Wishing on a Blue Star (5 page)

I first met Patric when he submitted a writing sample to me for a writing course I was running online on
WorldCrafter’s Guild
on simegen.com.  The sample was words.  Text.  But it was nothing but images, vivid images that just sizzled with the need to be made into a film. 

Okay, that sample was lacking in a bit here and a tich there, but it just screamed WRITER IN THE MAKING! 

This man was full to the brim with stories, and the only medium he had not yet mastered was text.  We exchanged a few notes, and first thing you know he was explaining how to organize our brand new writing school, WorldCrafter’s Guild. 

So even though he was a student for this first course we offered, he ended up webmastering the course’s technical underpinnings.  Then we got to talking on AIM and he pointed out the short-comings of our web-design.  Next thing you know, he’s the simegen.com Art Director. 

The image and design layout for major pages of a domain really is an integral part of the mechanism visitors don’t see—the server and the web-server.  We lacked in elegance. 

Before you could shake an electron, Patric was our sysadmin and has been ever since, building and rebuilding the simegen.com domain and minding a long list of domains we host on our server.  To this very day, he’s still hatching plans to redesign and update the “look” of simegen.com, to migrate the domain to a newer hardware setup, to upgrade our “elegance” from the inside out. 

He watched our somewhat successful efforts to bring writing students through to professional level, and participated in our courses, in private tutoring, in the stringent training we give in book reviewing as part of sinking the writing lessons into the subconscious.  He followed my posts on aliendjinnromances.blogspot.com where I present long, elaborate lessons in Science Fiction Romance cross-genre writing.

Then one day he casually mentioned (Patric is usually casual) he’d sold a story.  And I’m “Well, so what else is new?” —I tell you I knew it from that first sample. 

Patric came with “composition” pre-installed, and that is the one, single, most critical thing that we drill into our writing students.  Watching us teach it, (while no doubt chortling that we couldn’t do it in the visual media of web-pages) he learned how to apply composition to text-story telling. 

And all this time (years and years!), Patric and I communicated mostly via AIM.  Occasionally, he’d tech-support my computer problems via telephone, but even that was mostly by AIM.  Via AIM he taught me how the internet works, how internet servers work, how the web is structured, and how it works.  He conveyed abstract principles via text and pounded that “composition = elegance” model of computer science into my head.  He even taught me something about recognizing faces while teaching me why Microsoft products are not to be admired or emulated. 

Patric Michael hates AIM, but he put up with it to talk to me.  Every time I get impatient with a techphobe, I remember what Patric put up with and make a special effort to put up with other people. 

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

De-evolution.

Knuckle dragger. Neanderthal. I got the market cornered. :)

Woke up feeling distinctly sub-human. Since my generosity abounds, I shouted catchy movie tag lines loudly into the void. Things like “Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.” and “In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream.”

The members of the void listened and heard, and ran for cover. Patric was in a bad mood.

(I swear, I have the wisest friends in the world.) :)

I dont really know why I should have felt that way. Maybe it was the dream of having a vampire cat (not a typo) get hold of my real life cat. Maybe it was being bitten by the vampire cat. Dreams are funny things.

Or maybe it was knowing that I was
scheduled
to go to Costco with Papa today. Gods, that would piss anyone off.

So okay, I’m crabby, I’ve warned the friends network, and the cats have scattered for cover. I’m loaded on steroids, taking them *and* the Percocet all at once without a food buffer, hoping for that jittery, buzzed up
amperage
to kick my butt into gear.

Gee, that worked. I was crawling the ceiling, but alas, still just as cranky.

Lets pause for a brief moment to revisit the interlude spent calling various state agencies to ask why I should be told coverage exists, only to be told
that
coverage is of a different flavor, and I actually dont have it after all.... Gotta love the State. Happy to give you anything when you are terminal (knock on wood, or a government official’s head) as long as it doesnt actually do you any good.

Okay. Fruitless mission, that. Back to Costco.... With an entirely new take on “cranky.” What fun we’ll have.

Papa, bless his heart, has become the chauffeur, care taker, buffer zone, and all around “stuck n the middle” guy for me. Love him to pieces for that, but he had no where to run like the rest of my caretakers. I DID warn him that today was not a Happy Day, though. Give me that much credit. :)

He speculated on the dump point of that really thick, ominous black cloud ahead of us as we drove down the hill, and damn me if he wasnt spot on. End result? Getting out of the car and streaking across the Costco parking lot amidst a downpour that would have made Noah blanch. At least we waited for the hail to stop.

The crank-o-meter dialed up a few more degrees, only to red-line when we had to battle our way through a milling horde of people waiting on hapless spouses to “Get the car, honey!” What, did they figure the fire lane is a rainy day loading zone?

Gods, we get rain nine months out of the year. You’d think these folks had never seen the stuff, much less felt it pelt down upon their heads for a few minutes. Did I mention they all have HAIR?

So of course I have to be totally butch and snarl my way through the sheep, my bald head held high and dripping (idiot forgot his hat!) to show them all up. Would have been great if anyone bothered to notice. Up goes the cranky meter still further.

Costco is one of those bizarre American “traditions” that sounds so good on paper, and ends up being an exercise in excess. Everything is sold in cases, or giant bags, or in quantities suitable for your average small restaurant. You cant get just one candy bar. You gotta buy a box. You cant get one pound of hamburger. You gotta buy twelve.

Unless you have a family the size of a small third world country, everyone knows you have to be encouraged to buy that much of anything at a time. (Seriously, 48 rolls of toilet paper?)

So the head honchos, each with an IQ comparable to the aforementioned government officials, decided an inducement was in order.

Enter the freebie counters.

Bits of whatever is currently on sale is cut up, dished up, fried up, and served up to anyone who passes by. Back in the day, when such foolishness was brand new, it was a great way to sample that 96 count bag of fruit roll-ups, or find out for yourself if your stomach would tolerate chili and cheese stuffed, orange marmalade glazed sausages long enough to polish off the 12 pounds that comes in a box.

Now however, “Freebie counter” has become synonymous with “Free lunch.”

I watched a lovely girl named Lana serving up samples of ravioli dipped in what she proclaimed was “Classico Authentic Marinara Sauce.” No sooner would her delicate, vinyl gloved fingers release the little paper cup containing her treasure than some vulture would snatch it away, wolf it down, and make a half assed attempt to score two points at the trash can, only to walk away in search of the next free sample.

Watch long enough and certain patterns begin to emerge. Not the least of which is a frightening similarity to the movie
Jaws
when Roy Scheider is ladling chum out into the water. Customers began to swirl as Lana set up her station, deftly nipping raviolis out of the hot water, swooping them through bubbly red sauce, and plopping the result into little paper cups on her tray. In moments, customers began drawing closer, their eyes gleaming with hungry anticipation. A few jostled each other, apparently hoping for a faster grab.

Lana’s huge brown eyes got wider and I saw her hand move surreptitiously to the little poker thingy she used to skewer ravioli out of the boiling water. Poor girl probably thought she had a chance. In no time at all she, and I, the dope wanting to ask where to find the chili stuffed sausages, were surrounded by a feeding frenzy. Lana backed away, clutching her skewer, but I was trapped against the display by a press of bodies and snatching hands. The cranky meter overloaded, the instrumentation shattered, and all thoughts of shouting “This ain’t a free lunch counter!” dissolved.

I freely admit it. Fear thrummed though my overloaded nerves, and Percocet danced upon the opoid receptors in my brain, and I actually wondered if I were to simply grab the rapidly emptying tray and throw it into the aisle if the mob would fall upon it like squawking gulls so I could make my escape. But Lana surprised me. No shrinking violet after all, she popped open another bag of ravioli and dumped it into the pot. The crowd subsided, though I cant be sure if that was the result of Lana’a quick thinking or the fact that the sample tray was empty. Ether way, it was just the break I needed.

“So Lana, where are those chili cheese stuffed, orange marmalade glazed sausages at?” I asked.

“We’re all out.”

Sigh. Gotta love Costco.

As I walked away, I couldnt help but wonder what ravioli in red sauce tastes like.

Patric

Friday, November 20, 2009

Even Hell has heroes

Once again, I am lax at updating this thing. Sorry!

The excuse is the same as always, with a twist. For the last four days I’ve been feeling worse and worse, and a couple nights ago I finally ran a fever.

For those who dont know, “fever” is a scary word for these doctor and nurse types because it implies infection, and since the chemo is busy destroying the immune system in its bid to get at the cancer, well.... They all warned me repeatedly to let them know right away if I ran a temperature.

So I did.

The first person I talked to took my information and said she’d give it to a nurse who would call me back. Okaaay....

The second person I talked to was a nurse named Mark, who asked me what was going on, so I told him, too.

“I had a fever last night, Mark. 100.7. I’m guessing its from an infection of one of the lymph nodes. Probably migrated from the infection I had at the incision when they took the biopsy. Whatever it is, that node is swollen and the skin around it is bright red and angry looking.”

“Okay,” Mark says. Can you come down and get some blood drawn? Sooner rather than later, in case we have to do anything else.”

“Like what?” I ask. Maybe there’s more to this fever business than I think.

“Antibiotics, stuff like that. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

“I’ll be right there,” says I, and finagle Papa to haul me down to the hospital, yet again. He really should be earning chauffeur’s wages. :)

I haul my sorry carcass into the shower and clean clothes. Blame me for having some sort of pride, but I’m gonna have to be freaking unconscious before I go looking like a scruff ball, or worse yet, in pajamas!

I’d decided not to load up on the painkillers per usual because I didnt want to skew the blood counts. Doubtful it would happen, but there is a lot I don’t know about all this stuff. So... Papa, not the fastest man on the planet, has to wait for me to catch up as we head for the elevators. I think the whole concept is a novelty for him, because I used to be really fast. :)

When I arrive, the receptionist sends me off to the vampires and they grab their quota. Then I’m told to have a seat and Trina, the doctor’s assistant, will bring me the results.

Fair enough. I know perfectly well I am unscheduled, and it would be ludicrous to think they can fit me in for a face to face. She shows up a few minutes later with paper in hand, and tells me that John is with a patient, and that she knocked on the door but he didnt answer. “As soon as he is free, I’ll give these to him and we’ll see what he has to say.”

“No worries,” I say and reach for the results. She snatches it out of reach, then tells me I can’t see them until the doctor does. “It’s policy,” she adds. (Although I am forever asking for copies of my records, she doesnt always deliver and I have to nag. Obviously I dont understand everything, but I get enough to suit me.)

Okay, whatever. I’m already feeling the lack of pain killers enough that I dont have the energy to quibble. A while later she returns, hands me the results, and tells me the doctor was concerned about “Neutropenia” but that my counts were good, “so continue taking Tylenol and I should be fine.” (Oh joy, another word to look up.)

Then she turns and walks away.

Papa and I look at each other and the question is plain. “What the f*ck just happened?”

By that point I had one overriding thought on my mind, which was to get back to the car and dig into my emergency stash of pain killers. It takes thirty-six minutes for that stuff to take effect and when it finally did, we were almost home. Bothersome that it can only take the edge off the problem, but I’ve got a pretty high tolerance to begin with so it’s manageable. Certainly enough to allow me to think about what had happened, and how I felt about it.