperature at this point was about 101 and I suspected it would drop immediately. Due to all the sickness fighting weapons I had at my disposal, I reasoned the symptoms would vanish within a few days. The next day was about to prove me wrong.

When I awoke the following morning, I attempted to get up and get motivated, but found myself absolutely freezing cold. The vertigo I was experiencing had seemed to double. The whole house was spinning and I curled up on the couch, quickly turning on some football. This is where things start to get a little hazy. I had taken my meds when I first got up and decided after a while to take my temperature once again. Orally. It had risen to 102 and instead of calling a doctor like any logical, smart person would, I instead fell asleep. Yet, when I awoke once more, I found myself extremely confused. I recall it took me more than a few moments to realize where I was, though I had been living in the same house for about 2 months prior. It was at this time I noticed I had began to urinate blood. Again, because I am a mamma's boy, I called my folks. It was during the subsequent discussion with my mother where my confusion and state of mind really revealed itself. Not only did I not know where I was during the conversation, the whole of which I don’t remember, but I was also convinced my temperature was 200 degrees. She told me that was impossible and I would be dead. She immediately informed and sent my father to come get me and take me to the hospital (my roommate was on vacation at the time).

While he was in transit, however, I promptly passed out. So much so that when he arrived he had to bang on all the doors and windows, but still it failed to rouse me. They, my parents, by this time had come to the conclusion something was very wrong, to the degree he forced himself into the house and discovered me passed out on the couch. This, by the way, is the first time I had ever passed out without getting the word "penis" written somewhere on my face. He shook me until I awoke and told me to get dressed (I was just in a tee and pajama bottoms, which have cute little penguins on them by the way) and get shoes on. I, by this time, had become completely delirious and had no understanding of what he was talking about or had no idea where these items may be. Fortunately, he helped me find some clothes proper to wear out in the cold and rain. Yet, I put on my pants completely inside out on top of the pj bottoms and without even noticing, walked out to the car, which was now running with him seated in the drivers seat. He quickly noticed my pants and that I had failed to put shoes on. He led me back inside, found the shoes, for I had no idea where they were. He promptly encouraged me to look like a sane, normal human being and put on the shoes. I was then rushed to the hospital, though, honestly, I don’t remember the ride.

Shortly after we arrived at the hospital and he dropped me off while he parked the car. I walked in and went up to the triage. They asked me what the problem was and what they could do for me. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember it was darn near unintelligible, and I had trouble figuring out exactly why I was there. Immediately, they probably thought I was just a little too strung out and having an anxiety attack, for I don’t recall them even taking my vitals, but telling me just to go sit in the waiting room. I did as I was told without protest and sat down amongst the other patients waiting to be treated. I felt increasingly confused and struggled to hold on to reality, or my form of it, and what was going on, which was a constant battle. It was a battle I was losing. I wasn’t nervous or frightened at all, for I don’t think my mind was in a condition to process even basic concepts like consequence.

I believe my father eventually went up to the triage and talked with or to them. It seemed like immediately after, to me anyway, that a woman appeared with a wheelchair, which I think I was able to get into by myself. They rolled me back into the ER and helped me climb on a gurney. Here they took my temperature, again orally, and by this time it read 103. From here on out it is really blurry, for my mind had completely ran away from me, which on a side note some people wish would happen more often, just so I could shut up every once and a while. The attending doctor tried to ask me several questions, but I had no answer for any of them, which frustrated her greatly. She replied tactfully, “This isn’t rocket science,” but try as I might, I could not mentally formulate an answer for any of her inquiries. By the time my mother arrived, I was asking every 15 seconds where I was and at times didn’t even recognize my own parents. My temperature continued to climb to 104 and I began to hallucinate. I remember looking up at the ceiling and all the tiles disappeared so I only saw the framework of the ceiling upon which those very same tiles rested. I saw the ceiling above the tiles and the bare framework, so it wasn’t as if I was looking at the sky or to another floor. Between the framework and the ceiling proper, pulsated whitish-blue jellyfish, which swam about gracefully in the air. I also recall, small ice crystals falling from the ceiling and covering me from head to toe.

Next thing I remember, I was admitted into the ICCU (Intensive Critical Care Unit) and the doctors and nurses were hastily putting in an IV and throwing ice packs upon me, which was horrifically cold (Because of this and the condition my mind was under. I often wonder if some data got confused and I didn‘t hallucinate the aforementioned falling ice particles at all, but rather it’s a mixed up composite of real sensory data from when these same doctors and nurses threw ice upon me to cool me down). Yet, that horrific feeling didn’t last long, for at this time, they were also in the process of giving me plenty of drugs. Thus, instead of horrid discomfort or fear, it was eventually replaced with a strange, almost euphoria and disconnect of the situation I had found myself in. Once more, I eventually passed out.

My next memory is of being on the phone with my mom. There is an odd thing about the timing of this whole incident that I need to quickly mention. For months prior my mother was scheduled for knee replacement surgery on the very next day after I went into the hospital. So a while after her operation, she called me to check up on my condition, which was getting worse. Yet, I wasn’t aware of my real condition because, I was either not told this at the time or I simply couldn’t process the information. I don’t recall what we talked about and neither does she. I have nothing more than a vague recollection of talking to her. I do recall, however, that I believed that I would be out in two to three days.

This is where my memory completely ceases. Thus, any details given from here on, until I regain consciousness (I hope I didn‘t give away the ending, but the very fact you are reading something I wrote and the title of this particular blog entry hopefully gave you some sort of clue to the eventual outcome) are written based on the recollections of others, who were nice enough to give me an account of my missing two weeks. My family and friends must have got sick of me asking questions, but if anyone else has been in a similar situation, you know its just something you need to have revealed to you in a very detailed way, for what memories you do have are so broken and vague that there is no understanding of the chorological order behind the memories at all. Due to this, you are filled with a great need to collect the data in order to make sense of that which you don’t remember, that of which you do, and how it fits together in the context of time. If you haven’t experienced this due to being horribly sick, and I hope you haven’t, perhaps there has been a time you have had to much to drink, blacked out, and felt the need to call your friends the next day in order to find out what happened or if you had done anything completely stupid during the evenings/early mornings festivities. Not that I would know what that’s like . . . (Turns out I usually ended up doing something really stupid.)

It appears shortly after this my lungs were X-rayed and only small spot of infection appeared on one. Yet, daily it spread, eventually spreading to both lungs until I was having trouble breathing on my own. It seems during this whole time I was awake, yet as I got worse I was eventually given the drug Propofol, which promotes both sedation and amnesia so that after an ordeal such as this, one will not recall the suffering or treatment they may have experienced, which could lead to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Propofol is the same drug which has been in the news recently concerning the death of the “Quee…,” errr…, “King of Pop.” I don’t even know if I would have remembered anyway, for my brain was by this time in the process of overheating. This does bring up an interesting question in my mind however, to what degree suffering relies or relates to recollection? That’s a question for another blog entry though.

Eventually, as my lungs were inundated with this infection or disease, I began having immense trouble breathing on my own and despite being supplied oxygen, the oxygen saturation within my blood began to drop. The doctors surmised if they didn’t take action, I would suffocate. It was at this point they came to me and we began to discuss my options. I can’t remember any of the conversation, but it concerned whether or not I would give consent to the doctors to put me in a drug induced coma. Apparently, I agreed and they found me of sound enough mind, which I still can’t believe, to be able to make the right, logical decision. I suspect if I said “no” to the advised treatment, they would have said I wasn’t of sound mind and circumvented me to do it anyway. I did sign a HIPPA form, so I am a little surprised my next of kin wasn’t notified about the conclusion me and the doctors reached, due to my decreased mental capacity. Yet, I do believe I made the right decision, and in retrospect, after talking to some of the doctors, it was the best choice I could have made. Not only would this help to keep me alive for the time being, but the doctors themselves could control the expansion of my lungs (called the “peep”) and the percentage of the oxygen that filled them. Once the decision was made, I was given the injection and put under. They pushed a breathing tube down my airway, into my lungs, and hooked up the ventilator, which began to breath for me.

Despite all the efforts and in some cases the amazing dedication of doctors, they still could not find out precisely what was wrong with me. Plenty of cultures were taken, but they could get nothing to grow in the petri dish, or whatever it is they use to grow cultures. Apparently, it seems, that this method helps them better determine what antibiotic to use, or indeed, if one would be effective at all. Yet, once more, they could get nothing to grow. It was eventually determined from symptoms that I was suffering from not only pneumonia, which can be dangerous enough, but also ARDS (Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome) . As it turns out the latter is the most dangerous. Much more so. In fact, I was told out of all those who contract ARDS, 80-90% of people tragically don’t make it. Course, I was told this after my eventual recovery.

The odds were already stacked against me, both with an undetermined type of pneumonia and ARDS. Yet, there was more to come. After a few days of getting worse, my kidneys completely shut down. I am obviously no doctor and don’t pretend to be, but I do find medicine to be a fascinating subject. I would say, to me, the human body is infinitely more interesting then the depths of the deepest ocean or the farthest reaches of the cosmos. So, though I don’t subscribe to any medical journals, I do like reading up on the subject somewhat, if I can understand the words contained within the article, website, or book. Though this isn’t a real medical conclusion, but it does seem, by my novice reading, that the human body almost has a systematic way of shutting down when confronted with a serious illness. When the body is in danger of dying, systems begin to turn off. Often some of the first organs to shut down are the kidneys or liver.

The kidneys help regulate creatinine, which is a chemical waste product produced from muscle metabolism. The kidneys filter out this creatinine and are responsible for flushing it out of the body. Creatinine can be found in your blood and determining how much one has in the blood, a doctor can from this infer how your kidneys are functioning. I don’t know the canon which they use to measure it, but a person with a normal functioning kidney will have a creatinine level of 1. Another thing I don’t know, besides why grapes seem to be the standard unit of measurement when determining the strength of paper towels in TV commercials, is how they determine “1,” if its parts per billion or what, but I do know my level was 7.3. So my kidneys weren’t functioning at all.

My whole body was taking it a hit from the illness. My bone marrow was eventually affected and my platelets dropped severely, so that if I were to get a cut, it would not be able to clot as quickly as it would a person with a normal platelet count. It became so low that I needed a few blood transfusions to replenish the supply. I began to build up fluid, for my kidneys were unable to cleanse my blood of excess liquid and impurities. At one time I didn’t urinate a drop for 3-4 days, though by this time I had already urinated 2 pints of blood. I began to swell and not just my body, like hands and feet, but also some internal organs and, most creepily, my eyes. My eyes apparently got so bad that all the blood vessels burst, and my eyes wouldn’t close all the way, even though I was unconscious. My extremities began to swell as well, so much so that if you chopped off a finger, painted my hands white and drew a few vertical lines upon them, I would look like I just walked straight out of an old Disney cartoon.

To do the work of my now defunct kidneys I was put on dialysis. From looking in the mirror now, they did it by apparently drilling holes in my neck and running tubes into a dialysis machine, which looks like, given a few adjustments, could dispense delicious soft serve frozen yogurt in a quickness. As much as the scars bother me now, with all these people so excited about “Twilight” and vampires, perhaps the scared holes in my neck won’t be such a bad deal after all and attract some gothic women. Yet, the five holes, instead of two or four, might be hard to explain. Perhaps, I will just say I got attacked by two “regular” vampires and a vampire hillbilly. (A “vambilly?”)

It wasn’t looking good for me, and my folks were told that I, “could go at anytime.” My peep was up the highest it could go, they were giving me 100% oxygen and still I would not stabilize. I would seem to get better, then I would get worse. I was in very critical condition. My temperature would spike, then go down. My bloods oxygen saturation would at times rise, then plummet. They had me on dialysis and had two IV stands full of bags with several different tubes running into me, including a feeding tube, which I am skeptical of its efficiency due to the fact that when I eventually came to I was hungry as hell. I had so many tubes running in and out of me I must have looked like something out of an H.R. Giger piece. They even had me on a bed that slowly rocked back and forth, which supposedly helped in some way by shifting the lungs. They also had tubes down into my lungs that would induce my gagging reflex and then siphon out the ick that was building up. Furthermore, they were unable to use narrow spectrum antibiotics, which is preferable, due to the fact they couldn’t identify the exact strain of whatever was attacking me. Thus, they had to result to broad spectrum antibiotics, which at times seems like a medical, “hail Mary pass,” for doctors are discouraged from using this tactic, unless confronted with no other option.

For three days, I barely hung on (at this point it was beyond the doctors, my family and even me, everyone had did everything they could) and as I found out later, in two instances, I died almost completely. My pulse and oxygen levels had sunk to such a low level the doctors and nurses believed they were going to need a crash cart. Some flu.

Yet, despite being in the very palm of death, gradually my vitals began to improve. Not enough to negate any nervousness, but enough to give some signs of hope. As it got better though, they eventually took me off some of the drugs, but I remained unresponsive for some time, though everyone would try and talk with me. They say you can hear in a coma, but I honestly can’t remember a thing, but they did have me under that amnesia medicine as well. The nurses, as it turns out, always spoke to me though, telling me what they were doing and keeping me posted on any progress. My family, friends, and nurses, who visited often, God bless them, would try to talk to me or make requests, such as to squeeze their hand or raise my eyebrows. Yet, again, for a while I remained unresponsive.

On a quick side note, I would just like to share how much this experience has affected my respect level for those in the nursing profession. These people are truly the salt of the earth and in my case, I feel, they went above and beyond. They seemed to genuinely care, in fact, as going as far as checking on me or coming in and talking with me after they got off work. That is shocking to me, because when I used to get off work, I would sprint out of the facility as fast as I could and run to the nearest tavern or dance club to shake my tail feather. Course, now employed on a fishing boat, that has kind of limited my ability to run off and party, though in my down time I still occasionally work on the shaking of my ba-donk-a-donk. Back to nurses though, their skill far exceeded just medical care, in fact, it can get rather lonely in a hospital, but due to their friendliness, they helped to keep me sane. In addition, they attempted to preserve my dignity as much as possible. There is only so much dignity you can keep intact when somebody is wiping your ass for you. Regardless, it could have been a lot more humiliating and they did everything they could, even when I was unconscious and wouldn’t know the difference. Thus, all those who work as nurses get a well deserved shout out from me, and really, is there any better reward?

When I eventually started responding, it happened rather suddenly. I had nurses working with me everyday asking me to move, open my eyes, or whatever. With them it was at first a no go. My vitals were still down, but somehow I kept improving. My mother came in and asked me to move my eyebrows, which I did, and which there was a big hubbub made over it apparently. Next I squeezed my friend Amber’s hand and actually raised my hand to greet my friend Jill. Again, all this happened suddenly within a few days. Soon, I opened my eyes and right when I was able to see came to the conclusion I must have been sleeping for a couple days or so. I didn’t realize at the time, but it had been just over two weeks. I found it tough to see though for some reason. Everything looked like I was viewing it from under water. Turns out this was from some sort of goo they rub in your eyes to prevent them from drying out or being damaged. At first I believed that this substance was applied because my eyes were open for so long, but the goo will also prevent the eyes from being damaged when closed, for if your eyes remain closed for an extended period of time it can actually cause harm.

Yet, despite the blurry vision, one of the first things I saw was a collage and banner. The collage is pictured below. Thanks to Kara and Brittney for organizing it and everyone who contributed to it.

Now this may seem a little morbid, but I couldn’t help looking at the collage and realizing it looked awfully like a memorial. This and the banner were the first clue that something horrible had happened while I had been sleeping. I also found myself surrounded by stuffed animals, most of which were signed by friends and hospital staff. Two teddy bears even played music, Pink Floyd's, "Comfortably Numb," and Chicago's, "Feelin' Stronger Everyday." My throat felt extremely uncomfortable and I found I couldn’t speak. After some contemplation I understood that I had tubes running down my throat. Clue number two. Finally, when I tried to move my arms, I realized I couldn’t and saw that they were strapped to the bed in such a manner that any of those nurses could have had their way with me. I did ask later thinking pity might score me some points, but once again I was shot down. The nurses must have loved me. Maybe I should have remained unresponsive a couple more days (Those was jokes). At any rate, I was strapped down because apparently some people awake in a panic and try and pull the tubes out on their own, in which situation the patient can cause serious harm to himself. This was clue number three.

Even though at this point I was conscious, my consciousness didn’t last, and I lapsed in and out of now what was more of a heavily sedated state than a coma. Yet, again here my memory becomes a little choppy. Let the reader be aware that even though I use words like, “thus” or, “then,” realize that this is for the purposes of narration and to create some order out of the experience. I have tried to put the pieces together best I can, but chances are I have things utterly and completely messed up.

I recall a nurse coming to my bedside and checking the ECG, fluids and the other random beeping machines. She seemed thrilled I was awake and informed me what had happened. Not in detail of course, but that I had been out for two weeks. I was shocked, even though I felt sedated and high as a kite. Yet, when you hear something like that and have not actually experienced it, the ordeal is extremely difficult to identify with. I am still having issues actually. Everyone around me seems overly paranoid to me, which I find frustrating. I logically understand it, but I cannot connect with the emotions my family and friends went through during that time. It could almost be said that I was better off then they were.

I tried to speak to her, but couldn’t. It didn’t stop me from trying though. I really now can identify with those dogs who never really grasp the boundaries of their yard despite an invisible fence that gives them an electric jolt every time they try to breach their imperceptible enclosure, leading inevitably to a multitude of daily shocks. When family or friends would show up, I would never cease to attempt to speak, which served to only piss me off in the process. These moments of consciousness were semi-rare and most the time I still slept. I don’t know how long it was, but eventually a doctor and a few nurses came in and roused me. Not aroused me, but roused me.

I awoke and they informed me that they were going to remove the tubes from my throat. I was excited to hear that, and I am glad they chose to, because I found out later, given a couple more days, they would have had to do a tracheotomy. No thanks. I have seen “House” and that doesn’t look to pleasant. They told me it was to be a little uncomfortable, but still I was happy, because me without blabbing my mouth off and annoying people is much like being a fish out of water. Sure, they told me it would be uncomfortable, but they didn’t tell me it was going to really hurt. It hurt. I thought maybe he actually tore out a vocal cord, which would really stink because I am planning on going out for “American Idol” next season.

On a positive note, that was one tube out of an orifice, but I still had a couple more to go. The odd thing was, they would still strap me down, apparently afraid I would rip out some of the catheters, but I was so not going there. I wanted to talk almost immediately and I was asked by one of the nurses if she could do anything else for me, to which I responded, "Yeah, can you take this tube out of my ass." She replied in the affirmative, but did not do so at that moment. As my vitals began to improve the doctors insisted I move around more, having me sit up and such, which was extremely unpleasant. As was the fact that they would encourage me to cough to clear some of the left over nastiness in my lungs. Now, I don’t know if anyone else has went through the experience of hacking when having a catheter in, but its really painful. The doctors and nurses wanted me to do it every twenty minutes and needless to say I eventually came to a point where I dreaded their visits. Sometimes, however, I would cough uncontrollably and without me initiating it, which was also quite the hardship, for at times I would be strapped down and be forced to, I believe the term is, “blow raspberries,” until a nurse or doctor would walk by and offer me some assistance, which they did frequently. Thus, I never had to wait very long, but its not a dignified situation to be in and as my consciousness and thought process increased so did my humiliation.

One day, as I lay there my dear friend Kara visited me in the hospital. Though I remember my spirits being lifted and I was continuing to be more and more conscious over that period of time, still my basic problem solving skills were a little encumbered. As she visited, I must not have realized my hands were actually unstrapped, but my mind concluded they were still hindered from moving. My nose began to itch and I began to fuss about, trying desperately to reach my nose, which I never did. It was interesting because though I had the ability to, my mind was convinced it was unable, and thus my hand stopped short a full foot from my nose and could not go any further. Obviously, much to the confusion of my friend, who then offered to scratch my nose for me. I quickly replied in the affirmative and was relieved of my distress. Now, she finds this incident to be rather funny, but I find it rather embarrassing.

As I had mentioned before, the doctors were continually encouraging me to sit up and they even brought in a seat, which quite honestly, looked like they had just ripped a back seat out of an Astro van and rolled it into my room in the ICCU. In fact, I am almost certain I checked for seat belts. I had to sit completely upright in this thing and it was one of the most painful, uncomfortable parts about the whole experience, due simply to the couple catheters I had violating me. I let the nurse and doctors know that I couldn’t really stand it anymore. Something had to be done and they agreed.

I was seriously hoping they would sedate me or something for the removal of these obtrusive, but medically necessary, tubes. They didn’t. Instead, they told me to count to three and exhale, and I am here to tell you, it didn’t help a damn bit. They should have just gave me a bit to chomp down on. I don’t know who came up with that strategy and it may have something to do with providing a distraction, but I would have preferred if they just clamped down on my nipples real hard or something. It would have been much more affective in my book. Despite this, I felt relieved. To liken and borrow an allegory from C.S. Lewis, it was much like ripping off a scab, though it may hurt like nothing else at the time, you are alleviated by its removal alone. This was certainly the case. Yet, it didn’t take me long to realize that I, as of yet, couldn’t walk. Thus, I couldn’t go into the restroom. This presented an even more embarrassing issue. When the urge eventually occurred, I informed the nurses and instead of bringing a wheelchair and wheeling me to a restroom, which I would have preferred, they rolled in a chamber pot and brought it next to my bed.

Though it may sound like I was completely impatient with the hospital staff, I really wasn’t. In fact, they said for as sick as I was, I was extremely pleasant and polite, even giving props to my parents for doing such a good job, and by props I mean commendation, not props as utilized by the likes of Carrot Top. I know there were medical reasons for all their decisions and medical methodology which governed my care. Yet, despite being fully aware of this, I was also still extremely embarrassed throughout the whole ordeal of asking for help out of bed and, well, then doing my business without the benefit of modern plumbing. This all culminated in a further realization and discovery that a body being immobile for a long period of time exhausts it. My muscles would hardly work at all. I couldn’t walk on my own and even eat on my own. I was fed by nurses, friends, and family for a while after I came to. Though I picked it up quickly, its almost as if I had to learn all these things all over again. It occurred to me as I lie there thinking about nonsense, how ridiculous it is in movies and TV when a person can get up from a coma after several weeks, months or years, jump out of bed on sheer will power alone, and quickly recover. I was told recovery would be long and difficult, but I had the same feeling, that my will power would enable my muscles, stamina or dexterity and I would be instantly back to normal. Again, ridiculous idea.

I still have a little numbness in my limbs from being in a coma. When a person falls asleep or lays down, he will naturally move his/her body into a comfortable position. Not so in a coma. It is up to the doctors and nurses to move the body so it is in a position where no damage can take place. This sounds easier then it is. It is common for a person in a coma, despite all precautions and care, to be placed in a position where a nerve may be pinched. A person who is not in a coma, would shift due to the uncomfortable feeling it produces, yet it is impossible to tell in a coma patient. Thus, some numbness is a result which fades in time.

After some more daily recovery and improvement, I was able to leave the ICCU and move to another floor. This was a touching moment for me, for I got a standing ovation when I left. Chiefly, I am sure, because I’m such a great guy, and because for two weeks I was the sickest person in the hospital. In the medical profession the term “miracle” is frowned upon, but I heard it several times as I recovered and eventually left the ICCU. The nurses requested that I return upon my recovery. It seemed almost a victorious moment for them, and why shouldn’t it be? They had brought me back from the brink of death and they should feel happy about all the effort they put into my care and the eventual result. Some of my friends showed up just by chance that very evening and they gathered in my new room. It was nice to have a kind of pseudo-celebration with them, that I was now in the recovery ward. Unfortunately, some unforeseen setbacks were to eventually take place that would require me to be transferred to another hospital, get an MRI, and a barrage of all new tests and humiliations. I will continue with that account in my following entry, but here I think an intermission is in order. Thanks to everyone for all your prayers and support.

On and To My Next (Ex?)Girlfriend

Since I have had nothing to do but sit around for a while and recover from my recent extended stay in the hospital (which I will get into at a later entry), I have had a lot of time for some personal reflection. It has culminated in the realization that when it comes to relationships, I tend to mess everything up. A lot. Thus, I figured I would be proactive and list a few apologies/excuses/answers here so that in my next relationship they may be credited unto me. I think it will save me and her a lot of trouble, for I plan, when I first meet her, to give her the URL of this very entry to make the transition into the relationship, and the relationship itself, a lot smoother. Now, without further ado, here is the brief list:

Don't You Want Me Baby - Human League
“Honey, I swear I just read it for the articles.”

“Nah, don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t make you look fat.”

“No way! She is NOT as pretty as you!”

“Yes dear.”

“It wasn’t me. Someone obviously hit your car in the Safeway parking lot and took off. Don‘t bother calling the police, they’re obviously long gone.”

“Wait, I wouldn’t go in there just yet. Give it a minute or two.”

“Hey, it happens to every guy once and a while.”

“Babe, I realize I messed up, but you know, as far as bail goes, its really not that expensive.”

“Yes sweetie, I promise never to refer to your mother as a mangy, scabies infested canine-like creature ever again.”

Finally:

“I’m sorry.”

And in case it doesn’t work out:

“Its not you, its me.”

On 'Green Week' and In Which You’ll Find a Subtle Jab at Chris Matthews

Now that I have so much time on my hands and need something to keep me occupied other than huffing various paint and glue products, I have decided it’s time to get back to writing, or more accurately, my ridiculous form of it. Yet, be warned, I have really no idea where this blog entry is headed. Hell, for all I know it may well end up in the garbage can along with all those empty tubes of glue and cans of “Four Loko.”


So here I am back at my word processor to give it another go, but I find myself, again, really without topic. Thus, I assure you the title of this particular entry will be written long after I have completed my rambling, nonsensical treatise. I have been a little out of the political scene recently, though I did vote in the “historical” midterms, choosing my candidates and issues rather carefully after some deep meditation and an extended shroom trip (which in retrospect may be the reason why I voted for a write in referendum concerning the legalization of hoarding vast herds of cats), but other than that I really don’t know what to add at this time in regards to any deep political commentary. However, when all else fails I will resort to my old standby of criticisms. For there are plenty of things to criticize or poke fun at out there, not just in the political spectrum, but also in terms of media, pop culture, opinion and Charlie Sheen.


Charlie Sheen: Star of "Two and a Half Men"
Yes, it’s that time of the year again friends. No, I don’t mean the holidays. No, I mean it’s time for NBC’s annual annoying-ass “Green Week” extravaganza. As usual, just like every year, the famed NBC peacock is ripped of his classic colorful plumage and given the hues of a leprechaun. In addition, all your favorite NBC “stars” are out in their new Prius-praising “More You Know” segments, while, more often than not, after their shoot, they are jumping in their Hummer or SUV to help them navigate the difficult road conditions and terrain of West Hollywood, LA, New York, or Malibu.

The Impression That I Get - The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
As if these public service announcements weren’t annoying enough as they interrupt NBC’s mediocre at best primetime lineup, they continue on all shows throughout the lame NBC conglomerate of channels. This includes NBC proper, MSNBS and, of course, The Weather Channel. Yet, to quote Billy Mays, “Wait, there’s more!” Throughout the NBC aggregate, tiny, little catch phrases are featured with profoundly inspired slogans such as, “Green is Universal,” and “Green is Progress.” I don’t know about you, but just hearing them gives me a tingle up MY leg.


Yet, like the vast majority of those at NBC, with a few notable exceptions, these slogans are complete B.S. The former saying is not so much a call for more environmental awareness, or a push towards conservation and eco-friendly technologies, but rather, because NBC owns Universal, it seems to be NBC just patting themselves on the back while relishing in the supposed efforts that they have made. The latter saying is just plain silly, for though it can be said that with proper technologies, perhaps mankind’s effect on the planet could be minimized allowing the planet to become “more green,” it will never be as green as it once was before the influence of industrial pollutants. Giving that, if what I said is accurate, perhaps “Green is Retrogression” would be more accurate, or simply assign the title “eco-conservatism” to the idea. However, good luck getting anyone at NBC to say that accursed word. (Note the cheap shot.)


In reality, of course I know what they mean, but still I find all this green posturing, even evident in the peacock himself, to be extremely irritating. Certainly, we find that all this eco-posturing is big business as it is represented in products whose manufactures arbitrarily slap a “green,” “all natural,” or “organic” label on them despite the presence of things like arsenic and cadmium. Just because something is “all natural” doesn’t make it fit for ecology as a whole or, indeed, human interaction. Just because a poison dart frog may be “all natural,” I wouldn’t recommend sticking one in a blender with ice and vodka for a refreshing summer drink. Yet, many products and services offered commercially and by the government use these same tactics to entice people to subscribe or partake. It is not uncommon to hear consumer groups occasionally coming out against such eco-scams.


Now certainly, I am not an eco-hater or against any form of conservationism. Quite the contrary. Coming from a fishing family myself, I take a keen interest in preserving species and habitat, so as to help the fishing industry become profitable for both man and bear for years to come. Furthermore, just in case one would accuse me of being an egoist, other than these reasons and examples, I have also changed habits in my personal life to reduce my eco-footprint. I say this not to give myself an “atta-boy,” but rather to just clarify my own feelings on environmental conservation.


Thus, these feelings are completely divorced from the impression I get towards the eco-movement as a whole. It’s used mainly as a political ploy and the movement is completely guilt driven. In it villains are created, often times needlessly by hypersensitive eco-narcissists, which brand you, me, business and government as an enemy selfishly pushing the world towards destruction. In this process is lost each effort made by any individual or group towards conservation. Such efforts are mysteriously never mentioned by those same self-described “advanced” eco-sensitive narcissists, who frequently appear on TV to chastise us or, because of some being jobless since even before the economic meltdown, have nothing better to do than to ride bikes to rallies or protests, wave signs and commit acts of eco-terrorism. Course, with these acts of domestic terrorism they frequently contradict their own message. (In one inspired local instance, a group of eco-terrorists burned down a house which was built in forested area because the house and yard destroyed natural habit. Unfortunately, by this very act they actually burned to the ground several acres of natural forest themselves.) No affirmation for any progress is ever heard from such people, only condemnation.


Talking Heads - Burning Down The House
Thereby comes the annoyance factor at those who scream at government and business, wanting a technology now that doesn’t yet exist or is not efficient enough to be financially viable for any company. Yes, there are those who specialize in pursuing this technology, but they tend to be fringe companies or offshoots of various industry giants. Though at times I wonder if these offshoots just exist as an equivalent to a “green” label on a household cleanser. Yet, despite any effort they make, or no matter how many scientists a particular company may put on a particular eco-project, still it’s some of businesses fault that we are supposedly lagging in eco-technologies.


Can we really expect business to be our savior when it comes to ecology? I argue we can’t. Business is there to make money first and foremost. So if a market is there and profits are being made then there is no reason to engage in things that will compromise the company or make a share holder want do a swan dive off a busy freeway overpass. Does this mean that business may never find a viable, eco-friendly technology? Not at all, just it may not come from one of the business giants. It could through research and development, but the only reasons to engage in that are, by some government mandate, a PR ploy, in which case may not be efficient enough to be producing these new technologies, or to bring the company’s profits into the future, to where all businesses wish to be, at the forefront of such technological advancements to maximize the profits from the opportunities such advancement presents.


In business this is how success is measured, by the amount of capital. It would be nice to say that all businessmen and the heads of successful companies are planning on being martyrs for the good of the world, but they aren’t. The ultimate goal is to accumulate capital, so for them to spend billions of dollars on saving the planet and risking it for that reason alone isn’t really realistic. Yet, what is, is that some fringe company or company legitimately engaged in research and development, hoping to find another capital building enterprise, will stumble upon or improve technology, which will both make it economically viable and eco-friendly.

Technology, as well as the eco-movement, seems to be a form of social evolution. It naturally develops, is fine tuned, profited from and transforms, usually transcending its previous form. I feel from this “natural” process new technologies will emerge, or technologies that already exist will become increasingly efficient, made available to the populace becoming the new cash livestock industry of the future all based on public demand, cost, and ease of acquisition for the common man. Or woman for you feminists.



Did I mention I was going to recycle the cans of “Four Loko?” Just sayin’.

On Spite and How it Makes a Complete Spit Out of You and Me (Okay, Maybe it Doesn’t Work)

“I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!” --Fyodor Dostevsky, “Notes From Underground”

Nonpoint - In the Air Tonight

There are many instances in our lives which when looked back upon bring about fond or not so fond memories, making us smile, laugh, cry or shudder with a severe kind of numbing embarrassment. Indeed, I quite recently I had a incident like the latter, one which will haunt me for a good few days anyway. It really isn’t that big of a deal, yet it was enough of one that I took notice and found myself wanting to find a way to reduce the chances of such a gross overreaction ever happening again.



Truth be told, recently I have been a kind of a jerk and my temper seems to fly wildly out of control, more so than I have experienced within my life prior to about three months ago, though admittedly this anger was more perpetual within me than it is currently. The whole thing centered around one of my inanimate arch nemesis’s: the fireplace pellet.



While accompanying a friend to a grocery store to get pellets for her fireplace, I thought I would carry the bags of pulp morsels to her vehicle. However, it seems I not only underestimated their weight, but their bulk, which made carrying these impossible (for me anyway for I am a complete pantywaist to begin with).



In the process of figuring this out, which probably wasn’t as sharp of a mental operation as it might have been otherwise, due to the “couple beers” I had. Whatever the case, drunk or stupid, or both, I momentarily struggled, when the cashier and the woman behind my friend suggested I grab a cart. Now, you would think they would find this pathetic display to be quite comical, yet it was the opposite. For some reason they were rather aggravated and quite, almost, angry.



Lets just say I didn’t respond in a healthy manner, mentally or for my back. My reaction, in retrospect, is more embarrassing than the actual fireplace feed fumbling. If I didn’t look like a moron yet, I was quickly about to, for I lifted the bags awkwardly against my chest and struggled towards the nearest door, my fingertips digging into the plastic sack. I half expected the bags to come tearing open, dumping the contents all over the floor. I suspect I would have been so embarrassed, I would have wept freely at that point and relocated in shame to some compound high in the mountains and deep in the woods, shying away from all men and cursing the day I ever walked into QFC.



So, if I would have just accepted their help, I could have walked out with my head held high, but I didn’t. Not only did I not, but I also got angry at the very mention of help, though their rudeness certainly had something to do with that and instead of stopping the spectacle, I made it worse by letting my frustration and anger get the best of me.

Today when recalling the episode, it makes me just shake my head with an uncomfortable chagrin and my mind moved to pondering the reaction. Sure, I could have just shrugged it off as a product of alcohol, but with my recent trip to Alaska, I have come to recall even incidence up there of similar reactions, where I would be on a certain task and receive instruction or constructive criticism concerning my duties. I reacted in much the same way, in fact, in spite, gleefully and angrily displaying a prominent disobedient disregard for the instruction. If it weren’t for these other circumstances, again, I just would continue shaking my head and the incident would have sunk into the recesses of my mind to be uncovered by some future therapist at a later date.



This being the case, what could I conclude were some of the contributing factors to my behavior? Dostoevsky is by far my favorite writer. The philosophy, psychology and theological themes contained within his well constructed prose never fail to pull me in. A running theme in many of his narratives is the psychological relationship between shame and pride. Moreover, Dostoevsky shows how these two seemingly contradictory views of the self can, either by themselves, or by interacting with the other affect our behavior. Certainly, I believe that both of these states conflicted in me at the time of the infamous “pellet incident,” but more so pride was evident.

With this identified, it got me to pondering the nature of pride and have found pride to be a volatile fragile viewpoint, which is almost the complete antithesis of what one might think. The ultimate paradox of the whole thing is that the greater the pride, the greater the opportunity to have it wounded, which directly breeds spite. This, I believe, was the process at work when I spazzed out in front of a friend and two complete strangers.



Both pride and shame threaten to change our perceptions of the world and how people view us. Often we deceive ourselves into thinking we are despised or even exalted in the eyes of others. Thus, our interactions in the world and even the friends we keep, or don’t keep, is reciprocal to how we view ourselves.

Yet, why is pride bad? Is it a bad thing to be proud of the things we do and accomplishment? No, of course not, this in itself is not a bad thing. Accomplishment and productivity are great things and the danger lies not in this but in the perversion of this view. We are not to twist our view of what we have done, not done, who we are, who we aren’t, and then juxtapose it with the accomplishments of others. This is where pride becomes unhealthy and a lot of mistreatment of peers and people in general comes from these underlying point of views.

Simply, I took great pride in the work of my own hands and what I had accomplished, but when I carried that into public and interacted with people, there was an inherent comparison there which resulted in an excessive anger in me. Not that I always keep it in remembrance or I was taking pride in juggling fireplace pellets, no. Rather, that in a continuum of hard work, I learned that challenging or pushing myself fed my pride and gave me means to raise myself up conceptually above others. So I guess subconsciously, when people rebuke me or offer instruction, it as if I have failed, which leads to shame. However, often times we use emotion as a defense against pain and when one spends much of his life in shame and finds pride, one such as me will use emotion to guard against shame from creeping in. As said earlier, the greater the pride, the greater the chances to have it wounded, meaning one will have to put on a bigger defense, become more sensitive and prone to anger as their pride grows.

So how to guard against this is the newest challenge. I have come to the realization that I lack a humility when it comes to viewing other people. Humbleness is not necessarily considering yourself lower than other people, for this can be dangerous at times, false, or lead to a sinking despair. Instead, to be humble in the healthiest of ways is to not compare yourself to people at all. Granted this a fine line to walk.



So back to the incident. I had failed at a mundane task, but how dare two people at QFC point out my fault. Who the hell do they think they are? Do they not know the things I have accomplished?

What a bastard I am! Yes, they were rude, but rudeness doesn’t have to go both ways, for that in itself would be pride talking. Rather, I should have moved on, accepted the help and then I could have spent tonight not pondering psychological questions, but goofing off on Facebook or something.



I don’t expect my behavior to change right away, but I expect that I will work on it. That’s really why I am writing this in the first place, that if it is written and posted, it may produce a conviction and accountability that will carry on long after the embarrassment has faded. To change such things like ones behavior, is not an easy thing, and not like, to use a cliché metaphor, flipping on and off a light switch, but one must go into training in order for the culmination of desire and conviction to come to pass.

Or it could have been the fact I was drunk.

On The Superbowl and a Quick Congrats

With this being the unofficial, unknown random subject blog under 20,000 hits of the New Orleans Saints, I felt that it was important for me to congratulate them on a job well done.

And to my friends:

On Alaska, Pumpin’ The Hump, and The Legend of Shackle Mouth: Part 1

Primus - John the Fisherman

Greetings Friends.

There are a couple things within my life I regret:

First, that class I accidentally took at the civic center concerning transgender meditation (stupid dyslexia).

Two, that I broke the first cardinal law of blog etiquette and failed to keep my blog constantly updated.

I have been in town a while now and when I first got back from Alaska it was true I was just too busy to write. Yet, I have been at home since September and now knowing that you may be asking yourself (if you have nothing better to think about, in which case I pity you) what have I been doing since and why I haven’t adhered to that aforementioned trespassed cardinal rule? For the most part, I have continued to work on the boat doing shipyard tasks and in my spare time have tried to think of a good excuse to mislead my blog readers into thinking that I am not some complete waste of space and that I really did have some pressing issue going on that kept me from writing. All this in order to cop-out of the encumbrance of responsibility which confronts me daily due to my lack of blogging discipline.



Yet, apparently when it comes to moving beyond the regular poop and fart jokes, my wits fail me. So, I could not come up with anything at all in terms of an excuse. Thus, with no other option, I have resorted to bring unto you an air of honesty and can only ask, and hope, for your forgiveness in this matter. If I can’t get that, then you can always just bite me and go visit Huffpo or something else you ungrateful pile.

With that out of the way, I thought I would take this time to reflect upon my adventures in the land of oil, Palin, and fish. Alaska is a state where the scenery runs the gamut between gorgeous and desolate, and the people run the gamut between alcoholics, drug addicts, recovering drug addicts, convicts and ex-convicts. Needless to say I felt right at home. Of course I jest. (I need to say that, for most the people up there have guns and I am planning on returning sooner or later.)



I spent 3 months over the summer working on a fine, seaworthy, 112-foot schooner, the “Sea Ern.” To clear up any confusion, the boat is named after a sea dwelling bird and not some buoyant transoceanic vessel used to store the ashes of the deceased. Its almost a perfect name because its not too cliché, and has an association with marine biology which isn’t too overbearing or tacky. I say “almost perfect” because of a superstition concerning boat names, but I will get into that later. At any rate, a lot of boat names are just stupid, or a little too esoteric, though you may occasionally run across an interesting one like the “Oh Snap,” or “The Happy Hooker.”



I worked with 4 others. There was of course Rolf, the captain who skillfully got us safely from port to port and who would sometimes yell out some not so gentle words of “encouragement“ to the crew when need be. There was Dennis (AKA “The Enigma“), the deck boss, crane operator, and avid professional wrestling fan with an itchy trigger finger. He was an all around likeable hard ass who was responsible for foreseeing that which went on upon the deck. There was Jack (AKA “Captain Jack Swallow”) the engineer who kept the boat running and whom you tried not piss off, for if that occurred, something wicked our way would surely and surly come. There was also Jason (AKA “The Social Butterfly,” and “The Main(e) Mojo”) a deckhand, crane operator, and proud New Englandish disciple of Tom Brady, who dreamed of being back home in Maine where he could sit on is porch and drink “beah’s” with his “dag.”


It was always odd listening to The Social Butterfly speak and it took some time getting used to because apparently in the state of Maine the alphabet only has 25 letters, for they seem to have no idea what an “R” is, or if they do, they only have a theoretical understanding of its use.

Then of course, there was me, Brandon, (AKA “B-Low,” and due to my ability to scamper about on deck with both grace and agility, “The Gazelle.”) a lowly deckhand. I was, along with Jason, a peon and did everything from pilot the boat on occasion, to cleaning up the galley. Since my culinary prowess can ruin Ramen, clean up usually was reserved for me. That’s okay, it turns out I would make a fine housewife someday. If I were into that. What a good wife I would be.



Looking Glass - Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)

So did I work on a fishing boat? No. Did I work on a processor? Again, No. So what the hell did I do?

I worked on a Tender.

In case you are too lazy to Google it, I have provided some visual aids and, obviously due to their quality, they are a large part of why this particular blog entry has taken so long to complete.

Below is a chart giving a brief description of the whole fishing process, which I have labeled “Fig. F.”



Now, as before mentioned and indicated in the above diaphragm, the Tender doesn’t actually do the fishing. There are two main ways that one goes about catching a load of Salmon. The Sockeye (Fig. S), or Red Salmon (Reds for short) are usually caught using what is called a gillnet, which most of you could quickly recognize and are familiar with. It is a net designed with a certain specified size mesh, which is stretched across a body of water and into which the salmon lodge their wee little heads and get snagged by the gills. The net is hauled up and the fish are plucked out of the net into large tote bags called “brailers.”.



The Pink (Fig. P), or Humpy Salmon (Humpy for short), were caught utilizing a seine net (the net pictured in Fig F.). These nets have a smaller mesh and are not designed for catching the salmon by the gills, but rather to impede escape. The nets are wrapped around a school of fish, and are hauled up, the net, pursing and growing smaller until the fish are concentrated within the snug confines of the net. At this point is where we come in.



Sockeye are fished in the Bristol Bay region of Alaska. After the catch, the fishing boats tie up along side us, and we pluck the bags out of their hold by use of a crane. The bags are then lifted on board and are carefully weighed via a scale. Hanging from that scale, is a pelican hook (Fig. A). This hook supports the bag and has a tag line connected to it. Once the weight is recorded the bag is maneuvered over a large metal “dump box.” Attached to this box, is a chute, which leads directly to a manhole of any of the three corresponding tanks. The tag line is pulled and the pelican hook disengages, dumping the fish into the box and they then slide down the chute into the designated tank. This of course is our method of fish transfer, however, and it varies somewhat from boat to boat.



In the Prince William Sound vicinity of Alaska, large amounts of hatchery Pink salmon pour into the various fishing grounds spotted throughout the sound. Here seine nets are used and the method of madness changes quite a bit. In this instance we tie up directly to the seine and take, what is in essence a rather large vacuum cleaner, and put the hose into the net (Fig. B). The vacuum is fired up and the fish are sucked upward through the hose onto a sorting table/dewatering box. From here they pour into a “weigh box,” which directly hangs upon a scale. Once the vacuums cycle is complete, the fish are weighed and with the weight being recorded are dumped into the dump box, where they then pour down the chute into a waiting tank (Fig C).





That is just the work aspect of the experience. However, when you don’t set foot on land for about a month and a half and are confined to the same vessel with the same people, there is obviously quite a bit more about the whole venture.

First off, one should be warned that any commercial fishing undertaking has the ability and probability of completely destroying friendships. That being said, it also has the ability to create them as well. My theory though is that friendships are made and destroyed in alternating cycles with each fishing season.



Fishermen, and tender men as it were, are a very superstitious bunch by nature. So much so, I am probably trespassing against several right now, just talking about fishing and tendering in this blog. Even, in fact, as I sit here, land locked within a Starbucks sipping on a grande “shot in the dark.” I got a taste of these superstitions right off the bat, when I ignorantly arrived at the boat carrying a hard-backed suitcase. This apparently caused a couple of the crew members to look upon me with great hesitation, for it is bad luck to have such a suitcase because of its resemblance to a coffin.



I don’t know how they cleansed the vessel of such stigma, though I am pretty sure it involved the burning of sage. Not that I witnessed them burning sage, just, it seems, that this particular act is like a metaphysical aspirin, the first step and near cure all when it comes to such things.



Some other curious superstitions are that there are to be no women aboard a boat. Though it might not be tough for some people, like those in a 70’s disco band, for me it was extremely difficult and I was really only able to get by thanks to a Nancy Grace bookmark I happened to run across. Oh Nancy, how I missed your feigned tirades of supposed outrage which only serve to feed your ego and inject a healthy dose of sensationalism into the media mainstream.



Also, there are to be no bananas on board. Though, it may be extremely tough for some people, like those in a 70’s disco band, for me it wasn't difficult at all because I get all my sustenance from a extra large bottle of Centrum Silver.

In The Navy - Valhalla

(I smell a Grammy)

One of the most profound fishing (I will refer to it as fishing, though it has already been explained that we don’t fish, its just quite honestly more aesthetically pleasing to say “fishing,” than “tendering.” In addition, an argument can be made that it is warranted due to tendering playing a vital and necessary role within the fishing industry) phenomenon’s which I ran across was that upon a fishing boat, everything is rendered with the innate ability to produce vital harm upon ones person. Even the most mundane of household, or boathold items as it were, become formidable weapons. I don’t expect anywhere else in the cosmos one can manage to lacerate themselves with a shampoo bottle, but once upon the water, one should remember to exercise caution while handling bodily cleansers.

If such an incident does unfortunately occur, one would be wise to keep it to themselves, for many hardened sea-salts get rather annoyed by those who complain about injury. So, knowing this, and being a fantastic klutz/moron, I had to devise some clever ways of keeping people from knowing about various injuries (though not all as there were several) and it was by these efforts I came across the best bandage ever made as far as I am concerned: Electrical tape. I think every hospital and first aid kit needs to be stocked to the rafters with piles of electrical tape, however that is a rant for another time.

And with that I must leave you for the time being, but there is still much more to be said. Yet, that will have to be saved for a later date (not that much later for much of it written). I wanted to produce it all in a single blog entry, but found myself wrapped up in an endless tangle of tangents. Thus, I need to write it in installments. Again, thank you for reading and thank you to everyone who spurred me on to sit at my laptop once again. Before I leave you though, I would just like to say that no pelicans were harmed or molested by me personally during the production of this blog article. There may be some indiscretions in my past that I might need to burn some sage for, but that’s for me to know and its none of your business thank you.



By the way, according to my sources at the International Bird Rescue Research Center, the Pelican was treated, released, and is now living comfortably in California eating more fish than Jeremy Piven.



Until next time, Brandon clear.