It's almost spring, so all you Fence Post readers who couldn't care less about baseball are going to have to put up with me. Every now and then I'm gonna write about the National Pastime:
Watching updates on Anna Nicole Smith.
I'm kidding. I'm kidding. Calm down.
Baseball! It's back. Sure, it's only spring training, but I'll take whatever I can get. I just can't get enough of MLB. To be precise: Red Sox baseball. I'm a card carrying member of Red Sox Nation.
Click on " Handle with care. " Take a look at Sox reliever Mike Timlin. This shot was taken the other day down in Fort Myers, Florida. That's where the Sox hold spring training. Timlin's sporting a new look this year. That hair! That puffy face!
What did he do, have Elton John Surgery over the winter break?
One more thing. The Sox have another pitcher. His name is Beckett ( I'm not making this up. It's Beckett. You have my word on this - as a former adman. )
Beckett's also a writer. You may have heard of a play he wrote:
Waiting for the Dope.
It's about how, every spring, Sox players who report to spring training on time, have to wait for Manny Ramirez to arrive. Late. Every year, it's the same thing. Manny comes up with another excuse for not making it to spring training on time.
This year it was, " My grandmother died. "
Last year it was, " My grandmother died. "
Year before that it was, " My grandmother died. "
Year before....
Well, you catch my drift. But Manny wouldn't.
Handle with care: Timlin stays on shelf - Boston Red Sox - BostonHerald.com
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
YouTube - Every Breath You Take/The Police
This is an odd little song. A pretty song, but scary as hell in a way. The FBI was in the news today. Abuse of the Patriot Act. Sting operations run amok...YouTube - Every Breath You Take/The Police
The following is based on an experience I had while working as a counselor/human rights officer on a locked psychiatric unit in western Massachusetts in the 1990s.
What do you like to be called? That was one of the first questions I asked of the patients I worked with. Nobody told me to do this; it didn’t come up during my orientation to the unit. But all things considered, it seemed to me to be a pretty good idea.
I’d just made a career change. I’d been an advertising copywriter before landing a job in mental health. The advertising business is thick with confident, hail fellow well met types who approach you with a foot wide smile and an outstretched hand. There was no shortage of sociopathic charm in the thickly carpeted corridors of the ad agencies where I worked.
How different can two places be? An ad agency. A locked psych unit. On the unit “ clients “ rarely approached me wearing a smile. Offering a hand? Forget about it.
Most of them were depressed. A lot of them didn’t wish to be touched. They’d been touched too many times, in all the wrong places.
I usually made the first move. Said my name is Terry, then asked, “ What do you like to be called? “ The response I got told me much about a new patient’s state of mind. If he or she said hello and gave me the name they liked people to use – well, that was a good start, an auspicious beginning to the patient, caregiver relationship.
If I got a blank stare, or an angry glare, that was another story. If my gambit was greeted with silence, that was a bad sign. On a locked unit, silence can be an alarm. I preferred “ Screw You “ and “ You can go straight to hell, “ to the silence.
Silence meant they were keeping it in. You don’t have to be Freud to realize that’s not a good thing. Keeping it in meant they’d be letting it out. In some way, shape or form that was bound to be dangerous.
So. If I could get them to tell me their name, the name they wished to be called – let the treatment begin.
I was frequently annoyed by colleagues who didn’t recognize the importance of names. I heard nurses refer to Humberto as Roberto. Gina as Tina. I wondered: Is this their way of distancing themselves from the patients? Is this one of the ways they cope with the frustration of working with the mentally ill?
Did getting to know them too well result in feeling their pain too much?
Consider the opening line of what many consider to be the greatest novel of all time. Of all the first thoughts Herman Melville could have had his character utter, this is the one he chose:
“ Call me Ishmael. “
From the very beginning, we know something important about the man with whom we are about to set sail. He is a man who knows who he is, a man whom we can trust and feel safe as our fragile vessel makes its way out to sea.
Melville knew the power of names.
Mispronouncing a patient’s name. Getting his or her name wrong. Forgetting a name. Those who did that were, in a way, reminding patients of the power they held over them. It was like wearing the key on the wrist. Each of us had a key that unlocked the locked doors on the unit. I kept mine hidden away in my pocket. But others wore the keys like jewelry, attached to rubber bracelets they pulled onto their wrists.
It was like saying, “ I can get out of here whenever I want. “
The implicit message being:
And you can’t.
One morning, just after I started my shift, the charge nurse informed me that there was a new patient she wanted me to check on. He’d been admitted during the night. Been assigned to my treatment team.
“ He’s still in bed, “ the charge nurse said. “ See if he wants some breakfast. “
I walked down the hall and into his room. He was in bed, but he wasn’t sleeping. I introduced myself. Said, “ My name is Terry. “
Silence.
“ I’m the counselor on your treatment team. You hungry? “
Silence.
“ OK, “ I said. “ If you need anything, if I can help you with anything. My name is Terry. “
Then I walked out of the room.
A few minutes later, the new patient appeared at the nurses station. He was getting into it with the charge nurse. His voice was loud, his speech pressured. He was trying to explain the government conspiracy, the web into which he and his family had been lured.
“ I’m not going to talk to you when you’re this angry, “ the charge nurse said.
“ C’mon, “ I said. “ Let’s walk back to your room. “
He grudgingly followed me down the hall. Just as we were about to turn into his room, he took a few steps back, then came at me. Punched me hard in the face. I bent over and saw my broken glasses on the corridor carpet. I saw blood dripping onto the glasses and blood puddling around the glasses. Then I saw him back off again, four,five, six or seven steps. Then he came at me again, this time using his feet. I’d been punched. Now I was being kicked.
Throughout this whole process, he didn’t say a word. And neither did I. Just another quiet morning on a locked psych unit in western Massachusetts.
Me being assaulted. That was the bad news. The good news? The assault took place right outside the clinical psychologist’s office. The psychologist was a good guy; I liked him. But his star on the unit was hardly rising. There was, since I started working on the unit in 1991, a tug of war being waged. On one end of the rope were the shrinks who represented the medical model of psychiatric treatment. They believed pills were the answer. On the opposite end of the rope were people like the psychologist. People who thought talk therapy was the answer.
The psychologist had seen the writing on the wall. His days were numbered, and he spent most of them hidden away in his office. I’d walk by his office and peer in. There he’d be, at his computer, staring into the screen. Pounding the keys.
Every time I saw him doing this I thought of the writer Jack Torrence, that character in the Stephen King novel, “ The Shining. “ Jack Torrence. Remember him? He was played in the Stanley Kubrick movie version of “ The Shining “ by Jack Nicholson. Remember that scene where Jack’s wife discovers what Jack has been writing all those long winter months stuck in that old hotel?
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Over and over again, that one sentence. Three or fours months work and the result is one sentence.
Confined to that room, sentenced to that office. That was how I saw that psychologist, who came to my rescue. He was in his office. Of course he was in his office. He was always in his office and thank God he was.
Right after I got kicked, the door opened and the psychologist beckoned me in. I dove into his office and he closed the door. Then locked it.
The irony is not lost on me. I was rescued from a man bent on killing me. The man said nothing as he came at me again and again. Then there I was, sitting in a psychologist's office, bleeding profusely. The psychologist pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my face. He said nothing. I said nothing. We did not talk, but he saved me.
I remember everything that happened that day. I remember the number of stitches the ER doc sewed into my face. I remember a nurse I worked with coming down to the ER and holding my hand. The one thing I don’t remember is…
The name of the guy who assaulted me. I don't remember his name.
What do you like to be called? That was one of the first questions I asked of the patients I worked with. Nobody told me to do this; it didn’t come up during my orientation to the unit. But all things considered, it seemed to me to be a pretty good idea.
I’d just made a career change. I’d been an advertising copywriter before landing a job in mental health. The advertising business is thick with confident, hail fellow well met types who approach you with a foot wide smile and an outstretched hand. There was no shortage of sociopathic charm in the thickly carpeted corridors of the ad agencies where I worked.
How different can two places be? An ad agency. A locked psych unit. On the unit “ clients “ rarely approached me wearing a smile. Offering a hand? Forget about it.
Most of them were depressed. A lot of them didn’t wish to be touched. They’d been touched too many times, in all the wrong places.
I usually made the first move. Said my name is Terry, then asked, “ What do you like to be called? “ The response I got told me much about a new patient’s state of mind. If he or she said hello and gave me the name they liked people to use – well, that was a good start, an auspicious beginning to the patient, caregiver relationship.
If I got a blank stare, or an angry glare, that was another story. If my gambit was greeted with silence, that was a bad sign. On a locked unit, silence can be an alarm. I preferred “ Screw You “ and “ You can go straight to hell, “ to the silence.
Silence meant they were keeping it in. You don’t have to be Freud to realize that’s not a good thing. Keeping it in meant they’d be letting it out. In some way, shape or form that was bound to be dangerous.
So. If I could get them to tell me their name, the name they wished to be called – let the treatment begin.
I was frequently annoyed by colleagues who didn’t recognize the importance of names. I heard nurses refer to Humberto as Roberto. Gina as Tina. I wondered: Is this their way of distancing themselves from the patients? Is this one of the ways they cope with the frustration of working with the mentally ill?
Did getting to know them too well result in feeling their pain too much?
Consider the opening line of what many consider to be the greatest novel of all time. Of all the first thoughts Herman Melville could have had his character utter, this is the one he chose:
“ Call me Ishmael. “
From the very beginning, we know something important about the man with whom we are about to set sail. He is a man who knows who he is, a man whom we can trust and feel safe as our fragile vessel makes its way out to sea.
Melville knew the power of names.
Mispronouncing a patient’s name. Getting his or her name wrong. Forgetting a name. Those who did that were, in a way, reminding patients of the power they held over them. It was like wearing the key on the wrist. Each of us had a key that unlocked the locked doors on the unit. I kept mine hidden away in my pocket. But others wore the keys like jewelry, attached to rubber bracelets they pulled onto their wrists.
It was like saying, “ I can get out of here whenever I want. “
The implicit message being:
And you can’t.
One morning, just after I started my shift, the charge nurse informed me that there was a new patient she wanted me to check on. He’d been admitted during the night. Been assigned to my treatment team.
“ He’s still in bed, “ the charge nurse said. “ See if he wants some breakfast. “
I walked down the hall and into his room. He was in bed, but he wasn’t sleeping. I introduced myself. Said, “ My name is Terry. “
Silence.
“ I’m the counselor on your treatment team. You hungry? “
Silence.
“ OK, “ I said. “ If you need anything, if I can help you with anything. My name is Terry. “
Then I walked out of the room.
A few minutes later, the new patient appeared at the nurses station. He was getting into it with the charge nurse. His voice was loud, his speech pressured. He was trying to explain the government conspiracy, the web into which he and his family had been lured.
“ I’m not going to talk to you when you’re this angry, “ the charge nurse said.
“ C’mon, “ I said. “ Let’s walk back to your room. “
He grudgingly followed me down the hall. Just as we were about to turn into his room, he took a few steps back, then came at me. Punched me hard in the face. I bent over and saw my broken glasses on the corridor carpet. I saw blood dripping onto the glasses and blood puddling around the glasses. Then I saw him back off again, four,five, six or seven steps. Then he came at me again, this time using his feet. I’d been punched. Now I was being kicked.
Throughout this whole process, he didn’t say a word. And neither did I. Just another quiet morning on a locked psych unit in western Massachusetts.
Me being assaulted. That was the bad news. The good news? The assault took place right outside the clinical psychologist’s office. The psychologist was a good guy; I liked him. But his star on the unit was hardly rising. There was, since I started working on the unit in 1991, a tug of war being waged. On one end of the rope were the shrinks who represented the medical model of psychiatric treatment. They believed pills were the answer. On the opposite end of the rope were people like the psychologist. People who thought talk therapy was the answer.
The psychologist had seen the writing on the wall. His days were numbered, and he spent most of them hidden away in his office. I’d walk by his office and peer in. There he’d be, at his computer, staring into the screen. Pounding the keys.
Every time I saw him doing this I thought of the writer Jack Torrence, that character in the Stephen King novel, “ The Shining. “ Jack Torrence. Remember him? He was played in the Stanley Kubrick movie version of “ The Shining “ by Jack Nicholson. Remember that scene where Jack’s wife discovers what Jack has been writing all those long winter months stuck in that old hotel?
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Over and over again, that one sentence. Three or fours months work and the result is one sentence.
Confined to that room, sentenced to that office. That was how I saw that psychologist, who came to my rescue. He was in his office. Of course he was in his office. He was always in his office and thank God he was.
Right after I got kicked, the door opened and the psychologist beckoned me in. I dove into his office and he closed the door. Then locked it.
The irony is not lost on me. I was rescued from a man bent on killing me. The man said nothing as he came at me again and again. Then there I was, sitting in a psychologist's office, bleeding profusely. The psychologist pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my face. He said nothing. I said nothing. We did not talk, but he saved me.
I remember everything that happened that day. I remember the number of stitches the ER doc sewed into my face. I remember a nurse I worked with coming down to the ER and holding my hand. The one thing I don’t remember is…
The name of the guy who assaulted me. I don't remember his name.
" Boston Celtics radio commentator Cedric Maxwell issued an on air apology yesterday after he said of a female referee, " Go back into the kitchen. "
Before I get to my statement I'd like to make an opening statement. I want to apologize to Senator Schumer for what I said earlier today. I didn't mean to call Senator Schumer a " Lying, squirming, weasel-like bastard. " I was wrong to do that.
I have no evidence that he is, in fact, a bastard. I did not know Senator Schumer's father. I did not know Senator Schumer's mother. I have no way of knowing the circumstances surrounding his birth.
I'm sorry about calling Senator Schumer a " bastard. "
I do, however, stand by my statements concerning his lying, squirming, weasel-like ways.
But, again...I am sorry about the bastard remark. I don't know where that came from. It wasn't like me. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking:
Maybe it wasn't me who said that. Or, maybe someone put a gun to my head and made me say that. To the best of my recollection, that might have been what happened. I could have been drunk. I have no recollection of drinking, however. I want to make that perfectly clear. Maybe someone slipped something into my tea. I wouldn't put it past them.
Make no mistake. A mistake was, indeed made. I'm just not sure if it was made by me.
Before I get to my statement I'd like to make an opening statement. I want to apologize to Senator Schumer for what I said earlier today. I didn't mean to call Senator Schumer a " Lying, squirming, weasel-like bastard. " I was wrong to do that.
I have no evidence that he is, in fact, a bastard. I did not know Senator Schumer's father. I did not know Senator Schumer's mother. I have no way of knowing the circumstances surrounding his birth.
I'm sorry about calling Senator Schumer a " bastard. "
I do, however, stand by my statements concerning his lying, squirming, weasel-like ways.
But, again...I am sorry about the bastard remark. I don't know where that came from. It wasn't like me. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking:
Maybe it wasn't me who said that. Or, maybe someone put a gun to my head and made me say that. To the best of my recollection, that might have been what happened. I could have been drunk. I have no recollection of drinking, however. I want to make that perfectly clear. Maybe someone slipped something into my tea. I wouldn't put it past them.
Make no mistake. A mistake was, indeed made. I'm just not sure if it was made by me.
YouTube - The Band Played Waltzing Matilda-Vistory51
There was an interesting exchange between Imus and New York Senator Chuck Schumer this morning. Imus laid into him, asked him if he's ever visited Walter Reed Hospital, the hospital that's been in the news all week. The hospital where the wounded, the legless, the armless troops get shipped after serving their abbreviated tours of duty in Iraq. At first Schumer said something like, well, not lately, blah, blah, blah. Then Imus got him to admit that this sorry bastard's never laid foot ( He still has two of them, by the way ) in Walter Reed Hospital. Schumer voted to go to war with Iraq, and is among the many who have been making a very big deal about all of us being " misled " and lied to concerning weapons of mass destruction. Yet this lying skunk....
He should listen to this...YouTube - The Band Played Waltzing Matilda-Vistory51
He should listen to this...YouTube - The Band Played Waltzing Matilda-Vistory51
YouTube - "A Life Of Illusion," Joe Walsh
Another point of view....YouTube - "A Life Of Illusion," Joe Walsh
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