You want Hope and Change in 2008?

Elect a paramedic to the White House, baby.

Don’t ask me for specific positions and campaign platform planks. If nebulous promises and vague ideas are working for Barack Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful Obama, and the mainstream media is buying it, I ask for no less than the same slack from the blogosphere.

…but when.

Monday, June 23, 2008, 5:45 pm, I joined the fraternity of riders who have unwillingly sacrificed hide to the Asphalt Gods.

I laid my bike down.

Relax, folks. I’m okay, other than missing a couple dozen square inches of dermis. All I can say is, thank God for dressing for the crash, and not the ride. My armored riding jacket saved me some serious boo boos. If my chaps had been on my body rather than back-ordered, I might have escaped unscathed. As it is, all I have is a semi-nasty case of road rash on my right forearm, thigh and calf, and a serious case of Pink Leg (that’s where ordinary, everyday Red Ass has spread to adjacent parts).

I went into work early the other day, with the intention of dropping by one of the nursing homes to pick up some paperwork I had forgotten from an earlier shift. I dropped off my gear at the station, told my relief I’d be back in an hour, and hopped back on my bike for the 15 minute jaunt down the interstate to Decubitus Manor to pick up the aforementioned forms.

I was coming out of a pretty tight turn on the interstate on-ramp, accelerating fairly hard, when I caught a flash of something; a spot on the pavement, perhaps bathtub-sized, and coated with a layer of pale road construction dust. I saw it early enough to register, and cringe inwardly at what it probably was, but not early enough to keep from running right through it in the middle of a tight, accelerating turn.

It was right about then that, as LawDog would put it, things began to get “Biblically pear-shaped.”

I felt the rear tire lose traction and slide around to my left, and thought, “Hmmm, this might be problematic.”

Got off the throttle, shifted my weight, and succeeded in getting the bike back under me and in some semblance of control, only to discover that I was headed straight for a six inch curb at 35 mph, with no hope of avoiding said curb. It was either hit it and get launched head first into interstate traffic, or lay the bike down.

I chose Option B, and commenced my version of the street luge, sans luge, of course. My asshole broke suction with the seat with an audible “pop”, my bike skittered down the pavement, bounced off the curb and came to rest in the middle of the on ramp, and I followed somewhat less gracefully behind, trying desperately to keep my feet in front of me and cursing like a sailor.

I got up and walked over to my bike, picked it up and rolled it out of the road. Aside from a few gouges on the end of the right handlebar and brake lever, a broken right mirror mount and bent right foot peg, and a scuffed saddlebag, it was unscathed. Even started right up and ran fine.

I however, was not so unscathed. Once my pride had recovered, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket, called our field operations stuporvisor, and told him what happened. I declined his kind offer to send one of our ambulances to my location, and told him I’d likely be an hour or so late to work after I rode home and changed into some new uniform pants.

Got the bike home, pounded the foot peg back into place with a hammer (looking none the worse for wear, thankfully), tucked the broken mirror into my saddlebag, and changed pants. Aside from an epic bruise and a few palm-sized abrasions (I’d post pics, but you ladies are not ready to see the hotness of my tanned and muscled thighs), and being sore as hell, I’m fine.

A dose of JB Weld this morning, and the mirror mount was fine, too – at least until I can order a replacement. Considering that the battery on this bike cost $169, I’m betting that a new mirror mount/right brake lever assembly will set me back about a hojillion or so.

Before any of you ask, no, it’s not gonna convince me to stop riding, no more than a negligent discharge would convince me to stop shooting. It will induce me to be a little more wary of hidden road dangers, though. I figure that’s a good thing.

A few well placed hammer whacks to a bent foot peg: No charge.

Tube of JB Weld to repair broken mirror mount: $4.99

Hard won experience, at the expense of little more than wounded pride: Priceless.

“Keys are on the rack by the door,” I tell the Ex. “Thanks for letting me borrow your truck.”

“No problem,” she waves me off. “No way you could bring KatyBeth with you on your bike. When will you get your truck back?”

“Should be painted by next week, so I’ll ride my bike until then. Speaking of, where is my bike?”

“Husband In Law took it down the street to Sheriff Deputy’s garage. We were getting hail warnings.”

“Ahhh. Well, tell him I said thanks.”

“So, how was your conference?” she asks, handing me a bowl of potato salad and a very full pot of baked beans. “How did they like your talks?”

“They laughed, they cried, they applauded. Women threw their panties at me. The usual,” I shrug. “You want to tell me what I’m supposed to do with these?”

“We’re taking them down the street to Sheriff Deputy’s,” she orders. “We’ve got brats, barbecued brisket and burgers. You’re invited, of course.”

“I’m really in a hurry…” I tell her retreating back as I dutifully follow her out the door, taking care not to spill the beans. She doesn’t give any sign of listening.

“So they threw their panties at you, huh?” she snorts. “And where was my daughter during all of this?”

“For the first lecture, sitting in the hotel room watching Enchanted. She sat through the second lecture like a big girl.”

“Like a big girl, huh?” she raises one eyebrow skeptically. “She didn’t interrupt you at all?”

“She promised to sit quietly,” I admitted, “but couldn’t quite make the whole hour.”

“Uh huh,” she nods knowingly. “How long did she last?”

“Fifteen minutes,” I chuckle. “She was sleepy, and fighting it. Wound up crawling in the Laerdal vendor’s lap and falling asleep.”

“The blonde chick with the huge fake boobs?”

“That’s the one,” I confirm with a leer. “They’re still spectacular. The room was cold, too.”

“You should have known she couldn’t sit still for that long,” she chides. “She’s five years old, dummy.”

“She had a good time, and no one complained,” I tell her firmly. “In fact, she got me a few good laughs. She has her Daddy’s sense of humor.”

“But she interrupted your lecture!”

“Only once,” I correct. “And everyone thought she was adorable. I’m thinking about bringing her to more conferences, actually. Maybe use her to play the sensitive Dad angle,” I wink. “Miss Laerdal Big Boobs seemed to think highly of me.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you yet,” the Ex rolls her eyes, “and because she’s never followed you into the bathroom.”

“Dude,” the Husband In Law greets me as we walk into Sheriff Deputy’s back yard. “the bike rides sweet. Needs louder pipes, though.”

“You didn’t drop my bike, did you?” I ask darkly. “You know, I can forgive you for stealing my wife, but dropping my bike…dude, that would have me stalking you with my deer rifle and shopping for wood chippers again.”

“Lalalalala I can’t heeear yoouu…” chants Sheriff Deputy from amidst a cloud of hickory smoke emanating from the grill.

“Sorry,” I apologize with a grin. “How about ‘would have rendered me disconsolate and depressed, absent any thoughts whatsoever of violent reprisal’ instead? That work better for you, Mister Officer of The Law?”

“Much better,” SD coughs. “Sit down and grab a beer. Want a brat?”

“I really have to get going,” I apologize. “I want to get on the road before dark.”

“There’s rain in the forecast, with possibility of more hail, “the Ex points out worriedly. “You could stay here until it passes, have some barbecue…”

“Most of the weather is east of us now, and I’m heading west. I’d like to get there before midnight.”

“You’re going to get wet,” she warns.

“I’ve got rain gear,” I shrug.

**********

Backpack, stuffed with three days worth of clothes, shaving kit, a pair of sandals and my laptop – my only concession to responsibilities – strapped on the bike.

Saddlebags stuffed with my rain gear, and a few snacks. I may be on the road long after restaurants have closed, and you never know where I might find a scenic overlook and the opportunity to enjoy the view and a few bites of beef jerky.

Gloves on my hands, armored riding jacket zipped up, and MP3 player strapped to my wrist.

On second thought, I put the waterproof liner inside my riding jacket, and don my rain pants. Wouldn’t do to get wet only five minutes into a five hour trip.

I roll onto the highway just around the corner from the Ex’s house, toss a wave to the guys working at the fire station, and point my front tire west. The wind is cool for a change, and mist from the recent rain is rising from the road. The setting sun peeks out occasionally from behind the clouds, the western sky shot through with shafts of warm yellow light. I am literally riding my horse off into the sunset.

My MP3 player is playing Sister Hazel’s Change Your Mind. It seems fitting, somehow.

**********

Just east of Jasper, TX, a huge thunder cell looms ominously. It towers in the dusk, the entire storm front strobing with jagged streaks of lightning, like a vast Tesla coil dominating the western sky, or as Football Fullback puts it, “God taking flash photography of his creation.”

I’m riding straight towards it, and my heart quickens a little at the prospect. In my ear buds, Phil Collins is playing In The Air Tonight.

**********

An hour later, I’m on a lonely stretch of rural highway east of Lufkin. The road bends north a bit, and the thunder cell is still there, albeit shifted off to my left. My rain gear off and safely stowed in the saddle bags, the lower legs of my jeans quickly drying in the breeze, and with the highway virtually to myself, I find myself alone with my thoughts, for the first time in weeks. The roads here are dry, the dusty smell of impending rain lost somewhere over my left shoulder. Turn my head to the left, and I can still see God showing off His personal light show. Turn slightly to the right, and a blanket of stars shine like pinholes in the curtain of night. The road signs show curves ahead, and I twist the throttle, just a little.

The Suzuki V-twin chuckles throatily under me, as if to say, “You want more? All you have to do is ask…”

And ask I do, rolling open the throttle and leaning hard. The bike bellows beneath me, the Bridgestones bite the road, and I’m roaring west, barely sparing the chrome on the end of my footpegs. Midnight Rider is playing on the MP3 player.

And my grin meets in the back.

**********

Just south of Athens, the bike hiccups and dies. I coast to the side of the road, check the trip meter and discover that I’ve gone 120 miles since the last fill-up. That’s close to forty miles per gallon, but the Intruder has a little tank. I’ll use up most of my reserve getting to Athens to fill up.

Oh well, if I have to hike, it’s a nice night for it. The Proclaimers’ I Would Walk 500 Miles is ringing in my ears right now.

I hope it won’t be that far.

**********

It’s a sanctuary weekend spent in Texas, a welcome respite from job and personal pressures, deadlines and commitments. There’s a brother in Dallas I haven’t seen in a while, and once again, the phone call fails to catch him at home. No surprise there; we’ve missed each other repeatedly for the past twenty years, ever since I became a man with my own goals and dreams, and not the kid brother he practicall
y raised.

Still, there is always that pang of regret that we don’t see each other more often. I miss my brother. I miss hearing a voice much like my own, miss sharing a sense of humor akin to my own.

I quell that regret in the company of friends old and new. We sit around on a lakeside patio and eat everything I shouldn’t, drink more beer than is good for me, play penny poker as if every chip is worth ten grand, and stay up far later than my forty year old body will tolerate.

And I feel not one iota of guilt over it. It’s a good tired, not the drained, empty feeling that has consumed me of late. I spend time in the charming company of the woman who invited me, a fellow blogger I’ve talked to for months, but never formally met. All her friends assume we’re a couple, but we both chuckle and do nothing to disabuse them of the notion. Why ruin their fun?

On Saturday, we go out to a local bar in the aptly named Gun Barrel City, and I watch the daughters of one of my new friends absolutely butcher Shania Twain on the karaoke machine. I think it was Man, I Feel Like a Woman, but I couldn’t be sure of the lyrics among the atonal caterwauling and teenaged giggles.

But we all scream like fans at a rock concert anyway. The beer helps.

I spend time people watching. There’s the guy who looks like he just climbed off the oil derrick, right down to the pants so dirty that they shine. Not only does he play a mean air guitar, but apparently he also knows a few chords. He bangs his head like Angus Young, and he climbs waaaaay up the imaginary frets, really shredding his nebulous Stratocaster. He’s a virtuoso of the virtual guitar, that one, and it doesn’t even matter that his singing sounds like someone sodomizing a coyote with a hot poker, if the coyote knew the lyrics to Jukebox Hero.

Still, he’s just damned fun to watch. Of course, the beer helps.

There’s the thin guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a spare tucked behind one ear, with the rest of the pack rolled artfully in one sleeve. Apparently, he believes in redundancy when comes to adequate supplies of Marlboros. He’s sporting his Sattiday go to courtin’ ensemble; the pressed Wranglers and clean white tee shirt, his best pair of shitkickers, and the Larry Mahan Limited Edition Faux Rodeo Champ ™ belt buckle, and I swear the waitress delivered our last round of beers on that very same buckle…

…but I could be mistaken. But at the least, he’s amusing, showing off his pelvic thrust and no doubt regaling some of the trailer park lovelies he’s hustling with the tale of how he supposedly won that buckle…

…and it looks like he’s making some headway. A couple are nibbling at the bait. Amazing what a smooth line and a few well-executed dance moves can do, even to the extent of making them overlook the meth mouth.

When he leads one of them out to the dance floor and proceeds to Ride That Donkey, I am briefly tempted to saunter out there and show him how it should be done. I hold back, though. He’s got more moves than I, and he just showed off The Sprinkler.

Give it time, though. A few more Coronas, and my Funky Quotient will increase exponentially. The beer definitely helps.

Then there’s the charming blogger with the classically trained, operatic voice, who sings You Ain’t Woman Enough To Take My Man like Loretta Lynn only wishes she could have done it. By way of honoring our cheers, she shakes her ta tas at the adoring crowd.

We only cheer louder. The beer helps.

Sunday, after promises to come again, I point the bike back east and head for home. I can’t believe I actually miss sitting in front of our station and watching the crack deals go down. My partner and I have a running contest to see how long each hooker with spend with a particular john. She wins most of the time.

Then again, she’s been here a year. I’ve been here a month. Give me that long, and I may even be able to predict exactly what the guy paid for, based on how soon he drops her off back at the crack house.

The sun is hot in the sky when I leave, but it only promises to get cooler, and the mesh riding jacket feels like nothing at highway speeds. Besides, a little sweat never hurt me. The characteristic guitar riffs of Carlos Santana wail in my ears as I’m Winning plays in my ear buds. I wonder as I ride, who sang the lyrics to that one? If Carlos actually sang, he’d probably sound a lot like Oil Derrick Guy.

Just outside of Jacksonville, I pass a group of guys on Harleys and one odd duck among them riding a sport bike. In almost perfect synchronization, they drop their left hands as they pass, held low alongside the bike. It’s a gesture of greeting and solidarity I’m getting used to, the fraternity handshake of riders everywhere, I suppose. I grin and return the salute.

Three miles later, two older men on touring bikes, their wives perched behind them, pull out of a convenience store parking lot and fall in behind me. They follow me all the way through Lufkin, matching my every turn. Uncle Kracker is playing Follow Me, and I wonder where they’re headed.

Apparently not the same place I am, however, because they veer off in the small town of Zavalla, tossing me a friendly wave as our paths diverge. The woman on the back of the Honda blows me a kiss. It was nice having them along for a while.

Just south of DeRidder, LA, I find my Muse standing on the shoulder of the road, thumb out, hitching a ride. She’s barefoot and sun-browned, and her dark hair is windblown and tousled. One hip is thrust out provocatively, and she gives me a knowing smile as I pull over. She climbs aboard the bike behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. She offers no explanation for where the hell she has been, not that I expect one. But she buries her head into my back, and I can feel her warm against me, murmuring inspiration like she always does. I’d like to tell you Elton John was playing The Bitch is Back, but that would be a lie.

What was playing was Angel Eyes, by Jeff Healy. Fitting enough, I suppose.

Thirty miles from the house, the weather turns suddenly for the worse, and unexpected raindrops spatter the windshield. Soon, the rain is coming down in buckets, and I am thoroughly drenched. The rain is cold, making me shiver in the wind, but behind me my Muse is cackling gleefully, face upturned and trying to catch raindrops on her tongue. I relax and enjoy the ride, what little of it there is left. The song playing is the most fitting of all; Craig Morgan’s Almost Home.

And so I am, in more ways than one.

I’m back.

For those of you who follow my paid scribblings, there’s a new puddle of mind vomit column up on EMS1.com and FireRescue1.com.

Enjoy.

LL over at Chromed Curses has a touchingly heartfelt, mother-daughter talk with her eldest offspring.

I finally found a piece of parental advice that topped my Mom doing The Towel on the Embarassment Meter.

LPN With an M16.

She’s fairly new to the blogosphere, but hey…a medblogger soldier? Yeah, that might be interesting.

‘Scuse me while I go browse her archives…

You know the sappy novel by Nicholas Sparks about star-crossed lovers that was made into an even sappier chick flick starring Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams?

Yeah well, I got to see the sequel last night. Only in my version, both characters are from the wrong side of the tracks, and the Ryan Gosling character was actually a crack dealer and the Rachel McAdams character was a crack addict Native American (member of the Fydallaho tribe), and they both united for a brief moment of shared passion.

Only Ryan reneged on the agreed-upon price upon discovery that three crack rocks, five bucks and a three-piece white meat box from Church’s Chicken was far too much to pay for cooter that smelled like a decaying codfish and was infested with condyloma. (not work safe or for the weak of stomach).

So Rachel, spurned by her true love, flipped the hell out and proceeded to take her promised payment out of his hide in the form of a world-class ass whipping. That, of course, is where I came in.

But other than that, it was exactly like the movie.

Man, I’m such a sucker for a real love story.

“Picking up or dropping off?” the triage nurse wants to know.

By way of reply, I look pointedly at my empty ambulance stretcher, still neatly made up; straps folded just so, cardiac monitor and oxygen cylinder hanging on their respective racks.

“Picking. Up. Or. Dropping. Off?” the nurse repeats with an exaggerated air of patience, as if speaking to a particularly slow species of EMT.

“Dropping off,” I answer waving at the empty stretcher. “Picked up the Invisible Man in respiratory failure. BP’s a bit low at 90/70, but I managed to get an IV line and get him intubated.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, he’s got great veins and I could stick them by feel. It was a real bitch visualizing his vocal cords, though.”

**********

“Maaaaan, my stomach be hurtin’!” the woman slurs by way of greeting, walking straight to the back of my rig and opening the doors herself.

“So what happened to you that has your stomach hurting?” I ask politely. “Have you injured yourself? Any nausea or vomiting? Diarrhea, maybe? Vaginal discharge or difficulty urinating?”

“Fuck you, muhfucka!” she screams. “I ain’t got to answer no questions from you! Just take me to da muhfuckin’ hospital!”

I cast a surprised glance at my preceptor, who rolls her eyes and silently mouths the words frequent flier. She is not very forthcoming on how she expects me to handle this bitch, however.

Oh well, when in doubt, just rely on my superior people skills.

“If you’re in pain, perhaps we can help with that,” I explain gently. “But you need to answer some questions and let me examine you to find out what’s wrong.”

“Fuck you! Just drive tha fuckin’ amma-lance!”

“You don’t want us to examine you? You just want a ride to the hospital?”

“Is you fuckin’ deaf? Thass what I said!”

“Then you picked a very expensive fucking taxi, lady,” I growl, getting right up in her grill. “So plant your big ass right there on that stretcher, and don’t say a fucking word for the rest of this trip, or you can get right the hell out of my amma-lance, wherever we happen to pull over. You got me?”

Her mouth gapes open in surprise, but no words come out. Meekly, she settles on the stretcher and buckles in. My preceptor winks at me and slams the rear doors.

Five minutes later, she is crying and mumbling in the rambling non-sequiturs common to drunks everywhere. “I don’t see the point in living,” she moans. “Nobody loves me, ain’t got no friends…”

“Really?” I ask mildly as I wheel her through the ER doors. “I’d have thought people couldn’t get enough of your effortless charm and witty repartee…”

**********

“Goddamnit!” fumes my preceptor as she checks the address on the Mobile Data Terminal. “Why do I always get these calls?”

“What calls?” I ask. “Besides, I’m supposed to be riding all the emergencies today, so all you have to do is drive me from the scene to the ER.”

“Yeah, that’s not so bad,” she relents. “Suck for you, though. We’re going to Clotilde’s house. Probably got another ‘kidney stone’ again,” She makes little finger quotes when she says kidney stones. “Clotilde’s a major drug seeker.”

“You gonna tell me where Clotilde lives,” I ask pointedly, “so we can dash over there at a maximum of 10 mph over the posted speed limit, while simultaneously avoiding thirty and fifty percent force counts on the Black Tattletale Box, and behaving courteously to all other drivers and observing all traffic laws? Because if she doesn’t get morphine for her life-threatening renal calculi, she may die. Eventually.”

“”Sorry,” she chuckles, pointing left. “It’s at the FEMA trailer park, south of town.” She looks at me appraisingly. “Dude, you sound like you memorized the policy and procedure manual.”

“I want to get cleared and working my regular shift as soon as possible,” I explain. “Not that I don’t love you, but you are – as we’ve already established – a major shit magnet.”

“Dude, it’s not my fault! I just seem to get all the bullshit calls. Dispatch must hate me or something.”

“Two words,” I nod sagely. “Malingerer pheromones.“

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you attract all the psych patients, drug seekers and malingerers.”

“I do not! It’s just that I always get punked by dispatch. Satan hates me.”

“Ahem,” I raise one eyebrow dubiously. “What was that you were telling me about all your past boyfriends?”

“Shit, now you sound like my mother.”

“Well, you have to admit that drug seekers, alcoholics, migraineurs, chronic back pain patients, crazies, and the chronically unemployed – on or off duty – are inexorably drawn to you like fibromyalgeur moths to a tiny little Vicodin flame…”

“God, I hope you’re wrong,” she moans hopelessly, rolling down the window to inquire of the exact address at the guard shack.

“But you know I’m not,” I point out with a wicked grin. “And for God’s sake, roll up the window. If they smell you coming, there’ll be a mob scene out here.”

Since being assimilated by The Borg, who were nice enough to give me a substantial raise, a per-call bonus for Critical Care Transports, and a very substantial sign-on bonus (structured as a forgivable loan, so it isn’t even taxable) in return for drinking their Kool Aid…

I did the math and discovered that at current gas prices, I’d burn up around $3500 yearly of that raise commuting back and forth.

So, I commenced shopping around for more affordable transportation. I’m ashamed to say it, but I really looked hard at the Suzuki Burgman 400 scooter as an option. It will tote me and an adult passenger at 90 mph easily, and still give me close to 70 mpg.

Every time I listened to a salesman, or talked to a co-worker who owns one, the more I thought, “Hey, I don’t really need my pride anyway…”

…and every time I spent $100 at the gas pump filling up my 4WD Dakota, I could see myself filling up that scooter at close to 1/4 the price, and I could imagine my balls growing back a bit at each fill up.

But as it turns out, just about everyone in the free world has had the same idea, and new Suzuki Burgmans are about as scarce as hen’s teeth around here, and no one is selling a used one.

But while I was at the bike shop, I ran into a guy who, coincidentally, works for a former paramedic student and played softball with another…and had a bike for sale. After we exchanged pleasantries for a bit, and haggled for a bit more, I became the proud owner of this:

That’s a 2004 Suzuki Intruder 1400, with around a grand of aftermarket accessories and 29,000 very easy miles on it, for a very attractive price.

And it also gets 48 mpg.

Metallic silver paint job with purple accents, and lots of chrome. It’s a nice-looking bike. In deference to my old man and his Goldwing, and our shared love of LOTR, I’m thinking of calling her Shadowfax II.

I paid cash for it, with plenty of sign-on bonus left over, and as soon as I can get it registered, it will become my new commuter vehicle. It’s a lot more bike than I’m used to (by about 900 cc), and it’s been at least ten years since I’ve ridden regularly, so AD will also be taking a motorcycle driving course forthwith, lest I be forced to avail myself of my employee ambulance transport discount.

Did I forget to mention that it gets around 48 mpg?

Now that I have officially joined the ranks of the Scooter Trash Gunny Bloggers(with Medblogger endorsement), do I get some sort of membership card? Maybe a tee shirt?

JPG tagged me with this one. I’m supposed to snap a pic of my favorite coffee or tea mug, and write a brief post about it.

*sigh*

I have a shameful confession.

I don’t drink coffee. Nor do I drink tea, unless you count the iced and heavily sugar laden variety, the de facto House Wine of the South.

I suppose that qualifies me for permanent membership in Wusses Anonymous, because all real men drink coffee, or at least hot tea (if they’re cultured real men), right?

Well, I’m cultured all right, in the yogurt sense of the word.

I’m a coffee wuss, and a tea Philistine. I can’t stand the taste of coffee, unless you add enough flavoring and sweetener to it that it doesn’t take like, well…coffee…any longer. And even then, I am too lazy to make it thus myself, and too prideful and cheap to purchase the double hazelnut vanilla soy mocha latte whateverthehellitis that I might find palatable.

I can think of quicker, and cheaper, ways to neuter myself, thankyouverymuch.

As far as tea goes, I don’t know Earl Grey from orange pekoe, and I refuse to drink the flavored bottled varieties (see previous paragraph: Men, Wussification Thereof).

So this is the closest thing to a coffee cup in my bolance:

Don’t laugh. I’ve lost seventy pounds in four months, due in large part to drinking these babies. They’re carb and calorie free, and they have all the caffeine I need.

If I did have a picture of a favorite coffee mug, it would strongly resemble the screw-off cap of a Coleman camouflage Thermos…

…and it would be filled with hot chocolate.

Ambulance Driver (nodding at a photo of a toddler): That your daughter?

Bank Teller (smiling proudly): Yep, that’s my baby.

AD: She’s a beautiful child. Does her father have red hair?

BT (blushing): Yeah, he really marked her. She looks nothing like me.

AD: I wouldn’t say that. She inherited your veins at least.

BT: Excuse me?

AD: Veins. Both of you have great veins.

BT: Oh. Uhhhhh…thanks.

I’m adding a couple of regular reads to the Blogs I Read Every Day. One of them is an experienced medic and committed gadfly malcontent contrarian advocate for paramedic autonomy and thorn in the side of absentee medical directors everywhere. He’s Rogue Medic, and he’s on a mission.

I’ve met Rogue Medic at a couple of EMS conferences, and have chatted, sparred, and debated with the guy on various forums for at least five years now. Aside from being rather droll and more than a little funny lookin’, he’s a pretty sharp cookie. You EMS types should give him a read. Hell, everyone should.

The second guy is a fellow I am proud to call a close friend. He lives in another part of the country, and we may only have a chance to get together a few times a year, but hardly a day goes by when we aren’t yukking it up in one forum or another.

This guy is also indirectly responsible for the existence of this blog. Less than two years ago, he posted an e-mail to an EMS discussion group entitled “If AD were a west Texas police officer,” along with a link to LawDog’s amorous armadillo story.

I followed the link, became an instant LawDog fan, and soon sent him a copy of my book. Shortly thereafter, I started this blog. The rest, as they say, is history.

His blog description says it all: Paramedicine, politics, guns, a little Country Western music.

He’s a medblogger. He’s a gunblogger. He’s a politico blogger. He’s Too Old To Work, and Too Young To Retire. Y’all pay him a visit, and welcome him to the blogosphere.