AD: “And how much have you had to drink, Sir?”

Man With Swollen Arm That Wasn’t Actually Swollen: “Not a drop. I been sleeping all day.”

AD: “You’re slurring your words, unsteady on your feet, and your breath could knock over a moose. Plus, there’s a nearly empty half-pint of Taaka in your pocket. You wanna try that answer again?”

MWSA (insistently): “Man, I ain’t had a drop to drink all day. I got drunk off my ass yesterday, but I been sleeping it off all day today.”

AD: “And what day is today?”

MWAS: “Wednesday night!”

AD: “I’ve got bad news for you, Sir. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and you’re still drunk.”

You know, most people that drink heavily tend to lose big chunks of time when they’re drunk. It takes a special talent to gain 30 hours when you’re in the bag.

AD: “Hey child, say no to crack.”

KatyBeth (hitching up her pants): “I can’t help it, it’s genetic.”

AD: “Genetic… how, exactly?”

KB: “Mom says I inherited the Grayson butt.”

AD: “There is no such thing as the Grayson butt.”

KB: “Uh huh. No butt, bad math skills and no rhythm. That’s my curse from your side of the family.”

AD: “Remind me to have a talk with your mother when I bring you home.”

… who didn’t get a copy of my book in the brief window it was available for Kindle a couple of years back, yet still adamantly refuse to buy the dead-tree version, there is hope for you yet.

By way of Mostly Cajun, I learned of Calibre, a freeware e-book reader and converter that is capable of converting other e-book formats into Kindle’s format.

So hit up Barnes and Noble, Sony or iTunes for a copy of the book, and then use Calibre to covert it for use on your Kindle.

And thank you for your contribution to the Double Wide Fund.

… I am told that there are less than 60 copies of the first edition left, and they're only available at one place.

(Click on the book cover for the purchase link.)
 

For those of you unfamiliar with the history, the book was published by Emergency Publishers in fall of 2005. It was written in first person, present tense narrative, much like a journal. My wife left me unexpectedly in September of 2004, and in the next four months I needed some way of passing the nights on an ambulance between calls, without driving myself crazy over the demise of my marriage.

The book was it.

The blog started in December 2006, mainly to promote the book and to polish my writing style. About a year after my blog started, an editor from Kaplan Publishing, a dvision of Simon Schuster, happened across my blog, and offered me a publishing contract. When told that I already had a book in print, he asked if I could get out of my contract with Emergency Publishers, and allow Kaplan to publish the book under their own imprint.

Lou Jordan, my friend and publisher, gave me his blessing and terminated my contract, and I signed with Kaplan. Lou had accomplished his stated goal, which was to give me my start, and get me noticed by the big boys.

Kaplan cleaned the book up a bit, changed everything to past tense, and published it in hardcover as En Route: A Paramedic's Stories of Life, Death and Everything In Between. They included a story from the blog as an epilogue, which I think really wrapped up the book well.

But they also deleted a dozen or so chapters, because my editor at the time (since gone from Kaplan) felt that they were too controversial, and that their deletion would not hurt the book.

I disagreed, because I felt that a) the chapters on the chopping block weren't that controversial, and b) they contained most of the narrative thread that wove the rest of the chapters together. Without them, the book read like a collection of short stories.
 

I was overrruled, and the book was published without the deleted chapters. Since then, my concerns were validated because most of the criticism of the book centers on exactly what I and Kaplan's own proofreaders warned; it felt like pieces of the book were missing.

A year later, they released the book as a trade paperback under yet another title, A Paramedic's Story: Life Death and Everything In Between, causing some of my readers to buy it, mistakenly thinking it was a new book.

So if some of you out there have two copies of my book, I apologize. I just wrote the darned thing, someone else markets it. If you'd like to have your copies signed, drop me a line and I'll tell you how to send it to me for an autograph, provided you pay for the shipping.

I don't make any royalties from sales of the original book, but if you've already got a copy of En Route or A Paramedic's Story and wondered what was missing, this one will answer that question. 

And you can't beat the price.

Just ran a call where a six-year-old got a front permanent incisor knocked out.

The kid was in good spirits, smiling and laughing. The tooth seemed in good shape, too, despite it’s less-than-desirable storage receptacle of the mother’s lint-filled pocket.

So, I gently took the tooth from her, handling it by the crown only, and wrapped it in saline-soaked gauze while I called the local hospitals to get confirmation on what I already suspected.

None of the local hospitals have the capability of re-implanting a dislodged tooth, and none of the local dental clinics that take Medicaid answer their emergency numbers, or even have emergency numbers, for that matter.

So, I whipped out my smartphone for a consult to Dr. Google, to refresh my memory on just how long a dislodged tooth is viable for reimplantation.

I learned a couple of things:

1. Milk* is still the best preservative if you don’t have a Sav A Tooth kit. I had been taught that milk had fallen out of favor as a tooth preservative.

2. The fibroblasts on the root of the tooth that are the “glue” that make reimplantation possible start dying after 30 minutes.

Our little girl’s fibroblasts were already dead, buried, and the remaining fibroblasts in her socket were having a rollicking Irish wake.

Looks like our patient will be channeling her inner hockey player for a while, until a dentist can fit her with an artificial implant.

* I asked Siri, “Does the milk have to be Pasteurized?” and she answered, “No, just deep enough to cover the tooth should be sufficient.”**

** Not really. I’ll be here all week, folks. Try the veal, and be sure to tip your server.

… and fit Ambulance Driver for a swastika and a pair of jackboots while he sleeps.

Seems like my high school guidance counselor was right when she said that "fascist tool of the totalitarian state" was the perfect career choice for me. And all this time, I figured I was just a simple paramedic.

In response to Tamara's link to my Lines In The Sand post, a couple of people went into a bug-eyed, slobbering, incoherent rage took umbrage at my assertion that you don't have the right to refuse care if you have expressed, by word or deed, a desire to kill yourself.

Actually, that's pretty much the law in my state and a bunch of others, but let's take a moment to delve into how, by the convoluted reasoning of some, my following that law is the moral equivalent of herding Jews on the train to Auschwitz.

And yes, people actually said that.

Like TJIC, for example:

How does this differ from "OK, Jew, I understand that you want to leave this prison camp, and that would be OK by me, EXCEPT for the fact that I'd get written up and get three demerits if I let you, therefore I won't let you – your actions have consequences for other people, and you have to realize this!"

Wow. Just… wow.

I guess I shouldn't have taken my "I am TJIC" badge down off my blog, huh? While I appreciate that Travis might have a sore spot or three about having his rights trampled over words he said, that statement is a perfect example of why many don't take libertarianism seriously.

I mean, you get a bunch of individualists who are passionate about personal freedom and smaller government, people who are legitimately concerned about the encroachment of government on our personal freedoms, whose general approach to life is "You leave me along and I'll leave you alone," and invariably there is one in the bunch who says something so far out in friggin' left field that the rest of them want to sidle away, eyeing him nervously all the while.

And in so doing, alienate about 75% of the fence-sitters who might be sympathetic to their cause.

But hey, more power to you, Travis. You stay militant, brother!

If you really equate me transporting someone whose words or deeds demonstrate that they may not – at least in the eyes of the law – be in full possession of their mental faculties, with a Nazi trooper herding Jews onto a train to a concentration camp, then we really have nothing else to discuss.

Have a big libertarian "Go fuck yourself!" and have a nice day. 

A fellow with the handle of ILTim also opines:

"Who the fuck are you to decide that a person should be dragged against their will to gitmo/ fluffy bunny land/ wherever you please? That type of personal violence could and should be resisted in every way available and necessary including lethal force."
 

Well, here's the thing, Tim. If you were that willing to use lethal force, you damned sure should have used it on yourself before the cops and EMT's got called to the scene. If you're that slow, or you're running your mouth about it, you're going to the hospital. And if you try to resist by lethal force, I'm gonna go hide behind the engine block of my ambulance while the cops ventilate you thoroughly with .40 caliber holes.

And after my shift is over, we'll go hit the local jackbooted thug bar, I'll buy them all a beer for saving my life, and we'll do a few Nazi salutes and read selected passages of Mein Kampf together.

First of all, I don't get to decide. I just get to transport them to the place where someone with more training than me in psychiatric care decides. I didn't make that law, I'm just subject to it. I suppose I could just shrug my shoulders and say, "Your life, your choice," and walk away, but when I get sued – and I will get sued – the only way I'll get away with it is if I have a jury full of people like you and TJIC.

Except, guys like you would never make it onto that jury. You'd be outside the courthouse wearing a sandwich board, screaming "SHALL NOT BE INFRINGED!" for the television cameras, while everybody watching mentally relegates you to the same niche as the disheveled guy on the next street corner, wearing the sandwich board that says, "REPENT, THE END IS NIGH."

If that makes me a moral coward in your eyes, then so be it. Your opinion of me doesn't cost me much sleep. Grab yourself a picket sign and hang out in Moral Absoluteville with TJIC, while the rest of society does its best to ignore you. Me, I'll still be here, trying to convince people of the rightness of libertarian ideals, and likely making more headway because I'm not spouting off crazy shit like comparing EMT's to Nazi death camp guards.

The whole point of that post is that words have consequences. Travis discovered that very thing, and apparently hasn't learned anything from it. In a way, I find that admirable…

.. from afar.

I say "from afar," because while it's nice to hold people up as heroes, heads bloody but unbowed and all that, up close and in person they often turn out to be unreasonable assholes. In any case, I imagine Travis will lose as little sleep over my opinion of him as I will over his opinion of me. I just wish he realized that people with his attitude make far better symbols than effective advocates.
 

On the brighter side, there were some reasonable voices in the crowd. Roberta X:
 

I'm all about a smooth ride in the ambulance. Driving fast and running lights and sirens only saves you an average of 30 seconds or so in the city, anyway, so I tell all my partners that I'd much prefer slow, smooth and safe to rapid, rough and reckless.

And my partner last week may well have been the smoothest driver I've ever had. You could barely feel the road when he drove.

Of course, it's easy to be smooth when you drive at the approximate speed of tectonic shift. Dude didn't need a speedometer, he needed a calendar. I finally told him to just keep the lights and siren off, because when you're driving substantially below the speed limit and angry old folks are passing you on their Rascal scooters, flipping you off as they whiz past you in the breakdown lane, what's the point?

It wasn't just the driving, either. Dude moves at the blistering pace of a geriatric sloth with a Xanax habit. On one call, a wreck, I told him to follow behind me with the spine board and stretcher. I had assessed the patient, listened to her tell me she wasn't injured and didn't want an ambulance, written down her demographic information, had the refusal form signed and witnessed and was on my way back to the rig before he got the stretcher unloaded. He even looked disappointed slowly; it didn't so much flash across his face as it did a slow melt. I was back in the rig and massaging my temples before he got his frown fixed into place.

I never thought I could find something more mentally stressing than having a speed demon as a partner, but this came close. Halfway through the first shift, I had to quit stomping the imaginary accelerator on my side of the rig, lest he squeeze the steering wheel in half, he was that white-knuckled. I finally just wound up driving to all the calls myself. Seemed a more productive use of my time than expelling exaggerated sighs and pointedly looking at the speedomoeter, anyway.

I mean, I like to watch the seasons change, but not from the back of my ambulance between scene and Emergency Department.

Jeez…

Every relationship has ground rules, and everyone who has been in a relationship for an appreciable length of time knows what they are.

So when you’re arguing, you know that there are certain buttons you just don’t push, certain subjects that you just don’t broach.

You Just Don’t Go There.

And when you cross those boundaries, you know there will be consequences, ranging from getting the cold shoulder for the next few days, to unwilling celibacy for the foreseeable future, to having her/him toss you out on your ass.

And when your argument spills over into physical violence, expect that one or both of you will go to jail when the cops get involved.

Likewise, there are some things you Just Don’t Get To Say.

If your spouse/lover/life partner/ babydaddy chose to get the police involved, or if a third party overheard your argument and called 911…

… well, suffice it to say we don’t grant Mulligans. You don’t get to take it back.

And chief among those things You Just Don’t Get To Say in an argument is, “I’m just going to kill myself.”

Almost as bad, but without the implied threat, is, “I wish I was dead.”

Make the threat more specific, like say, threatening a specific way to do harm to yourself, just adds the element of a defined plan to your suicide threat, and makes it all the more credible.

Say those things, and I can guarantee you one outcome: You. Will. Go. To. The. Hospital.

Your only choices are whether you go restrained or unrestrained. You don’t get to say no any more.

And yes, I am perfectly willing to believe that you said it in the heat of anger and didn’t really mean it.

I also believe that someone who seriously intends to kill him/herself would be willing to tell any lie necessary to get the cops and paramedics to leave so they can get on with mixing their hemlock smoothie.

You don’t get to be that person.

And no, I don’t really give a rat’s ass if you get a mental health record or if you have class/work/social engagements in the morning that you just can’t miss.

Neither am I going to lose sleep over the fact that a 48-hour stint in the psych ward ruins your chance at that law enforcement career you’ve been so zealously pursuing, or takes you out if the running for Man Of The Year at the local Rotary Club.

Pleading with me for lenience is only going to fall on deaf ears. The only leniency you get is the ability to choose the pleasantness of the ride.

You made the threat. I don’t get to decide whether it is credible, nor do I want that responsibility. Plead your case to the ED doc and the mental health tech if you want. Sometimes, if they believe your story, they’ll cut you loose.

But it’s my job to get you there for that conversation, and get you there I will.

Fighting with me is pointless. I will win that fight, every single time, and all your struggle only guarantees that you will spend the next 48-72 hours walking around in shoes without laces and talking to psychiatrists about things you’d rather not discuss with strangers.

So, consequences.

Don’t like ‘em, then don’t say those things. Don’t cross that line in the sand.

Hugs and Kisses,
Your friendly neighborhood Ambulance Driver

Brought to you by KatyBeth, who is, like, the biggest Sarah Bareilles fan evar.

Dispatched to a wreck earlier tonight, I rummaged around behind the seat for my reflective traffic vest, only to find that the only one they had back there was a medium.

Nonetheless, one does not work on the highway at night without reflective gear unless one is suicidal, even if the garment in question makes you look like eight pounds of shit in a five-pound sack.

Besides, I could see the comedic potential a mile away. So, I squeeze into the vest, all the while singing, "Fat guy in a little coat, fat guy in a liiiitle coooaaattt…"

All I got from my partner was a blank stare.

"Come on man, you never saw Tommy Boy?" I ask incredulously. "Chris Farley? Matt Foley, motivational speaker?"

This time the blank stare is accompanied by a shrug. "No, who are they?"

Then I got to thinking, Tommy Boy came out in 1995. My partner was five years old at the time. He was only seven when Farley died.

Shit, I feel old.

You like me! You really, really like me!

Yes, I just went all Sally Field on you, and yes, I realize it's a misquote.

I just found out that I picked up one of these babies from the Western Publishing Association, for my column on EMS1.com. This is the third time I've been a Maggie finalist, and the first time to win one. I am told that, in the print and electronic publishing worlds, they are a Very Big Deal.

I just want to thank everyone who reads my disjointed little scribblings here and elsewhere on the web. I'll never forget all the little people I've stepped on along the way the support of loyal readers, friends and colleagues, and I vow that success will never change me. I'll always be the same humble, self-effacing, blue-collar guy you've all come to know and love.**

But the one letdown about winning the Maggie was the fact that I wasn't there to give an acceptance speech. I had envisioned sitting there at the table with my editors and the bigwigs at Praetorian Group, resplendent in my powder blue tux with ruffled shirt, napkin tucked into my collar, while all the chumps losers other deserving nominees were announced, and then, "And the Maggie goes to…"

It was going to be friggin' glorious.

So you can imagine my disappointment upon learning of my victory after the fact, and that my editors had accepted the statuette obelisk doohickey trophy on my behalf. No doubt they were whooping it up most of the night, soaking up my stolen glory, showing off my Maggie to all the nubile e-publishing groupies (and you know those chicks are hot), riding in limos and drinking Cristal and snorting coke off an expensive hooker's bre -

- I'm sorry. Where was I?

Oh yeah, my acceptance speech.

Well, I may have been cheated of my moment in the spotlight, dammit, but I will deliver my acceptance speech. I deserve that much.  So without further ado:

"First of all, I'd like to thank God for the talent. None of this would be possible without His blessing me with such a towering gift. But even literary talents as prodigious as mine would go unnoticed were it not for the worker bees behind the scenes, like my editor Jamie Thompson, and Kris Kaull, and the intern who fetches my latté, and the guy who blows the Cheeto dust out of my keyboard, and those wonderful gnomes who keep my office stocked with Shiner Bock and green M&M's, and Missy, the grl who gives me chair massages until my muse returns… I mean, when it comes down to it, Kelly Grayson's only one man, and Kelly Grayson knows that without the support of people like them, people not blessed with his talent, but nonetheless dedicated in their own simple way… well, Kelly Grayson would not be standing before you today, clutching this award. And so, from the bottom of Kelly Grayson's heart, thank you."

I've got a spot reserved on the mantel for this baby, but first I think I'll lug it with me to all the EMS conferences I'm doing this fall, to give you – the little people – a chance to touch my Maggie. It's the least I could do to express my gratitude. Have your people call my people, and we'll do lunch.

Ciao, babies.

*air kisses*

*Admittedly, it's no leg lamp, but it should still look nice on the mantel.

** Until I can ditch all you losers and buy me some new, classier friends.

Machiavelli said that you should keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. He meant that you should always surround yourself by people you know and trust, but you should also keep an extremely close eye on your enemy, to limit their ability to hurt you.

The corollary to that rule is, it's your friends who can do you the most harm, because you don't see their betrayal coming.

Those who have met me casually may not believe it, because my public persona is a pretty gregarious guy, but I'm actually fairly shy. Ambulance Driver is a magnification of Kelly Grayson's personality – the good parts and the bad parts. The guy you see speaking at conferences is gregarious and entertaining, because that's what he's paid to be. I enjoy doing that stuff, and I'm fairly good at it, but when I want to relax, away from crowds and people I don't know, I'm just… me.

I don't try to be particularly entertaining, and I don't try to hide who I am. I'm also fairly passionate about my profession and my personal beliefs, and I'm not shy about expressing that. To those who don't know me well, it sometimes comes off as arrogance. My true friends know better.

And that circle of true friends is a surprisingly small group of people. Not many people do I trust implicitly. To the rest, I'm polite and gracious, but the humor is a mechanism to keep people from getting too close. That's a character flaw on my part, and it has caused me grief on more than one occasion, but occasionally I am reminded why I find it difficult to trust people.

Recently, I discovered that one of my circle of friends violated my trust, and the trust of several other close friends, over a period of years. Not only that, but in the course of discussing and investigating the depth and breadth of this person's betrayal, it came to my attention that this person has waged a clandestine campaign of character assassination against me specifically for several years. Part of me isn't surprised, because we've clashed and argued before, but apparently what I thought was water under the bridge only fueled this person's enmity and resentment.

Or hell, it might have nothing to do with anything I did at all. This person never really needed a reason to be angry. They were perfectly willing and able to imagine an insult and run with it. I should have seen the signs long before, rather than chalk it up to my philosophy that every friend should be permitted one major flaw.

Delusions, hypocrisy and a fucking martyr complex a mile wide are not just one fatal flaw, however.

And if it were just directed at me, I could ignore that. But this person also deliberately tried to sabotage my personal relationship with my girlfriend, as well. That, I cannot forgive nor ever forget.

So, flush one toxic personality, and I'll sleep better tonight knowing they're gone.

Finis.

Oh, and "Lily Price?"

I know who you are now. Did you think I'd never find out? If I hear my name has passed your lips ever again, I. Will. Ruin. You.

In as many or as few words as you like, debate the accuracy of the following statement:

"Nobody in EMS is paid what they're worth. 25% are paid far less than what they're worth, and 75% are paid far more than what they're worth."

                                                                                                                                                                                                ~ Kelly Grayson

If you happen to agree with the statement, tell us what we as a profession should do about the 75%. If you disagree, tell us why.

Post your argument on your own blogs, and give us the link in comments so we can all read it.

Headed home from the NRA Annual Meeting in a few hours, and I stopped to fuel up the rental car before returning it.

Only to discover, much to my chagrin, that I could not figure out how to open the #%^*€!! fuel filler door, and the nice folks at Budget failed to provide me with a friggin’ owner’s manual for this crappy little crackerbox.

So, after looking like a monkey fornicating with a football for several minutes and enduring the indignant honk of one little hoochie mama who just had to fuel up at the one fuel island where I was parked, instead of a half-dozen other empty ones…

… I finally just Googled “fuel filler door release Nissan Versa” on my iPhone and found it.

I now feel marginally less incompetent than I did five minutes ago.

Colorado Fire Department to test smaller vehicles for medical calls.

By Erica Meltzer
The Daily Camera

BOULDER, Colo. — Medical calls, not fires, account for more than half of all calls to which Boulder Fire-Rescue crews respond, and the number of medical calls increased 17 percent from 2006 to 2011.

Boulder's fire department is looking at adding smaller vehicles for paramedics to respond to many of those calls without sending a fire engine or — when engines aren't available — a ladder truck.

Boy, if only they made a vehicle smaller and far less expensive to buy, fuel and maintain than a ladder truck, that could be staffed with a crew of two, that still had enough room for lifesaving gear and a patient!

Why, I bet you could even use it to – *GASP!* – take patients to the hospital. I bet there might even be a way to get paid for doing that!

</sarcasm>

Here's a novel idea: Let fire handle fire calls, and let EMS do EMS calls. And if the current ambulance provider can't or won't field enough ambulances to meet response time standards without distracting the FD from their core mission, then maybe Boulder could replace them with another company that will.

Wouldn't that be even less expensive than this "solution?"

Update: Looks like I'm not the only one who thinks that way.

As I mentioned earlier, the very first EMS call Black Cloud and I ran together was a cardiac arrest.

Even worse, it was early enough in the shift that I hadn't even had time to orient her on the layout of the ALS bag, teach her the necessary ALS-assist skills, nor even deliver my standard, "You Are a Thinking EMT and Not a Pack Mule and I Expect Your To Use Your Head and Exercise Some Initiative," talk that I give to all my new partners.

So it was to be expected, I suppose, that the call wouldn't run smoothly.

Except that it did run smoothly, not that anyone noticed.

Did she appreciate the fact that, in the 24+ minutes the pads were attached to the patient, compressions were only interrupted for a grand total of 30 seconds, and never less than 6 seconds at a time, including the intubation and defibrillation?

Did she notice my skill and panache at wielding a laryngoscope as I flawlessly performed a skyhook intubation, done without interrupting chest compressions, no less?

Was she grateful that I queued up "Stayin' Alive" on repeat on my iPhone to help her keep rhythm? (Yes, I really did, and no, the family wasn't offended.)

Noooooooooo, of course not.

All she noticed was how hot it was in the room, and how difficult it was to perform chest compressions on a Real Live Patient.

*sigh*

Philistines…
 

Since Betty Rubble was dismissed, I've had yet another succession of temporary partners, either swing shift EMT's or full-timers picking up a little OT, but the lack of consistency has been a little wearing. But hey, I'm about as close to bomb-proof as a medic gets, which I suspect is why management gives me the newbies and the newly minted paramedics.

Actually, I did have a permanent partner for a brief while, but she didn't last long enough for me to address any of her deficiencies or even to give her a nickname.

So last week, I got a new permanent partner. The ink is still glossy on her EMT-B card, and she has this annoying habit of calling me, "Sir."

Wednesday saw us running our very first call together, which for her was her very first call as a full-fledged EMT, period.

It was a cardiac arrest.

So naturally, unless things change in the next couple of weeks, her new nickname is going to be Black Cloud. Or perhaps, I'll get her one of these patches from Mil Spec Monkey:

Thus far, it fits.

… for a speaking gig at the South Carolina EMS Symposium.

Watch the place while I'm gone, and if you're in the neighborhood of Myrtle Beach or attending the symposium, hit me up. I'll be in town tomorrow and Saturday nights.

Fire Critic announces the winners of the 2012 Fire & EMS Blogs of the Year contest.

STATter 911: Reader's Choice 2012 Fire Blog of the Year

Backstep Firefighter: Judge's Choice 2012 Fire Blog of the Year

Insomniac Medic: Reader's Choice 2012 EMS Blog of the Year

EMS 12 Lead: Judges Choice 2012 EMS Blog of the Year

As the 2011 EMS Blog of the Year, I was privileged to be a judge in this year's contest, and I was proud to see the EKG Yoda, Tom Bouthillet, and his two padawans, David Baumrind and Christopher Watford, take home the Judge's Choice honors. It's an accolade well-deserved.

Fire Critic has a list of the nominees, finalists and eventual winners. Congratulations to all the winners!

If you haven't read them, you should.
 

Yet another healthcare provider who doesn't understand the privacy rule.

Headed to the Central Oklahoma Gunblogger Schutenfest for a weekend of barbecue, bullshitting and bullets.

Beer’s in the fridge, and try not to let the dog drink out of the toilet while I’m gone.

Pics and AAR to follow…

I've just gotten the news that I've been nominated for a Maggie Award for the second straight year by the Western Publishing Association, in the category of "Best Regularly Featured Web or Digital Edition Column/Trade" for The Ambulance Driver's Perspective.

All told, Praetorian Group racked up eight nominations.

This is the third time I've been a finalist for the Maggies, which I'm told are the Emmy Awards of the online publishing world. It's an honor just to be a finalist, but honestly I'm starting to feel a bit like Susan Lucci. I wanna win that sucker.

Now all I must do is find out who the judges are, and start baking them cookies…