Human Frailty,Death and Despair at Fort Hood.

There are very few times in the American experience when we’re reminded that domestic military bases are essentially large campuses. Training, administrative and housing facilities for those who would defend our lives, both from disaster in this country and threats abroad. These sprawling facilities have large armories, but most personnel aren’t John Wayne-ing around with

Entrance To Fort Hood Army Base

 weapons at the ready.  Army psychiatrist Major Nidal Hasan shot at least 43 individuals Thursday in a Fort Hood, Texas facility for soldiers readying to deploy overseas. Men and women occupied with focusing on the mission ahead and putting family and the comforts of home into a locked compartment of their minds for an 18 month or more tour. What this trained caregiver did, at it’s very essence, was open fire on a group of people no more prepared for a firefight than the students  in the Columbine, Colorado, or Virginia Tech campus shootings were.

The eyewitness accounts claim that Hasan was heard to shout “Allahu Akbar,” which is Arabic for “God is Great.” I’m not going to write from emotion here, because even the most detached, rational part of me knows that the God I worship is great, but He doesn’t have to shoot anybody to prove it. I often wonder if God is more harsh on people who invoke his name to justify doing evil, heinous acts. Hasan’s humanity is frail, but he can prop himself up on a god- figure whom he believes asks him to kill fellow humans, children of the same God. People are stupid, and my fervent hope is that one day Hasan stands before God and hears as much.

You may not believe that any good could possibly come out of this horrible, despicable act of inhumanity. I don’t either, but there is one thing that gives me the least little reassurance. Nidal Malik Hasan failed miserably. In every other shooting rampage that this country has witnessed the inflamed gunmen has turned on himself in the end. They’ve all claimed media martyrhood in death. Hasan is clinging to life as I write this. The bastard coward’s death is too good for him and now Nidal has to look families of the dead soldiers  in the eye. God is great and may He deal with Hasan’s soul as He would, mercy or not.

Hope, Love and Possibility.

After glibly writing the little post about being in the “other” half of healthcare last week, I ended up in the middle of a medical crises in the workplace that frightened me into reality. After getting the scare of a lifetime in which a doctor and E.R. nurse bailed my ignorant self out, I’m taking whatever c.p.r and basic lifesaving courses are available to me and sitting in on committees to better equip my work area for emergencies. I admit to being woefully wrong and realize that we are all involved in the care of others.

If you’ve glanced at this page over the last four months you might have noticed the constantly moving, always evolving Social Vibe widget and the To Write Love On Her Arms badge. TWLOHA is an organization that raises awareness and support for individuals fighting depression, addiction, self-injury and the effects of suicide. The overwhelming message TWLOHA puts forward is that you are a loved, valuable, beautiful person and there is redemption and hope for every person alive. While the group is not a 24 hour hotline, they offer themselves as a bridge, a way to find the people who will help you recover and thrive. Rather than sitting in their offices taking donations and selling t-shirts, TWLOHA is moving through street level support, concerts and events that spread the message- “Rescue Is Possible.”

I’ve talked on the Spatula several times about battling depression. I don’t hide it and could care less about the social stigma that’s been attached to the disease (and to mental illness in general). Depression is a sickness that can be controlled with medication and therapy. There is no problem in this country talking about erectile dysfunction or such non-medical issues as inadequate eyelash growth, but for some reason depression can’t be discussed. During college my depression spiked to a point where I needed help. Fortunately, I got assistance after bottoming out. I was one of the blessed depression patients who lived.  What I remember is that while I was getting the meds right, careening through the effort to mend broken relationships, it was hard to find anyone who understood what was going on. When I returned to my classes, I remember telling a professor  ”Sorry I missed so much time… I had to get my depression treated.” He looked at the floor and just said “Well, that happens.”  Honestly, I don’t blame him a bit. Would I have done any better in his shoes? I just wondered if anybody was listening. The world had collapsed on me and I was alone in despair.  Thank God for groups that now exist like To Write Love On Her Arms. Not only are they letting people fighting depression know that they matter, but they’re supporting care programs on their behalf.

My story ends on a happy note. More to the point, it hasn’t ended, which is not true for so many. Worldwide, a million people choose to end their lives by their own hand each year. Call me naive, but I still believe we can change this. Love, listening and concern for others. Help is out there and so are people who care. I’ll keep on supporting To Write Love on Her Arms and keeping letting those who suffer that I care. Onward and upward.

Corn Fed Hillbilly Considers Computer Animation.

Last night, during Game 4 of The World Series, The new Avatar promos debuted. I sat through some of the trailers for the film over the Summer. Being an avowed cmab (crotchety middle-aged bastard), most of the previews for the James Cameron computer sauced, action adventure movie made me snicker and talk to the screen (“Goodie! Another Chris Kattan animated dog-man video game flick!”). At least once, I was reprimanded. As I should have been. Avatar now has me intrigued. Just a little, but that is a huge step for me to admit such. Cameron is one of cinema’s most adept storytellers and the plot is pretty good. In Avatar, a paralyzed young man is recruited and becomes a Space Marine. Scientist Sigourney Weaver creates a stylized replica of the man and sends it to fight among  indiginous peoples of the moon-planet Pandora. The Marine’s “avatar” falls in love with a creature on the surface and fights big robot gun ship flying baddies. Kate Winslet disrobes midway through the film and makes love to the avatar just before he slides off a tea-chest into the icy Atlantic.   The story is Passable. Not plausible, but what movie is anymore?

Cameron has  pioneered  lots of the effects that we take for granted. The liquid metal animation in The Abyss and Terminator 2 were pretty daggone cool twenty years ago. The auteur spent a decade on Avatar, which is kind of a shame, because the cartoon reality looks like a world Of Ligers fighting pseudo human enemies, and Cat Chow mutants making out (and holding hands on hilltops, which is sweet. Aww.). Movie goers (i.e., dvd renters) are in for an early winter full of computer graphic filled films using cartoons to tell human stories. New Moon is set to come out later in the month, and God forbid I make fun of Twilighty vampire goodness. Again, though, the story can’t be told without lots of computer sweetening. This week Jim Carrey’s Disney animated Christmas vehicle A Christmas Carol debuts. Debuts. The 580th retelling of the “gag-me with one more version of this damned redemption fable.” Cornball, over animated, fantastically digital kiddy trash. Disney has no faith in the thing, because they started a cross-country promotional train tour with props from the film in late Spring. They sure weren’t running it up against New Moon.

This is not the crotchety middle-aged aged bastard part of me ranting, but I really do like a sort of organic version of story telling. My philosophy on rock and roll has always been that if you can’t reproduce the music on a Fender, don’t bother. I like club music, but when I get in the car to go home the music is tough rock and roll played by storytellers. Same with movies. Tell me a story and leave your cartoons on the cutting room floor. Real movies, real music, real boobs, and by all means, real stories. (Yes, you can beat me up for being a Fringe fan)

Chicken Boy Sings The Blues.

Yesterday was Chicken Dipper day. My fry daddy employment life requires at least one day every couple of weeks  I do nothing but fry double-breaded, peppered chicken parts (supposedly breast tenderloin). Well, there are still the noobes who ask for a burger or some kind of non-fried chicken sandwich and I’m obliged to serve them. For most of the day I’m just frying my 80 pounds of Dippers. We’ve gone through 120 pounds on busy days, but the cafe hasn’t been that in-the-weeds for some time. Yup, I’m the fried chicken merchant of death. Big plates of chicken, curly fries and heart disease. All cooked in something labelled “Mel-Fry” which doesn’t make me feel better about the process. The redeeming thing, I suppose, is that I serve Dipper meals primarily to stressed out nurses. Anything I can do to give the staff comfort food and calm them down a little bit is reassuring. Of course, they wash the whole mess down with gallons of Mountain Dew, starting the whole stress cycle again. Many reside in an over worked, 40/40 universe-40 pounds overweight and  40+ years old. I’m not judging, living in a 36/25 club myself. When the administration decides to throw out the four-barrel fryer, I’ll gladly help them plan some more nutritionally sound alternatives (even if it costs me the job).

There is hope. My employer may be slow in getting rid of the Dippers, but in the next couple of weeks we’ll start selling the old school, 8 oz. sized Coke bottles. Coca Cola, when it first appeared in the contoured container, came in a 6 1/2 oz. bottle. The 12 oz. steel can appeared in 1960. The company has announced that by next spring they’ll make available a commercial 9 oz. can for better portion control and my hope is that we carry that too. This may be too little, too late. In the 1950’s Pepsi Cola began its war to put larger amounts of soda on shelves at cheaper prices to the consumer. Coke followed during the sixties and by the mid ’70’s two (and three) liter bottles appeared. Coke’s 9 oz. can movement has nothing to do with health, no matter what statement they put forward. This is just branding another size of sugary drink for the crowded market place. No redemption for a company that has been offering soda in six packs since the dawn of the last century. Still, it’s a start. Especially when Pepsi recently started selling Tall Boys, the 16 oz. beer-sized cans. At a time when consumers are pushed toward more-lots more high fructose corn syrup, lots more food coloring-at least Coke had the sense to offer some alternatives. It’s not healthy to pour the stuff down one’s gullet, but, at the very least, we can do so in single servings.

The new administrator I work for is a proselytizer in the cause of fresh food. The frying of hundreds of pounds of Dippers each month will go away at his direction in the near future. We’ll see what happens to the sugary soda pop. Brave new world for fry cooks, either way.

Low End Retail Therapy.

After a few rampantly negative posts I started thinking about all of the good, positive things in life. There are many and myriad ways to enjoy life and I need to embrace them. I made some more desserts and had a good time. Yesterday, I got a job offer, thanks in part to desserts, and may be soon leaving hospital hamburger land. The positive elements in life definitely are on the upswing.

The Spatula hasn’t taken many field trips this year, but I do go to Walgreens quite a bit. This is not a plug for the pharmacy chain or the ravings of some old man in search of low-cost prune juice and Faygo cream soda. No, I honestly found a new kind of tranquility in taking a few hours out of one day each month and sauntering around the drug store. Clean isles, bright flourescent lighting. Snacks. Excedrin. I could live there. Formerly, I was an electronics guy. I had to have better hard drives, more elaborate desktop computer cases, the best mother boards. Had to have a fix every month. Like many people, I reevaluated my needs vs. wants, got rid of the easy credit lifestyle and embarked on the life of monkitude. I’ve never been happier. My one weakness has been proper hygiene. After having given up all the frivolity and waste in life, I still like to be…not metrosexual, that’s just played out. No, more cromagonsexual. The cleaned up, partially upright, prehistoric man. So, I make a hygienic foray to the calmest place in my universe on the first of every month and indulge in cleanliness.

The whole thing started with toothpaste. I am a walking migraine, my achy-breaky head ready to explode and kill everyone within shouting distance. There came a point when the act of brushing my teeth gave me a migraine bad enough to make me drive with my eyes shut. No discernable difference in driving that way, as it were. Not wanting to go all Walter Bishop and  make my own dental products from glycerin, I began searching for toothpaste with no artificial sweeteners, Red Dye #40, or caramel coloring. Mouthwash, too. The clerks began to recognize me on site and point out newer, more Luddite dental aids without headache causing ingredients. I ended up buying Tom’s toothpaste for children. This discovery really led me to becoming a hygiene junkie. Now, excitedly, I spend a late night each month in Walgreens, exploring all the different products for men. I always took care of myself, but this is a whole new ball game. I work in a profession where smelling good-really good-is frowned upon (the healthcare part, the cooking not so much). So, I’m working on the manly art of scent layering. Okay, weird, but I don’t confess a lot on this blog, anyway. After it’s all said and done, I’ll come home with a bag of feel-good. It won’t be stereo equipment, or the latest p.c. hardware, but a month of joy, nonetheless. Onward and, er, upward.

Fat Guy In A Cheap Ad.

Every so often I trundle off to bed only to find that I can’t sleep. Not insomnia or some disordered circadian rhythm. No, usually its a snippet of viral media or a fragmented song stuck in my conscious unconscious. Tonight is one of those nights. The fragment in question wasn’t Marilyn Minter’s  video of Pamela Anderson spitting out pink caviar, or even Constanza’s fictional answering machine (“believe it, or not, George is not home…). Worse. It was Fat Guy In A Little Coat. I first read about Direct TV’s forthcoming campaign to resurrect Chris Farley late last week, and while I wasn’t appalled by the idea of using an old Tommy Boy gag for the purposes of selling satellite TV service, I wondered if any living actors could be put to better use. Apparently not, because both Farley and David Spade appear in the spot.

 I haven’t watched a lot of TV over the past 72 hours, but whenever I did, there it was: 1994 Chris Farley singing Fat Guy In A Little Coat to 2009 David Spade. The point I gathered from the ad was that there is no joy in watching Tommy mince around in a sport coat that wouldn’t fit Spade anymore and that I should switch satellite providers for more options. Poor young Chris Farley, trapped in the celluloid hereafter, singing to the older, hagged out  David Spade. Thats what I took from the spot. Well, several things, actually.

• Chris Farley is preserved forever as the Drinkin’ Buddy, The Hulk, Barney the Exotic Dancer. Time has erased the 33-year-old who was left to aspirate to death by a hooker just looking to get paid. He’s revived as the dancing bear once again for our amusement. Never mind that this was a man full of Prozac, coke and heroin. I can only guess that the soulless wonks at Direct TV/Newscorp/Hughes Electronics will reanimate other tragically dead stars and have them party in order to sell satellite subscriptions. Lets have Dale Earnhardt ride around in the #3 talking about what a difference HD makes and John Lennon saying peace would have a better chance with 200 more channels than the competition.
• David Spade, whatever his motivations were, is in a strange place career-wise for agreeing to this. Thats the nicest thing I can say. You couldn’t save Farley and admitted as much in the book The Chris Farley Show, but why give him up for a little cash? These days, I guess nobody needs to ask about giving any friend up for a little cash.

           This doesn’t end with the 1,001 blog posts about the advertisement. It’s just a shame that a guy who filled every need with carnal pleasure until it killed him is hawking TV service a dozen years after his death. Spade labels the ads an homage to Farley. A proper homage might have been showing up for his funeral, or leaving Farley’s  legacy in the world of today a shred of dignity. You couldn’t save him, but you can let him rest.

    

Sports For The Big Boys.

Despite the complete Sunday-ness of today, I took my unshaven self into work to make creme brulees for an administration dinner tomorrow night. They turned out okay (meaning they set up and didn’t jiggle like Jell-O, but didn’t look like rubber custards, either). The cremes even smelled pretty good, although somebody in the kitchen could have used an undie change, and I was forensically separating the aromas.

I’ve commented on various ESPN troubles over the past six months, many of which have been lurid and sexually charged. As I was watching what could be the clincher, game 5 of the Yankees/Angels American League Championship Series in New York, the story crossed the internet of Steve Phillips firing by the Connecticut based sports information giant. This goes beyond sad to just plain old disheartening. I really enjoyed the Baseball Tonight line up of three seasons ago that included Phillips, Harold Reynolds, Jon Kruk and Peter Gammons. There is something to be said for watching my team rack up a win and then turning over to ESPN to hear the game (and every game that day) broken down by the analysts. Kruky and Gammons are still with the network, but Reynolds and now Phillips have been let go over basically the same thing-inappropriate behavior with staffers. I am overloaded with ugly thoughts on the whole subject (and I keep checking the game in the other room-this might take forever).

First, what is it about Brooke Hundley that made Steve Phillips throw away a second career? He nearly lost the first as Mets GM in 1998 for doing the same thing-sex with an assistant. I am not being rude, or malicious when I say that neither Hundley or Rosa Rodriguez (Phillips target in ‘98) are physically attractive. So? What was it that makes a man married to his wife for 19 years cheat with jr. staff members? My analogy would be that of having a sumptuous buffet awaiting at home, but one’s desk drawer is filled with salty peanuts and pork rinds. He may have been enjoying whomever and whatever he felt was available to him in the work place. Never mind that he was wrong and probably mentally damaged. Fulfilling desire was more important to him than his career with the Mets or ESPN. Who am I to pass judgement, though.

Secondly, this won’t be the straw that breaks ESPN”s back, but it should force them to look at their corporate culture. There has been a blogosphere rehashing tonight of the network’s recent sexual scandals, including the firing of Reynolds and the settlement of the  harassment suit brought against the hosts of the former mess of a show known as Cold Pizza. Somehow, this Summer’s problems for sideline reporter Erin Andrews fit right into this pattern, too. The boys club in Bristol has to look inward to its jock heart and change a structure that has enabled man-children to do whatever they want with female colleagues over the years. Firing Reynolds and Phillips was a start. Hopefully we don’t hear about the hosts of Mike and Mike in a three-way with a sandwich, or something worse.

The Other Half of Health Care.

My working life is in service of the “other half” of health care. Like many people, my impressions of health and healing were along the lines of the scene from Airplane! that went something like “Hospital? Yes, it’s a big building with doctors and patients, but thats not important right now.” I understood the industry to be doctors, nurses, and not many others. The “other half” that I work in is the non-clinical side. We have little contact with the heroic physicians and clinical staff that make up the face of the hospital. We clean rooms, transport patients, make sure there are accommodations for everyone, and in my case, prepare the properly prescribed meals for each individual. As the flu season kicks us into winter, I am gearing up for preparing a lot of meals. I hate the idea of anyone having to visit my employer, but am preparing to slug it out in the coming months.

The first Winter I worked for the hospital was startling to me. We’d been busy, but nothing prepared me for this. I’d come from a restaurant where we-the chef, the staff, and the front of the house dictated what we prepared. We told customers when they’d be seated and what would be served. The hospital was a shock to the system. Rather than the staff of professional pirates-salty, well trained lifers who lived for the rush of service on the line- the hospital cooking staff was 100 locals thrown together with the hope that they’d not kill anyone. It worked. For months we were over capacity, with patients vying for available beds, yet we kept on cooking. I never thought much about ambulances, other than to throw up a quick prayer for the occupants as they passed. That Winter I saw a steady stream of them everywhere I went in town. I kept praying, but my thought was always “work.” I’d wake in the middle of the night to hear the wail of the rig’s mushing through the center of town and sit up, thinking “work.” After a few months the staff was exhausted. By March, I remember the slump shouldered lot of us trudging into a conference room for our weekly mandatory staff meeting. We were as punchy as if we’d been treating patients ourselves. An administrator wheeled in a cart full of ice cream and toppings and I think that was the moment that the long winter finally seemed truly over. I celebrated by taking one of the five gallon tubs of vanilla ice cream to a table for my very own.

I’m getting ready for a bang up Winter and glad to have the work. We’re short staffed and in a hiring freeze, but thank God for the job. I may laud the professional cooks, the pirates, but this little army of hospital cooks often put the pros to shame and I’m glad to keep learning from them.

More To A Kitchen Than Clean Counters.

Every once in a while I’ll come across an interview with a celebrity chef in which the question “What’s in your kitchen?” comes up. You never hear the famous culinarians admitting to having bad lettuce, or turkey jerky. It’s always pheromone infused chocolate and bondage gear. Supposedly, I’m a professional cook and I wondered what ten things I always keep in the kitchen and can’t function without. Here’s what I came up with (in no particular order):

• Sriracha-can’t function without Excedrin and Sriracha’s bright, red chili goodness coursing through my veins. The rooster and I are inseperable.
• Sylvia’s Queen of Soulfood Pinto Beans-This is a shameless plug, but I don’t care. I put them in everything.
• Mel’s Taco Love Seasoning-A little something I came up with using a store bought pepper blend and chili powder.
• Capers and Dill-I know, two things, but they are versatile and use them in a lot of ways.
• Natural Peanut Butter-Not just for eating, but stir fry, smoothies, protein snacks. Good stuff.
• Whole, Unsalted Butter-Used in moderation, it’s still better than margarine.
• Dijon mustard
• Cheap Beef and Pork Stew “Chunks” The inexpensive, slightly tough little packages of meat scraps that supermarkets put out for quick sale. I use them for the long, slow cooker days.
• Bones for stock, tucked away in the freezer.
• Wine. Red, white, old, new. My beloved sister gave us crates of wine as a wedding gift when she was working at Clois Dubois and I still break it out for every cooking need. Some people just know how to give a great gift, I guess.

Saturday Night Live Shown To Never Cause PGAD.

I was fortunate enough to come of age just in time for the 1986-’87 season of Saturday Night Live. The late 1980’s and early ’90’s were a deathly dull era to achieve teenagehood in, but there was just a little undercurrent of satire to ease even the most boring years. Those were the re-birth years of SNL, the last years of William Gaines helmed Mad Magazine and the time when Fox had their sickest lineup (Married With Children, In Living Color  and The Simpsons, originally broadcast on weekends, because Fox only aired two days of programming per week). There was fun to be had, despite the repressive times, and the rebirth of SNL was part of that. I became a fan and loyally have watched the show as much possible over the last 23 seasons. Loyalty only counts for so much, and (like I’ve said for most of this decade) I may quit watching the show.

SNL is now, and has been for a long time, an establishment show. There is nothing fresh or inventive about it. The Sarah Palin Thursday updates of a year ago were an anomalous, event oriented gift the show bestowed on N.B.C.  and the nation. The election season ended, Tina Fey packed it in and the show resumed its general un-funiness. This year viewers are treated to an almost entirely Kristen Wiig hour and a half each week and its about like watching toast dry. Kristen’s like a two pitch closer sent into every ballgame to throw strikes. She can’t quite seal the deal and it’s really starting to show. This week Wiig played the part of a woman with Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder. The sketch might have been funny if she hadn’t opted to make the character look more constipated than orgasmic. This is Kristen’s whole shtick-constipated characters in various states of hideous facial contortion.  The new constipated SNL. Welcome to it.

What might make SNL a viable comedy show in the next few years? A new cast would be great. Darrell Hammond is basically done, so why not replace Will Forte, Seth Myers and the rest of the early ’00’s cast? On the subject of Seth Myers, no more single chair Weekend Update. There have only been two comedians able to make the single anchor format work-Chevy Chase and Dennis Miller. SNL needs a youth movement. Lose the horn section and the rest of the band, for that matter. Rather than inviting Shakira on to lip-sync a club song, have bands on that set the place on fire (literally, or figuratively).

SNL is just lost in the times. 30 Rock, The Office, Community, Glee, are better shows. You don’t have to stay up until 11:30 anymore to see humor that is actually humorous. The times have changed and Lorne Michaels’ little misfit variety show hasn’t kept up with them. So, he’ll give us the dramatically unfunny (and un-black) President Barack Armisen  for a couple of seasons and Kristen Wiig’s face mugging until one day some bright young network executive admits that the sad old show is just too expensive to keep on the air. Onward and upward.