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- INTERPOL Gaborone
Member since :
13 November 1980
To provide professional policing services to the Botswana people.
To be a law enforcement agency of repute.
Core values
- "Botho" (delivering a service characterized by humility, dignity, courtesy, empathy, kindness, consideration and respect for all people);
- Excellence;
- Integrity;
- Team work.
The Botswana Police Service (BPS) is led by a Commissioner, assisted by two deputy Commissioners who oversee operational activities and support services. The Force is made up of more than 8,500 officers (2000 women and 6,500 men for a population of nearly two million; in other words, one officer for every 215 people).
Some of the departments which make up the force include:
- Criminal Investigation Department;
- Forensic Science Services;
- Criminal Intelligence Bureau;
- Training;
- Traffic Control;
- Transport and Telecommunications;
- North, South, Central and Gaborone Divisions;
- Special Support;
- Diamond and Narcotics Squad;
- Serious Crime Squad;
- Criminal Record Bureau;
- Crime Prevention Coordination Unit.
INTERPOL Gaborone
The INTERPOL National Central Bureau (NCB) for Botswana plays a pivotal role in helping coordinate BPS efforts in fighting cross-border crime. Answering directly to the Director of the Criminal Investigation Department, it is the exclusive platform for BPS investigations requiring international outreach and cooperation. With a total staff of 15 officers – two seconded to the INTERPOL Regional Bureau in Zimbabwe – INTERPOL Gaborone provides Botswana law enforcement with a range of support services structured around its priority crime areas. These are:
- High-tech and cyber crimes;
- Stolen motor vehicles;
- Offences against persons;
- Drug trafficking;
- Environmental crime;
- Theft and smuggling of minerals and precious stones;
- Terrorism;
- Stock theft.
The NCB's principal duties include:
International criminal assistance:
- Performing research and obtaining law enforcement-related documentation for Botswana law enforcement agencies;
- Serving subpoenas on international witnesses;
- Helping locate and identify fugitives with a view to extradition;
- Executing requests for searches and seizures;
- Assisting in the identification of foreign corpses;
- Facilitating official missions to other countries by BPS officials or other Botswana law enforcement agencies.
Intelligence sharing:
- Sharing targeted criminal intelligence with Botswana law enforcement agencies and also with the international law enforcement community through INTERPOL channels;
- Sharing operational information and analysis on new crime trends, new methods of drug concealment and terrorism related issues;
- Providing Botswana law enforcement agencies with access to INTERPOL's analytical services and criminal databases;
- Populating INTERPOL databases with information on stolen vehicles, stolen or lost travel documents, stolen administrative documents and wanted persons.
INTERPOL's secure global police communication system (I-24/7):
INTERPOL Gaborone's has opened up INTERPOL's I-24/7 network to Botswana's national law enforcement, giving Botswana police agencies direct access to INTERPOL's criminal databases. It is planned that shortly, all Botswana borders will also be given access, thus enabling them to quickly determine if a person is a potential threat to national security.
Wildlife crime: experts recommend an integrated global response
Strengthening security in Southern Africa
Fake goods: arrests and seizures in worldwide operations
INTERPOL launches initiative to boost African security
Travel Document
Red Notices 2
TUMELO Age today: 24 years old
Nationality: Zimbabwe
XOLANI Age today: 24 years old
Nationality: Zimbabwe
Yellow Notices 26
JANAH HANAH Age today: 8 years old
Nationality: Botswana
MODIRINYANA Age today: 30 years old
Nationality: Botswana
- 21th African Regional Conference - 2011 - Gaborone
- 16th African Regional Conference - 2001 - Gaborone


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Not only did I fall inlove with the city of Eilat but despite the lack of communication (only English) Evelina and I found this amazƒing protein shake inside of the mall on the North Beach. It was so good that we planned a promptu trip back to Eilat for more sunshine and more of our Eilat smoothie.
In Toronto, I shared a sweaty Vinyasa Flow Yoga session (my knees were cracking the whole time — but don't worry it's just air) with my fellow blogger and best friend Franabanana. Theres nothing better than a post yoga high protein healthy shake, so we were inspired to concoct a replica of my Eilat smoothie.
Serves two smoothies
Prep Time Cook Time Total Time
2 minutes 1 minute 3 minutes
- 1 banana
- 1/2 cup of almond milk
- 1/2 cup of chopped dates
- 1/2 cup of chopped walnuts
- 1 scoop of Zija French Vanilla Protein
- Depending on your preference add ice or water (1 cup)
- Mix together in blender or NutriBullet
- Enjoy!
From Sheri, with Love.

subset: commoncrawl


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Thursday, October 18, 2012
film & architecture
The other day I saw "El Hombre de al lado" (English: The Man Next Door) a very good Argentinian film if you ask me. The entire movie takes place in this location (seen on the photos) "Casa Curutchet" is the only house Le Corbusier* built in South America. It's located in La Plata, capital city of the province of Buenos Aires. Do you like it?
*Le Corbusier (October 6, 1887 – August 27, 1965), was an architect, designer, urbanist, and writer, famous for being one of the pioneers of what is now called modern architecture. He was born in Switzerland and became a French citizen in 1930. His career spanned five decades, with his buildings constructed throughout Europe, India and America. He was a pioneer in studies of modern high design and was dedicated to providing better living conditions for the residents of crowded cities.
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|Because advice is kinda like this
Giving advice here:
First, you finish the book.
I. If you're going for print publication with one of the Big Five New York Publishers you probably need an agent, because these publishers mostly don't look at unagented manuscripts.
Who are the Big Five? If you go to a book-and-mortar bookstore or the book aisle in the grocery and run your finger down a row of books, 90% of them are from the Big Five. Most of the folks who make good money writing publish with one of these imprints. We're talking Hatchette, McMillian, Penguin Random House, Harper Collins, Simon & Schuster and all the subsidiaries thereof.
So that is one career path. If you take it, you need an agent.
|Your agent at work
II. Some imprints from the Big Five (Tor, Avon,) and some large independent publishers (HQN, Baen, Kensington, Ellora's Cave, Sourcebooks, Grand Central, Carina) accept unagented manuscripts.
These books are distributed to brick-and-mortar stores and groceries. Writers can do very well indeed dealing with this set of publishers. A number of the folks making a living at writing sell to these companies.
|Your agent helps them pick YOUR ms
III. E-publishers and almost all small presses accept unagented submissions.
Agents do not generally submit to these publishers because there's not enough advance money in it.
|Many satisfying options don't need an agent
IV. Self publishing/indie publishing, of course, doesn't need an agent.
So, the short answer is --
|Summarizing all this
-- There are many profitable career paths that don't require an agent.
-- Even where an agent is required, you may be able to sneak by without one, depending.
-- Agents earn their weight in gold at contract time.
-- If you plan to submit to the Big Five, get an agent before you start firing your ms out to random publishers.
-- Finish the book.


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The reorganization will result in the elimination of approximately 53 positions in Jamba's support functions. These actions are part of an overall effort to reduce operating costs in light of, among other things, the company's decision to moderate new company store growth in fiscal 2008.
Jamba says these efforts will help position the Company to best execute its strategy to "simplify healthy living." It expects to incur a pre-tax restructuring charge in fiscal second quarter of approximately $750,000 for the reorganization of the support functions.
As a further step in reducing operating costs, Jamba will close 10 underperforming company-owned stores in 2008 and terminate seven signed leases for unbuilt stores. It expects to open 35-40 new company-owned stores in 2008.
"Jamba's strategy to transform to a healthy living company is not changing," says Paul Clayton, Jamba's chief executive officer. "We are reorganizing our support functions and slowing down our growth of new company stores in order to focus our efforts on optimizing the performance of our existing stores.
"I would like to thank all impacted team members for their contributions to Jamba's performance and unique culture. Their hard work has helped to provide Jamba with a solid foundation for future success.
The five times weekly e-newsletter that keeps you up-to-date on the latest industry news and additions to this website.


text: Achieve brighter prints with the yellow Epson C13T755440 inkjet cartridge. Using DuraBrite Pro technology, the genuine Epson C13T755440 ink promises consistent, vibrant yellows. The yellow Epson T7554 ink is quite versatile and can be used for printing glossy images or crisp documents. Since the Epson T7554 yellow ink is a high yield cartridge that lasts for 4,000 pages, you don't have to replace it frequently. You can also lower your running costs with the reliable Epson C13T755440 print cartridge.


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Society for Data Science is a non-profit professional association to create a collaborative platform for bringing together technical experts across Industry, Academia, Government Labs and Professional Bodies to promote Innovation around Data Science. This is recognized as a "one of its kind" initiative rallying the technical community around an INDIA FIRST agenda. S4DS welcomes all who are interested in data science, data mining, statistical modeling, big data analytics, machine learning, deep learning, artificial intelligence and the art of data visualization to turn it into a valuable asset for your academic researches and data science careers. S4DS is committed to serves members, improving the data science profession, eliminating bias and enhancing diversity, and advancing ethical data science throughout the world.
Founded on principles of excellence, equality, and opportunity for all, Lincoln College was opened in 2002 and in 2011 Lincoln College was upgraded to Lincoln University College. Since then we have become one of the Malaysia's leading universities, carving out a reputation as an academic powerhouse where a clear focus on excellence has secured national and international recognition alongside longer established institutions. Lincoln University College is a private institution that provides higher education, approved by the Malaysian Qualification Agency and the Ministry of Higher Education. LUC is associate member of the Association of Indian Universities (AIU); it has membership of International Association of Universities (IAU) and Association of Commonwealth Universities (ACU). It has got the privilege of been enlisted in the World University Ranking. Lincoln has achieved 5 Star Excellence ranking from the Ministry of Education, Malaysia in 2017.
Ever since its inception, a strong commitment to excellence in teaching and research has made LUC a paradigm and path-setter for other universities in the country. Its rich academic tradition has always attracted the most talented students worldwide, who later on went on to make significant contributions to their society.
Lincoln University College has seen considerable growth in the past few years, with the introduction of new courses of study, new disciplines, and new initiatives. LUC is crammed with eighty plus programmes delivered by ten faculties comprising of almost all major fields of education like Medicine, Dentistry, Pharmacy, Nursing, Business, Hospitality, Computer Science and Multimedia, Engineering, Science, Social Science, Arts and Humanities. LUC offers programs from Diploma to PhD level with an assortment of specializations, to name a few –The Faculty of Nursing offers Masters level study in Public Health, Midwifery, Education, Renal care, Teaching Methodology. The Faculty of Business and Accountancy offers, PhD in management, Doctorate of Business Administration, MBA, MBA with specialization in Global Business, Islamic Banking, Oil and Gas, Human Resource Management, Supply Chain and Logistics Management, Hospitality Management, Healthcare Management, Master of Finance and many Bachelor and Diploma level programs. Faculty of Hospitality offers, MBA Hospitality, Bachelor and Diploma in Hotel Catering including certificates in Culinary arts programs jointly with Euroskill Sdn Bhd. Faculty of Science offers Biotechnology, physiotherapy, biomedical sciences, Traditional Chinese Medicine and Medical Assistant. Faculty of Engineering – Electrical and Electronics, Telecommunication, Alternative Energy, Mechanical, Civil, Chemical and Aircraft Maintenance. The New-fangled, faculty of Social Science, Arts, and Humanities offers Psychology, Social science, MATESL, BATESL, Communication, Mass communication, early childhood education, Islamic Studies and Fashion Management. These faculties have carved a niche for themselves as centres of excellence in teaching and research in their respective areas. With the range of disciplines represented and the quality of the faculty and students, LUC- which is among the finest in the country-is well poised to make internationally as well.
LUC has two campuses at
along with its clinical campuses at Kota Bharu and Tanah Merah.
The University College has been providing world-class facilities and infrastructure for high quality education and learning, like well-furnished classrooms, state-of-the-art research laboratories, Anatomy museum, Cyber Anatomy, a well-stocked library, and e-brary. Hostel with all the modern amenities are provided for the students. A fleet of vehicles caters to the transport needs.
A large number of International Institutions find their home in LUC campus and LUC has close academic links and collaborations with them. LUC emphasize the understanding of fundamental principles and prepares individuals for a life time learning and professional growth.
Last Date for Paper Submission (Final Extension)
Author Notification
Early Bird Registration Closes
Camera Ready Copy & Copy Right Submission
Conference Dates


text:
The following commentary does not necessarily reflect the views of AgWeb or Farm Journal Media. The opinions expressed below are the author's own.
Jim Dickrell is the editor of Dairy Herd Management and is based in Monticello, Minn.
As Yogi Bera would say, "It's deja vu all over again!" I have a hard time reconciling $.50/cwt. assessments being doled out. Read my lips, no new taxes!
Son of a gun, this is so helupfl!
Th4jde , [url=http://dobljkljostq.com/]dobljkljostq[/url], [link=http://aelsfwmlcgag.com/]aelsfwmlcgag[/link], http://ixgrcfolcemk.com/


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Subject: edi-14 closed (was: Re: ecawave vs gcc-3.0)
From: Kai Vehmanen (kai.vehmanen_AT_wakkanet.fi)
Date: Thu May 13 2004 - 01:27:04 EEST
this mail probably sets the list record... here's an update to an issue
raised nearly three years ago! :)
On Sat, 18 Aug 2001, Patrick Shirkey wrote:
> Another thing I am wondering is if it would be possible to add a command
> to the ./configure like --enable-alsa that would make alsa the default
> driver? That way one wouldn't have to ever explicitly tell ecasound to
> use alsa after compiling.
This later became development item 'edi-14', but was never actually
implemented. Fortunately the very latest 2.3.3 release finally resolves
this issue. The new 'auto' value for 'default-output' is itself the
default setting, and will make Ecasound choose ALSA over OSS if ALSA was
available during compile time.
So I guess we can finally closed this item:
(edi-14): Making ALSA the default output device with a compile
time options.
- submitted: Patrick Shirkey, 18.8.2001
- not implemented: kaiv, 12.05.2004 (workaround in 2.3.3)
--- http://www.eca.cx Audio software for Linux!
This archive was generated by hypermail 2b28 : Thu May 13 2004 - 01:20:27 EEST


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Wednesday, 27 November 2013
43 comments:
Hello Jan.ReplyDelete
Lovely bunting today, cute hairband - and a great real Christmas tree!
Have a good week - glad the fayre went well.
Margaret #26
What a great idea for the Christmas card- real twigs!!! I have been buying gifts all year round! And a good thing too because when Haiyan happened, I stopped my Christmas buying! Have fun! :^) patsyReplyDelete
C in this case is for crazy, creative, crafty creature!! That's you, LLJ, and I've missed you! You always have such lovely makes and fabrics! Well done on cards for the refuge! We do similar charities in the States and it is such a great feeling. That tree card from Lynda is awe-mazing! Happy WOYWW and have a wonderful week! Hugs, Darnell #17ReplyDelete
Fantabulous bunting as always and those headbands are so cute, I can see why they went well.ReplyDelete
We are definitely peas in a pod with the photo taking, I always forget myself. That real Christmas tree card is a fantastic idea, Lynda is so clever and I'm sure the refuge are super happy with all the cards.
Have a great week and I hope you get to start Chrissy shopping soon, I haven't started either.
Von #27
As always I am in awe of your sewing skills, I tried to sew round a circle the other day and I binned it...wasn't worth keeping, I tried a few times and each went the same way. I will stick to paper crafts with straight lines I think...those I can sew! Great project and I enjoy your bunting every day in my craft room, it really brightens the place up.ReplyDelete
Gorgeous card, from Lynda, love the heap of cards for the refuge, and of course, your bunting! Have a great week (I haven't done any shopping yet either. luckily there isn't too much...) Helen 34ReplyDelete
Hi Jan glad the happy mail arrived safely. Love your bunting. Hope that ones for you now after generously giving so much other bunting away! Have a good weekReplyDelete
Love LyndaB # 39
Looks like your machine has been kept busy like mine Jan. Love the bunting.ReplyDelete
A x # 43
Just like me, you never stop stitching! Lovely makes and quality bunting. I often see bunting for sale just cut with pinking shears! The reversible headband is great.ReplyDelete
CHICS sale is at the end of the month so not long to go but you really are thoughtful and you do so much for others so don't worry.
Thanks for the peek and the chuckle, as always,
love Jo x
Glad your fair went well, great headband. Lovely cards. Hope you got my second lot of card (sent a few weeks ago). Have a great day.ReplyDelete
- Anonymous27 November 2013 at 09:54
Congrats on the fair - not at all surprised the headbands went down well. They are so cute and great to get a twofer, isn't it? Great stocking stuffers. If only DD hadn't opted for a very short haircut! An well. Missed you last week but caught up on the post just now. You have such patience with fiddly sewing. :) Not ME!ReplyDelete
Happy WOYWW!
Mary Anne (28)
Love those little headbands you have made, they are so sweet!ReplyDelete
And the Christmas bunting is fab!
The tree card is a clever idea
Jackie 38
So glad to hear the fair went well! Lovely, lovely bunting! You are so clever with all your lovely bright stitchery! Those headbands must have been very popular - just the sort of thing my daughter would have loved when she was younger. Have a great WOYWW and a productive week - I'm sure you will! Julie Ann xx #55ReplyDelete
Coo that tree is fun, and the bunting is gorgeous. I really must get my sewing machine back into the craft making, but there is just so much to do in life and making cards is less effort.ReplyDelete
MInd you that hairband looks good and would use up lots of scraps I have bundled in a bag under the bed. #You might have just encouraged me.
Chris #47
Who wants to shop when you can make such wonderful things...head band and banners...or as you call them...buntings? I love using scraps...every thing big and small has a purpose.ReplyDelete
Many blessing ...Be well Carole # 67...I think I was 67 last week too!
Sigh, I always end up salivating when I stop by yours. Lovely bunting and awesome headband.ReplyDelete
So good to be back desking this week,
Blooming hell...seeing it writ large on your desk like that makes me feel a bit erm....panicked!l.ReplyDelete
Beautiful post, such gorgeous treasures and creations! Love the colorful headband..how fabulous! and I adore the tree of wood pieces..how stunning and very special! LOvely..thanks for sharing! and tanks for your kind visit!ReplyDelete
Such gorgeous makes Jan. What a clever little tree too - amazing crafters out there aren't there. x JoReplyDelete
So glad your craft fair went well--that headband could not be cuter!! Your Christmas banner is so pretty. I already have the banner you made for me up as we're starting to get out some Christmas decorations. My hubby said that your banner is one of the most special things--and he loved your tidbit last week about Monty Python coming back! My sister is bringing Mom for Thanksgiving tomorrow, and it will be her first outing since coming home, so we are a little worried. But I will give her your message! Hugs soul sister! Happy WOYWW! Sandy Leigh #16ReplyDelete
Happy to hear the craft fair went well--not surprised, since your creations are wonderful!ReplyDelete
Hmmm, I really thought C was for "cats." ;)
Happy WOYWW to you!
#13 this week
with another advent calendar!
So good to hear the fair went well, I had no doubt about your abilities, those head bands are a treat in many ways especially using up the scraps, one of my favorite things to do, I hate waste. Yep and you didn't fool me for a minute with the banner, it looks great. Thanks for popping in to say hi, arm not great been sitting up half the night trying to nurse it.ReplyDelete
Hugs, Happy Crafting & WOYWW
Eliza & Yoda 12
Beautiful bunting as always! You are clever. Glad the refuge is being supported by crafters near and far! Take care Zo xx 76ReplyDelete
- Anonymous27 November 2013 at 16:35
Gorgeous bunting -- love it! I'm glad you had a successful craft fair. That tree card is really clever. I'd have a tough time finding dry sticks under all the snow right now -- ha, ha. Happy WOYWW and thanks for visiting! :-) ~ Laura #77ReplyDelete
Glad to hear your craft fair went well - I'm preparing for one on the 7th December. Beautiful bunting!ReplyDelete
Bernice #56
- Anonymous27 November 2013 at 19:15
Another fantastic banner LLJ, can't fool us can you! I like the headbands, I had some similar when I was a kid I'm sure. Love the reall wooden tree card, it's brilliant, as are the cards for the refuge. Apparently the togs for the US Team for the summer Olympics were made in China! RL didn't half take a bashing over that! Glad they learnt their lesson, it was quite by chance that one of his staff was on holiday in Northern Michigan last summer, saw the sign by the side of the road advertising the woolen mill and popped in for a look! Fantastic for them no matter how it came about.ReplyDelete
Brenda 1
PS. I liked Julia's panicked comment... s'not like someone changed the date of Christmas now is it!!!!
Gorgeous bunting and I am not surprised that the headbands went down a treat. The wood card is stunning...so effective. Thanks for sharing. Happy WOYWW. Caro x (#60)ReplyDelete
Oh I love the tree card! That would be beautiful hanging on the wall in a frame!ReplyDelete
Hugs, Robin #87
Awesome bunting and cards!!! Hope you have a great week! Ginny #19ReplyDelete
Hi jan hope you are feeling better today ... I have it now too but off to work anyway.... PantsReplyDelete
Great bunting just the ticket to get me in the Christmas zone
Have a good week
Janet @15
Now I thought exactly the same with the number 234 this week too - sigh. Super banner and headband. My machine still only comes out for mending - another sigh. Still taking the paracetamol BJ#51ReplyDelete
Oh I just LOVE your bunting and just about EVERYTHING else on your blog Jan!!!! I "dabble" with my sewing machine and used to knit for England and with more hours in the day I would do more of both! That twiggy Christmas tree card is just stunning! Happy Crafting and thanks SO much for visiting my blog this week. I have to admit to being a bit obsessed with making those poinsetta's ... any excuse and out comes the Big Shot! Love to you, Debbie #56 xXxReplyDelete
Beautiful bunting! I really like the simplicity of it - very shabby chic (but not shabby IYKWIM!) Looking forward to seeing you next week luvvie :-)ReplyDelete
How wonderful that your craft fair went well. Pretty headband. And what a gorgeous card with real tree. Brigita #82ReplyDelete
Eeckkk... it's Friday already - I guess I am a bit late touring the woyww-desks... I do love seeing all the good stuff going on on your desk. Sewing... yaaaayyy!!! Have a great weekend, love from Holland Marit woyww #70ReplyDelete
Pretty head band. I'm drawn to your screen name as I spent 16 years in food service for K -12. Love the tree card! That would be so nice hanging on the wall.ReplyDelete
Hugs Robin. Thank you for the visit. 87
Nice Christmas banner and headband! Very lovely cards!ReplyDelete
Have a great WOYWW,
Lisa #95
Love ,love the bunting.ReplyDelete
Bit late visiting this week, thank you for stopping by my blog.
Karen #59
the head band is so cute pleased the craft fair went so well. thanks for visiting and your kind comment we had a great time photos on blog soon nearly forgot great banner ! belated woyww wishes Andrea #29ReplyDelete
ooh well done everyone ... and gotta love that bunting, Lunch Lady Jan!! so nice and the headbands..ReplyDelete
... sorry am late but you know why!! ;)
Shaz in Oz.x
Hi Jan, Thanks for your comments. Re the CHICS sale, it went well but there were lots of other stalls at the venue. They raised around £300 which Eddie is pleased with.ReplyDelete
Jo x
i am very very late this week, sorry. Love the bunting and headbands. that tree is goreous, what a good ideaReplyDelete
thanks for your visifamfa 2
Hi LLJ,ReplyDelete
So glad the craft fair was a success. I had no doubt. The reversible headbands look so cute!


text:
Udon part2 "Udon no U"
My friend and I had Cheese curry udon and Tonkotsu (pork bone) udon which has usually a cloudy white colored broth. They come with a bowl of rice.
"Udon no U" restaurants have a lot of interesting flavors.
Related Posts
- Udon part1 "tsurutontan" (udon restaurant)
- Taiwan cuisine, Reikyo
- Kushinobo Shinjuku
- Ten-don at Tenichi in Ginza
- Tabegotoya Norabo


text:
BPSC PT Results 2015 – Check 56th-59th Bihar PSC PT Exam Results: Bihar Public Service Commission (BPSC) has announced Bihar BPSC 57th 58th 59th Preliminary exam results. Bihar PSC has conducted the 56th-59th Common Combined (Preliminary) Competitive Examination this year. Written examination for BPSC PT was held on 15th March 2015. Aspirants can check their Bihar PSC PT Exam Results below.
The Bihar Public Service Commission had issued a recruitment notification for filling up 746 various vacancies through 56th-59th Common Combined (Preliminary) Competitive Examination. Then BPSC had conducted written examination for the same on 15th March 2015. A number of candidates have appeared at the exam. Now all of them are very eager to Check their BPSC PT Results. Being qualified in BPSC PT exam is compulsory for all candidates in order to appear at BPSC Main examination.
BPSC PT Results 2015
All those candidates who have appeared for 56th-59th Common Combined (Preliminary) Competitive Examination, they are required to Check BPSC PT Results. Bihar PSC Results has been uploaded and it is now available for Check over there. The complete information about Competitive examination regarding BPSC exam results and other details have been uploaded.
Name of Organisation – Bihar Pubic Service Commission (BPSC)
Name of exam – BPSC 56th-59th Preliminary Exam 2015
No. of Vacancies: 746 Posts
Written Exams Date: 15th March 2015
BPSC PT Results 2015 is available for Check on its official website at www.bpsc.bih.nic.in. Follow the link given below to Check PT Results online.
Check 56th-59th BPSC PT Exam Results
Log on to official website at http://bpsc.bih.nic.in.
Find the link of BPSC PT Results and click on it.
Click on "56th-59th Common Combined (Preliminary) Competitive Examination Result."
Please type in your 6-digit Roll Number and click on submit button.
The next page will come up with your PT Results.
Candidates are advised to check their BPSC PT Exam results carefully. Follow the link given below to Check BPSC Result 2015.
Click here for Check BPSC PT Results.


text:
Submitted by CdMScott on
I had seen this movie when it came out-and loved it-and definitely wanted to watch it again so I could add it to this site. It turned out to be every bit as delightful as the first time.
John Hurt plays Giles De'Ath [his last name is one of the only heavy-handed things about the movie], a British intellectual writer with almost no connection to the modern world: he has no TV, never goes to the movies, and has no answering machine. He does nothing but read and write. One day he gets locked out in the rain, and, seeing that there's an adaptation of an E.M. Forster short story playing, buys a ticket. However, his utter ignorance in the ways of modern theaters results in his buying a ticket to the wrong movie, and he ends up watching a Porky's-like teen comedy entitled Hotpants College II. This actually happened to a friend of mine, someone also somewhat out of touch with the modern world, who finally gave in to his friends who had told him what a wonderful film Tender Mercies was. He could not understand what they saw in it, and only later discovered that he had accidentally walked into Porky's Revenge.
Anyway, Giles is about to leave, when he is transfixed by the appearance onscreen of Jason Priestly as actor Ronnie Bostock. He sits back down and watches the rest, and later goes back to see it again [in the classic situation of having to endure the shame of having to ask out loud for tickets to Hotpants College II]. The movie is presented as a film-within-the-film that hilariously parodies those kind of teen films, including, at one point, Bostock laying defeated on a diner counter, covered in ketchup and mustard. Giles later connects this image to Henry Wallis' painting Chatterton, hanging in the Tate, a Pre-Raphaelite painting that has been interpreted as expressing both the beauty of a young man in death and the struggle of the sensitive soul to endure against the modern world.
Giles becomes obsessed with Bostock, which is shown in a sequence of HILARIOUS scenes as he buys teen drivel magazines [picking up "Classic Cars" to deflect attention from the magazine he really wants: "Sugar"], buys a VCR in order to watch Bostock videos [only he doesn't understand that he will also need a television], and attempting to watch Ronnie's crappy sitcom at a friend's house. He pastes his teen-mag pics and captions of Ronnie into a scrapbook he labels "Bostockiana." There is a hilarious shot as Giles moves his face toward the television screen where Bostock is lying beautiful and dead [like Chatterton], and Hurt's sudden repulsed reaction as the image suddenly switches to an older priest. I guess your sense of how funny all of this will depend on your immersion in academic life and exposure to intellectuals who are like this; I was laughing my ass off the entire time.
After his [devastatingly handsome] agent suggests that he take a vacation, Giles decides to travel to Long Island and search for Ronnie in the flesh. He settles into a crappy roadside motel and spends his days wandering the streets in hope of running into his idol. One of the highlights of the entire film for me is a throwaway moment in which Giles opens the door of his motel room to place his shoes outside to be polished, and his slow reaction as he sees the rural road and woods outside and realizes that perhaps this motel does not offer overnight shoe-shine service.
Eventually Giles meets Ronnie's girlfriend Audrey, and immediately targets her as a way to meet Ronnie. Giles, hopeless at modern society, proves to be an expert at manipulation of the weak-minded, and he plays to all of Audrey's [and later, Ronnie's] naïveté's and narcissisms. They come to believe that Giles is "a famous writer from England," and lap up everything he says about the depths of emotion he sees in Ronnie's acting. He eventually promises to write a screenplay for Ronnie that will break him out of the trap of teen movies, and propel him into more serious parts. It moves on to a climax that I wouldn't dare ruin for you, but, like the rest of the movie, is nimble and subtle-and moving-and which works on several levels at once.
John Hurt gives a truly incredible performance. He can of course handle the drama, but I was surprised at his incredible skill at the comedy, especially the simple comedy of reaction shots and double takes. He creates a fully believable character that is well-rounded and very real. Jason Priestley is good, but not especially revelatory. Fiona Loewi, as Audrey, does a great job of running with her character's naïveté, but there is just the slightest trace of self-awareness in her performance that keeps it from greatness.
There was also a lot of content in this movie about watching movies, which was familiar to me, especially since beginning this site, such as the feeling of being in love with an actor in a movie, and feeling as though one KNOWS an actor from seeing them in a movie, plus the content of the lecture Giles gives on watching movies on VCR, and how he says tiny moments from terrible movies can become quite interesting and meaningful when you are able to go back and watch them over and over again.
Another theme of this movie is how awful the modern world-and the people who inhabit it-are getting. The script goes out of its way to remind us that most people do not read books anymore, and find no reward in anything they have to pay more than a moment's attention to. The obnoxiousness of the video store clerk and the theater ticketseller are hilarious for how very true to life they are. The screenplay is very carefully written, and even the most minor characters, such as the VCR salesman who tells Giles it's "in his own interest to buy the latest technology," seem pulled straight from everyday life, and express the psychological barrenness of the majority of people who surround us today.
This movie is wonderfully funny and moving, featuring characters with real depth, and a careful subtext, and allusions to other works, such as the Wallis painting and Death in Venice. Just a great all-round movie that deserves to be seen.
Yes, you really should.


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And (immediately) the man's ears were opened, his speech impediment was removed, and he spoke plainly. Mark 7:35
He wanted his ears opened. His friends wanted his ears opened.
But they couldn't do it.
What they couldn't do, Jesus did.
We wonder why his friends have to bring in the guy. The guy can walk. He can wave his hands to Jesus to get his attention. Instead, his friends brought him to him. Maybe frustration has caught him. Not hearing people and being able to communicate is a hard thing to do, a hard life to live. His father wants to tell him he is there for him, yet he does not hear it. His mother tells him how much she loves him, all falling on closed ears. Try one day without talking and avoiding sound waves pass your ears.
Frustration. And he is not alone.
You have traveled that dead end. You got nowhere to go. It's closed.
A health issue is lingering in your body for several years now. Doctors have the answers but your body does not respond.
Or unemployment is blocking all your plans for your family and children's future. You have the resume' but employment does not resume soon.
You got a ministry which hit a great road block. You look at your resources, you look at what you can do, and deep inside you know Jesus what will do.
Don't fret in your corner. Come to the Opener. If you can't, allow your friends to bring you to him. Open whatever is closed to him. Let Jesus touch you.
Experience Jesus. Experience the opening.
–> This is re-posted, originally posted in February 15 2012.


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Black is not just a color. It is a definition to the most sophisticated secrets of the universe. The sun, the moon and even the earth are all the toddlers of the same black universe.
There's nothing more prominent to a night party than a fair lassie wearing a stunning black dress with her black hair curled into perfection. On the contrary, witchcraft and black magic have always been an all-time favorite. Every culture has its emphasis on the value of this color.
So without wasting any further time, here is a list of 5 most wishful things in my checklist (not in any particular order):
A black Armani Tuxedo: A black tux signifies elegance, sophistication and confidence. And what to say if it's an Armani clothed over a freshly bathed body, hair neatly groomed, rocking over the formal evening events. Oh man, the ladies gonna die seeing this. Poor they.
CX Swiss DELTA FORCE SPECIAL President Black Dial: Manufactured in Switzerland by Montres Charmex S.A, this Swiss Military full-function Alarm Chronograph is a truly stunning and rugged timepiece.
Twin LCD digital displays for DATE, ALARM, GMT freely adjustable 2nd timezone -Tachymeter: calculates speed based on travel time over a fixed distance Case/Bracelet: -Solid stainless steel case, (Delta Force Special models: matte-black hard wearing PVD plated; Delta Force models: gun metal finish) Case back: Stainless steel, screwed -Adjustable bracelet: Solid stainless steel with matte-black hard wearing PVD plated -Buckle: double pusher safety deployment clasp with engraved CX Swiss Military Watch logo -Screw-down crown and screw-down pushers for added security -Bezel: 360 degree / 60' graduation -Water-resistant, Anti-reflective, highly scratch resistant sapphire crystal
Facial Hair: That's how much I like hair growing on the lower part of my face. Something symbolizing me as an artist, a writer/poet.
A Black Phantom: Nothing can challenge a ride like Rolls Royce's. A gleaming black Phantom, lustrous as a new penny, with the lustre being a star in the night sky. It's definitely the king of the road.
Space: Last week I had a dream. Dressed like an astronaut, I didn't look bad at all while getting ready for some space mission along with 2 other men to the moon, or mars or something. We were having a serious discussion on some important space matter. When suddenly bhua woke me up. It was 5 in the morning. She was asking me about some freaking key.
After searching for an hour, it was found in grandpa's pocket.
And I flushed as I went to bed. Dreams like this come once in a lifetime and I wasted it finding a key that was never lost. I tried reconnecting with the broken dream, but sigh.
Outside the earth's atmosphere, the sky is black day and night. Strange, isn't it?
This contest is a part of #WhatTheBlack activity at BlogAdda.com
This contest is a part of #WhatTheBlack activity at BlogAdda.com


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Our Vision
Advocates for irreplaceable trees in Texas.
Our Mission
We are dedicated to researching, recognizing, and celebrating historic trees in Texas.
Our Values
The Texas Historic Tree Coalition is passionate about bringing the story of significant trees to the public. We are a coalition of volunteers who seek the best information available from historians, arborists, archaeologists, anthropologists, environmentalists, and other experts in relevant fields. We strive to be the go-to group for people who need resources and help in recognizing historic trees in their communities.
Established in 1995 as the Dallas Historic Tree Coalition, our work took us to places all over Texas and points beyond. In 2014, we grew to become the Texas Historic Tree Coalition. We are an all-volunteer, non-profit group. We feel that we have a moral obligation to find, celebrate and document these living legacies for future generations to enjoy.
We promote wise and responsible stewardship of trees and view them as natural assets that must be carefully managed. If you agree that historic trees should be recognized and protected, become a member at no cost and receive email updates.


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Javier de Frutos may have confronted us with some of the most brutal truths that dancing bodies can deliver, but he also has the instincts of a showman. In his latest piece for Rambert he has delivered a hit. Elsa Canasta is a dark, funny, sexy evocation of the world of Cole Porter, set to his ballet score Within the Quota and a medley of his songs.
These are performed by Melanie Marshall, the fallen guardian angel of de Frutos's world. We see her first at the top of a staircase, which curves from the centre of the stage to some unseen louche dive. Dancers ascend and descend the stairs like wired-up jazz babes rushing to score sex or drugs. In between they dance fraught little encounters - some very dirty, some very comic.
De Frutos does not always care to use the full range of his vocabulary, but here he pulls out the stops. The choreography is full of sly period references, echoing the violently erotic Apache dance of the music halls at one extreme and Balanchine's Apollo at the other.
The stage jitters with fast, sophisticated dance, yet underlying it is a relentless, repetitive energy that urges these bright young things towards destruction. They pause only for sex. Between virtuoso moves, the dancers steal blind, grappling embraces, grab each other's crotches, smear saliva off their mouths or, if moment-arily partnerless, fondle themselves. Amid the crowd-pleasing wit and mischief lurks desolation.
This clever, layered piece is the perfect closer for Rambert's current programme. Karole Armitage's Living Toys boasts fascinating music but under-imagined choreography, and while Wayne McGregor's PreSentient operates at a higher gear, it is still an abstract work.
It goes without saying that Rambert's dancers are fabulous in these and in Glen Wilkinson's two short solos, but it is Elsa Canasta that beams their collective talent right across the auditorium.
· Until Saturday. Box office: 020-7863 8000.


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The new, astonishing figures for the Hispanic population in the US:
I find this very interesting. There are almost 32 million Mexicans in the US. The next large group is Puerto Ricans, with almost 5 million people, and the next, Cubans, with almost 2 million. Although Mexicans are six times as many as the next big group, for some reason they seem to be under served and under represented. Other groups, like the Cubans in Miami, make much more noise and seem to have far more political clout, even though they are actually less relevant. Here in the East Coast, Mexicans are almost invisible. We see them cooking and delivering our food, but otherwise, they don't make a political racket. They barely have political representation. My guess is that recent arrivals come from poverty and are severely undereducated. They are concerned about surviving, sending money to their families, and they are not used to having a political voice. They have been abandoned by their own government at home and they are not about to trust the one here. I hope that with new generations of Mexican kids born in America this will change. I'm hoping that they will integrate better and get to be Supreme Court judges, mayors, presidents of this country. They need to get out of the ghetto. And for this, they all need to learn English.
When I arrived in New York in 1992, the Hispanic advertising business in the East Coast was run by people from Cuban or Puerto Rican origin. There were a only a handful of Mexicans working in this industry and being Mexican turned out to be a huge asset for my career. I always resented, and still do, that every time I wrote copy, someone would ask if a person who wasn't Mexican would understand it. Not that I was writing Mexican slang, but once in a while, a legitimate Spanish word that was perfectly commonplace in Mexico would jump out at people. Some thought that Mexicans were too uneducated to understand perfectly commonplace words (there was a lot of ignorant prejudice from some quarters and there still is. Some people like to feel superior to Mexicans, because of race, economic status and education levels). In my mind, I was writing for the majority even then, and the majority rules. I still feel the same way. If the communication is national, it should speak to the majority. If it is regional; that is, if it's only going to air in Miami, then do it in Cuban and let the minority get used to it. Native speakers, whatever their country of origin, are deeply sensitive
to regional accents. So in Miami they are used to Cuban, as in the
Southwest and California they are used to Mexican, and here in the East
Coast, to the Spanish spoken in the Caribbean islands. I believe that
there is a neutral Spanish accent that is perfectly fine, and this is
the neutral Mexican accent, which pronounces all the consonants, and
which, without the melody, is as neutral as the Colombian accent from
Bogotá, without the singsong. And whoever doesn't like this, should take
a look at the numbers above and zip it.
One of the problems I have with the "Hispanic" market, is that because we strive to include everybody, the Spanish language that we use in mass communications has become impoverished. It is hard to write ads with humor, not because it is impossible, but because someone will always question whether the others will understand it. Advertising and marketing categorize people into targets until it dehumanizes them, as if people from different national origins are inscrutable aliens from a different galaxy that have no connection either to one another or to the rest of humanity. This results in people looking at every word in a sentence as if it was devoid of context. As if the way we speak is by understanding every single word in a sentence separately, without connection to what precedes it or what follows. In short, common sense leaves the building.
Let me give an example: popular idioms and expressions enrich
communication. They are part of our
culture. So if I want to use an expression like "sale más caro el caldo que las albóndigas",
"the broth ends up costing more than the meatballs", which means something similar to "pound wise and penny foolish", everybody
understands the gist of it, but it will have to go through a gauntlet of
people who will admit they understand it, and even like it, but they
are afraid that someone from the Dominican Republic might not. You can
rest assured that it will never go on air. This is, among other reasons,
why you can barely find good commercials in Spanish in the US.
The Spanish now used in mass communications in the US is for the most part an insipid, generic language that has no personality, no bite, no irony. Often times, it is sloppy and grammatically incorrect, or it is a lazy, literal translation of English idioms. As I was trapped in Cancún by hurricane Irene, I was watching the coverage on CNN en
Español. I was appalled at the poverty of the Spanish of the newscasters
and reporters. They sounded like nothing recognizable because for the most part they were speaking in some sort of awkward, literal Spanish translation of English; whenever they
didn't know a word in Spanish, which was very often, they just said it
in English. I cannot understand how a network with the resources of CNN can't hire
good journalists, reporters and anchors who are native speakers of
Spanish, and are fully bilingual and know the structural differences between the two languages. They can't be that hard to find.
The problem is bigger than advertising. Since this is not a Hispanic country, we don't have a solid literary and verbal culture. Our Spanish is poor. Children at school do not learn poems, songs, expressions, games, and literature in Spanish. We don't have good Hispanic-American literary writers who write in Spanish. We barely have a handful of good Hispanic-American writers who write in English. Our TV channels are a disgrace in terms of content. There is no cultural content. Newspapers and magazines leave much to be desired. And advertising, which in its best form should contribute to pop culture, is for the most part lame, artificial, generic and it belongs to no one. By trying to include everyone, it really speaks to no one.
So I have two points to make:
1. Our Spanish sucks, and we should do something to improve it. Making it generic makes it poorer.
2. Because there are almost six times as many Mexicans as any other Latins in this country, Mexican-influenced Spanish should be the language used to speak to the majority of Hispanics in the US.*
*By the way, if there was a Spanish-speaking majority from another country, I would stand by this, as much as it may pain me. It's only fair.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Más Respeto, Por Favor.
2 comments:
- Anonymous7:24 PM
I like the Tide commercials their airing in Spanish they have three families Mexican, Cuban, and Argentinian. I like that they used phrases in those countries 'spanish' and not try to make just commercials about detergent from the literal english translations.ReplyDelete
Theres some commercials that have the literal translations of english ,and they are horrible some i don't even know what they are saying.
What is the source of those numbers? Are there any corresponding figures about how many of those people are legal and how many illegal?ReplyDelete
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The Crown Season 2
Netflix takes a deeper look at the life of Queen Elizabeth II in the second season of the streaming service's original period drama. Her Majesty's Armed Forces are in the midst of an illegal war in Egypt when the new episodes pick up where they left off. The series later goes on to recount the downfall of her third Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan following a dramatic scandal.
When: Friday on Netflix
The Carol Burnett 50th Anniversary Special
Carol Burnett cemented herself as a comedy legend once her weekly variety show won 25 Emmys throughout its 11-season run. To celebrate 50 years since the show first premiered, she'll return for an anniversary special alongside Vicki Lawrence, Lyle Waggoner, Bernadette Peters, Pat Boone and Jay Leno. "I can't believe how fast the time went, and what makes me the happiest is that so much of the funny stuff we did still holds up today," she said.
When: Sunday on CBS
El Camino Christmas
Netflix has delivered the goods in the form of an original holiday film. And like other such seasonal favourites as Bad Santa and Die Hard, the Dave Talbert-directed movie takes a darker look at the most wonderful time of the year. The plot is simple, Luke Grimes, Tim Allen, Dax Shepard and Jessica Alba all wind up stuck inside of a liquor store on Christmas Eve.
When: Friday on Netflix
The Great American Baking Show
Holiday Special
The American spinoff of The Great British Bake Off returns for a third season and will welcome cookbook author Ayesha Curry and former NFL star Anthony Adams as hosts who cheer on some of the best bakers who've come to compete for the crown of Best Amateur Baker.
When: Thursday on ABC
The Great Christmas Light Fight
Holiday Special
Keeping up with the Joneses takes on a whole new meaning this Christmas when families around America compete with flashy holiday decorations in the hopes of winning $50,000. Hosts Carter Oosterhouse and Taniya Nayak return for the fifth season of the extreme Christmas competition to show off the life-sized gingerbread houses.
When: Monday on ABC
The Newspaperman: The Life and Times of Ben Bradlee
Documentary Special
Legendary Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee tells his own story from a Boston boy with polio to one of the most poignant players in 20th century journalism. Friends and peers like Carl Bernstein, Henry Kissinger and Robert Redford also offer interviews to fill in the gaps.
When: Monday on HBO Canada
The Grand Tour
Season Premiere
Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May are back for the second season of their 12-part series. The trio head to Croatia, Mozambique, Spain, Dubai and New York and will be joined by celebrity guests like Luke Evans, Kiefer Sutherland and David Hasselhoff.
When: Friday on Amazon Prime Video
Season Premiere
Lisa Vanderpump and her host of SUR servers are back for a sixth season and the drama has hit a new plateau. Breakups, makeups and catfights are all staples of a good dramafest that's promised from familiar faces like Jax Taylor and James Kennedy as well as Lala Kent, who stormed out of the restaurant and inevitably the show, in Season 5.
When: Monday on Slice
Season Premiere
The cooks head to the Rocky Mountains for Season 15 of the culinary competition. The battle for the title and $125,000 grand prize kicks off with challenges based in cities across Colorado with judges Tom Colicchio, Gail Simmons and Graham Elliot guiding the kitchen-based battles. Food stars like Curtis Stone, Richard Blais and Bryan Voltaggio are all slated the guest-judge.
When: Thursday on Food Network Canada
Craig Ferguson's Tickle Fight
Comedy Special
Craig Ferguson finds it difficult to grow a beard. He also has an extreme distaste for magicians. These are just a few of the tidbits offered in the Emmy-winning comedian's new Netflix original stand-up special.
When: Tuesday on Netflix


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"Time to Savor" is another of the pieces made completely from collaged papers… no paint. I love doing these little coffee and tea scenes, I think because they are so ordinary. Just a little snapshot of everyday life.
This art is on a 8 x 10 inch stretched canvas and is currently for sale at Tessera Fine Art Gallery.
Thank you to everyone who attended my studio open house this weekend and helped my art overflow find a good home. It was fun getting to visit with many of you!
I also had fun this weekend at the Art for Arthritis event where the artwork of a junior artist and artist pair were auctioned off. It was held at the beautiful Scottish Rite Center in Wichita, and proved to be a fun evening.
Here was our art…
And here is the fun and talented junior artist that I had the privilege of working with photographed with the winning bid. One happy little lady!
Hope you have a happy Monday and your week is off to a good start!


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Few days back I had a situation when size of my database transcation log was growing too fast (at a point it reached 60 GB). so I had to find some way to truncate it to some minimal size. After lot of googling, I found how to truncate the transaction log.
Run these two commands in Query Analyser.
- BACKUP LOG <<DBName>> WITH TRUNCATE_ONLY
- DBCC SHRINKFILE(<<DBName>>_log, <<Desired transaction filesize>> )
Remarks :
- DBCC SHRINKFILE applies to the files in the current database. If you try to run this command in a different DB then the DB you want to shrink, SQL Server will give following error
Server: Msg 8985, Level 16, State 1, Line 1
Could not locate file '<<DBName>>_log' in sysfiles.
- SQL Server uses <<Desired transaction filesize>> to calculate the target size for the entire log; therefore, target_size is the amount of free space in the log after the shrink operation. Target size for the entire log is then translated to target size for each log file. DBCC SHRINKFILE attempts to shrink each physical log file to its target size immediately. If no part of the logical log resides in the virtual logs beyond the log file's target size, the file is successfully truncated and DBCC SHRINKFILE completes with no messages. However, if part of the logical log resides in the virtual logs beyond the target size, SQL Server frees as much space as possible and then issues an informational message. The message tells you what actions you need to perform to move the logical log out of the virtual logs at the end of the file. (Remarks are taken from MSDN)
References…..Ha-P Querying 🙂


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After I learned of the death of my former student on Friday, I went to the memorial FB page to post my condolences and to add a portion of a piece I'd blogged some years ago.
Those posts garnered me a lot of parent and student "likes" and some new friend requests, from people with names like Hannah and Issac and Noah and Ariel and Yael and Chava and Hadas and Avital and Liat.
The circumstances are heartbreaking, but it's a pleasure to see the names of those beautiful young people and recall another life.


text: We flew back to Miami from Seattle the beginning of March and were welcomed home to the Keys by a visit from Kelly and Casey. We gave them both big, congratulatory hugs on their engagement, then spent a couple days together in the Keys before going bike riding in the Everglades. Before flying out to … Continue reading


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Thanks to all my clients who joined me at The Exercise Spaces' Client Appreciation Night at The Skate King in Bellevue on Saturday 4/12. We were sweating, and laughing, and some of us falling…:) Tiffany and Jevin rocked in the speed skating competition, April cruised around and around, and kudos to Steph for hanging and not hurting herself! Mark felt what it was like to be on 4 wheels other than his mountain bike, Matt looked completely comfortable cruising, and I was my clumsy self!
Skate King Cardio
March 16, 2008
1 Comment for this entry
Looks like fun, I wish I could have joined
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Thursday, April 25, 2013
Where Is My Mind?: Seven Years Later
Today marks the seventh anniversary of the event that led to my starting this site.
Seven years ago today, I was preparing to enter Cornell Medical Center in New York City to undergo the surgery that would remove a pinball-sized tumor from deep inside my skull. It's indescribably overwhelming to try to mentally sort through the ways in which things have changed for me since that initial diagnosis, that surgery, the early recovery period following the operation; my life, my surroundings, and, most importantly, I myself would feel completely unfamiliar and alien if I tried to compare them against what they all once were.
In the past seven years, I've lost a wife, had a beautiful daughter and then almost immediately lost my future as a full-time father, lost quite a bit of idealism -- an evolved, more tempered version of which has only recently begun to trickle back into the picture -- and lost the person I used to be. On the other hand, I've gained quite a bit of wisdom, a sense of freedom and fearlessness that I could only pretend to have years ago, a new life in a new (old) city, a new relationship with someone I love very much, a new appreciation for what I have and who I am at this stage of my life, and a new kind of quiet contentment in the knowledge that my daughter is growing into a remarkable little girl, whether I'm around to see every second of it or not.
Throughout it all, though, there remains little doubt that the surgery to remove the uninvited guest in my head changed me -- the person I am at my core -- dramatically and fundamentally. I know that my "recovery" from the damage the tumor initially caused and all the brain-scrambling that it left in its wake is far from over and may never be.
As has become a kind of tradition on this day, I'm republishing the two pieces I wrote back in late 2006 which dealt with my surgery. The story -- which is essentially about survival -- admittedly reads like an odd little time capsule given how much of it centers around my love for and devotion to my wife at the time. Those who know the details of what was really going on in our marriage in April of 2006 -- what I knew and the secrets that were being kept from me -- also understand the irony of my professions of trust and loyalty. But that was forever ago and it all hardly matters anymore.
I survived. I'm still here. That's a pretty happy ending, I'd say.
"Where Is My Mind?" (Part One, Originally Published, 10.12.06; Part Two, Originally Published, 12.26.06)
The First Night
"Hi. My name is Piper; I'm going to be your nurse tonight."
The voice seems to come from out of the endless darkness.
"How are you feeling?"
More than hear myself respond, I simply feel the groan bubble up from the back of my throat, creating a harsh tremor; the vibration makes my head pound harder. I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open, so I can barely bring the lithe image into focus as it glides around my bed -- careful to avoid the machines, and the tubes which hook me to them.
Once again the voice comes from nowhere.
"Are you in pain?"
I exhale and somehow manage a feeble word.
"How bad -- on a scale from one to ten?"
I have no idea how to answer that. Much worse than a bad hangover; slightly better than if I'd just been shot in the head storming the beach at Normandy. I'm not quite sure how that translates into a numerical figure.
"Seven," I say.
I open my eyes a little wider and the hazy blur sweeping around me comes into focus. I can still barely make out the features though: Short, young, possibly attractive, long hair; a girl -- the kind I'd rather not have seeing me this way. I'm not sure exactly how I look, but judging by the blasts of crimson on the neck of my gown and the crusted blood on my chin, I doubt I'm ready for the cover of GQ.
For some reason, there's an image in my head I don't understand -- a view of the 59th Street Bridge lit up at night; a view of the FDR running perpendicular to it.
I let my eyelids drift downward and allow the world to go black.
"Okay, I'm going to give you a shot of morphine," comes the voice again.
Everything seems to disappear for a moment; there's silence -- followed by a sudden thrust of liquid fire which consumes my arm from the inside out. I gasp loudly and my body jerks up from the bed, pulling the IV tubes taut. My eyes are open wide. My heart begins racing violently. I can hear the beep of the electronic monitor sounding faster and faster -- keeping time with each pulse of blood through my veins.
"What's happening?" I can barely get the words out.
Piper has her hand on my chest now, trying to push my body back down onto the bed. "You're having a reaction to the morphine. Just give it a minute."
I can't breathe; I'm trying, but I can't.
I look directly at the young nurse's face, which I can still barely make out, despite being just inches from mine. Her head is now nothing more than a black silhouette against what looks like an empty gun-metal sky. Wherever I am, there's very little light. Even with my eyes open, all I see are slightly differing shades of muted grays and blacks -- except for that view.
"Help me," I cough. "Please."
Her hand still pushes gently on my chest, as my heart-rate begins to slow -- the beeping of the monitor subsiding with each pulse. My body relaxes back onto the bed; I take a deep breath. I'm numb. The pain is gone.
"Can I ask you something?" I manage.
"Of course."
"Am I alive?"
The silhouette remains inches away from my face. After a moment, a sliver of gray seems to grow in the center of it; it takes me an eternity to realize that it's a smile.
"Yes, you're alive."
I close my eyes again and fall back into the blackness.
Eight Hours Earlier
My eyes flutter open; the room spins briefly, then comes into a soft focus. I hold my hand up to block out the bright light streaming in through the waiting room windows. Outside, the sun is rising over the East River and New York City is waking to what will surely be a gorgeous day. I unfortunately will be having none of it; my schedule's full for the next several hours.
I stretch slightly -- rolling my shoulders -- and turn my head to the left. The softness of my wife's hair envelops my nose and I breathe deeply, reaching my right hand around her face and running my fingers through the dark brown tousle. I can feel her breath on my arm as her head continues to rest on my shoulder. Across the room, my mother and father sit facing me; they're wearing anxious smiles.
"You were out pretty good there," my father says.
"Yeah, I suppose so."
"Can we get you anything?"
"How about a ride home?"
"Nope. Can't do that, son."
I lift my arm to glance at my watch and it pulls the line on the IV I'm attached to; I'd better get used to this kind of restricted movement. It's just after 10:30am; I've been waiting here along with my parents, my wife and her parents for the past four hours. My surgery was scheduled to begin just before seven. So far the only eventful things that have happened to me since my arrival involve me trading in my clothes for a flimsy hospital gown, getting hooked up to a saline drip and answering some questions about my past drug use. I fail to see how anything I did to destroy my mind and body six years ago has anything to do with why I'm here today. Then again, I was stupid enough to carpet-bomb my bloodstream with an awe-inspiring arsenal of opiates for an extended period of time; I'm obviously not very bright.
My wife nuzzles her head into my neck and turns to look up at me.
"Are you alright?"
I pause for a moment, realizing that I have a responsibility to be steadfast -- strong. "Yeah, I'm okay," I say with an easy smile -- one which I hope distracts from the terror in my eyes.
I'm having a brain tumor removed today.
It's approximately the size of a pinball and has rested itself directly atop my pituitary gland, where it's begun destroying the nerve-center which controls my body's hormone output. My entire physical being has essentially been going haywire since it moved in and decided to do to my head what The Who used to do to their hotel rooms.
I became aware of the unwanted guest in my brain about three weeks ago; that was when the headache began. It was manageable at first -- although unusual because a full-night's sleep did nothing to make it subside. I took Advil. I went to work. I tried to ignore it. And then it got worse -- much worse.
By just after noon, I could barely move; it felt as if someone were hitting me in the face with a sledgehammer each time blood pumped into my brain. I slowly shuffled over to my supervisor's office and explained the situation to him -- that I was in excruciating pain. I told him that I was going home.
The following eighteen hours were indescribable. The headache continued to get worse, no matter how many Advil I took or how much I tried to relax. By the time the sun went down and my bedroom was submerged in darkness, the pain was so bad that it felt like my sinuses were being eaten by bacteria from the inside out. I truly assumed that at some point I would reach up and find a new hole in my face -- the escape route for whatever was devouring my flesh.
I moaned loudly during the night, unable to sleep and instead counting off the hours to sunrise -- when I could drag my racked body into Lower Manhattan to see my doctor. I had convinced myself that a trip to the emergency room for a headache would simply end with a six-hour stay in a busy waiting room; it would do far more harm than good.
As it turned out, my doctor did little to help me; she gave me a prescription for a codeine painkiller and ordered a CT scan for the following day.
When I got back home from her office, I downed six of the pills and drifted off -- the pain ebbing only slightly.
The next day, the suffering continued. The CT scan showed nothing.
It was the day after that -- the fourth day of extraordinary agony -- that I was sent in for an MRI.
It was then that I finally found out what was happening to me.
"Well, I can tell you what's wrong with you," the technician said.
I just stared at him -- my eyes opening and closing in slow-motion. I seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness as my body tried to shut itself down to escape the perpetual torture.
"You've got a brain tumor," he continued. "And it's hemorrhaging into your head."
"Am I going to die?" I asked.
"Probably not. It doesn't look cancerous."
Two hours later, my wife and I were at New York Presbyterian-Cornell Medical Center on the Upper East Side. She was in tears; I was being prepped for surgery. It was only at the last minute that a young doctor in a smart suit pulled aside the curtain to my little room, took a look at my MRI and brought everything to a grinding halt. He said that I was a perfect candidate for a minimally-invasive tumor removal technique which would involve neurosurgeons entering my head through my nose rather than cutting open my skull. He ordered me put on blood-platelets to stop the hemorrhage, Vicodin to kill the pain, and steroids to shrink the tumor as much as possible. He scheduled me for surgery in three weeks.
In the far corner of the waiting room there's a young Orthodox Jew and his mother, sitting and filling out paperwork. Moments ago, she was casually brushing off his shoulders as he rocked in his seat -- reading the Torah, probably for the twentieth time this week. He tried to pull away from her, but she refused to relent -- no doubt wanting him to be clean and presentable, should he wind up face to face with Yahweh in a few hours. It was the kind of stereotype which is always associated with New York City, but which is hard to believe actually exists.
My parents and Jayne's parents seem to be enjoying the surreal distraction.
It's then that the doors open, and the nurse walks in and calls my name.
My wife begins to cry as I stand up. My family walks toward me and, one-at-a-time, gives me what I can only hope will not be one last hug. I pull away and shuffle toward the door, my wife holding my hand. She turns my head toward her face a final time and allows me a parting look at her smile -- the view I'll take with me into oblivion. She looks like she's about to collapse, so I put my arms around her, once again pulling the IV line, and hold her tightly.
"I love you. Don't worry. I'll see you in a few hours."
She runs her hand down my face. "Come back to me," she says.
I squeeze her hand one last time, wave at my family, and allow the door to the waiting room to close behind me. I follow the nurse down the long hall -- concentrating on the little swishing sounds my hospital-provided footies are making on the tile floor. I try to think of my wife. My heart is beginning to pound. I take deep breaths.
"Don't I get a gurney or something?"
The nurse glances over her shoulder. "No, we need to keep you awake and alert to go over the final paperwork; you need to sign it before we can get underway."
"Lovely," I say. "So I guess a shot of liquid Valium is pretty much out of the question then?"
"We'll get you something as soon as we get you into the O.R."
WE'RE not the ones who are about to have a fucking brain tumor cut out of OUR head, lady.
After a few more steps, we arrive at a set of angry, steel double-doors. Yellow and black stickers warn potential interlopers that they are about to enter an operational neuro-surgical theater, and should proceed with caution. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
I'm reading the warning when I feel something brush against my arm. I glance down and see a manila file folder open -- several thick sheets of paper visible within.
"I need you to sign where marked please."
The blood in my veins feels as if it's being pumped through a firehose; it's making my whole body shake. I'm terrified beyond words. Without paying any real attention, I numbly sign each slip of paper and hand the folder back to the nurse. She gives me a carefully rehearsed smile and turns to face me completely.
I say nothing.
With that, she spins briskly around and the steel doors open inward -- revealing a sight which causes me to immediately fight the urge to vomit. I can suddenly hear the blood thrumming in my ears as my heart pumps it at a painful rate. I begin to shake uncontrollably.
The operating theater is massive. It has a high ceiling from which hang rows of halogen spotlights. They augment the long fluorescent bulbs already bathing the entire room in harsh white light. There's movement everywhere; technicians and nurses busy themselves in preparation for the procedure -- adjusting electronic machinery, placing vials of chemicals in rows and lining up trays of scalpels and knives whose blades gleam in the bright light beaming down from above.
I see the computer monitor which will be used to track the progress as the surgeon inserts the camera and micro-instruments up toward my brain. It sits at the head of the room's centerpiece: a large bed, with padded arms that extend outward so that the entire thing resembles a crucifix -- or the bed on which death row inmates are executed by lethal injection.
I'm shaking to the point where it's now visibly noticeable.
"We'll give you something to calm you in just a second," one of the attendants says as he brushes past me.
I'm about to collapse onto the cold floor.
I hear someone ask where my neurosurgeon is; no one seems to know.
I want to close my eyes and disappear.
A nurse seems to appear from out of nowhere on my left and touches my arm. "We need to get you up on the bed; are you ready?"
I don't answer, choosing instead to simply crawl onto the crucifix and lie down on my back like a good little martyr.
"Spread your arms, please," I hear someone ask.
I do as I'm told -- taking a deep breath and somehow pulling a few small words up from deep inside of me.
"Can I please have something to calm me?" I say, barely above a whisper.
A nurse on either side of me grabs one of my arms and straps it down to the furthest end of the transom until both are secure. I can literally hear the sound of each powerful heartbeat.
Someone touches me -- straightening out the fingers of my left hand. "Take a deep breath. This is going to hurt," he says -- and then slides a needle into the soft skin of my wrist. I clench my teeth and muffle a scream. The chaos and movement continue around me, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I just want to vanish from here. I just want to sleep.
I glance over to my left again, and there's a heavy IV line protruding from the needle in my wrist; I can see the shank deep inside my vein. The person who just inserted it seems to be examining his handiwork.
He turns his face toward me.
"I'm going to give you something to relax you -- okay?"
I turn my head away from him and face forward -- toward the ceiling. The brightness from the halogen bulbs burns my eyes; I close them and think of my wife's face. I wish she were here.
I suddenly feel something cold push into my vein, beginning at the wrist and moving quickly up my arm.
I see my wife's face.
The light begins to burn my eyes once again -- only this time my eyes aren't open.
I float for a moment. The chaos and noise around me disappears. There's complete silence.
Everything stops.
I see my wife's face.
Somewhere, the order is given for the Faster-Than-Light jump.
The world goes white in a blinding flash.
I feel the bed shake as it slams through a set of double doors. I'm coughing violently and I can't breathe through my nose. I see my wife's face, only now it's speaking to me.
"You're alright. You made it," it says. "We have to go. They say we can't stay through the night in ICU." I'm not sure who she's talking about. I have no idea where I am. She kisses me and then disappears from sight.
The bed jolts as it hits another set of double doors and enters a darkened room, coming to rest directly in front of a large floor-to-ceiling window. The view beyond is spectacular -- if it's actually real and not simply my imagination. It's a bridge, and a highway with cars streaking along it. The sun has just set, and the skeletal structure of the bridge has come alive with pinpoint lights.
I hear several voices speaking -- the volume of their words rising and falling. I get only bits and pieces.
"...a history of drug use..."
"...successful operation..."
"...should be alright..."
Then there's silence. I'm alone with only the view of the bridge and the highway, the beeping of the machines and an unmistakable song floating through my head. It's Radiohead's Lucky.
An eternity goes by.
I hear someone approach from out of my view -- feel the almost imperceptible changes in the air.
I close my eyes.
The voice seems to come from out of the darkness.
"Hi. My name is Piper. I'm going to be your nurse tonight."
The Next Morning
"Well they encourage your complete cooperation. Send you roses when they think you need to smile. I can't control myself because I don't know how, and they love me for it, honestly, I'll be here for awhile."
I'm counting the holes in the ceiling tiles.
I'm listening to the quiet pulse of the heart monitor.
I'm desperately in need of sleep.
About an hour ago, the heavy bed that's held my racked body since the faster-than-light jump that swept me from the terror of the operating table to the Neurosurgical-ICU was wheeled up to what they call the "secondary" intensive care unit. My picturesque view -- the glowing bridge and highway -- is gone, replaced by an immeasurably less picturesque view of a man named Miguel. My bed has been planted -- monitors and all -- directly across from his so that we now face each other. It should be easy to stare him down should it come to that, being that whatever happened deep in the recesses of Miguel's brain has left him unable to open his right eye. It remains folded shut in an eerie, perpetual wink.
I realize that I've lost count of the holes.
I feel my eyes close and try one more time to drift off to sleep, knowing full-well that it's impossible right now. If the half-dozen tubes restricting my movement weren't enough to prevent me from getting comfortable enough to truly rest, then the hydraulic wraps around my calves which inflate every sixty seconds to push blood through my legs would do the trick nicely. The pressure from the leggings prevents my blood from clotting and me from consequently going into cardiac arrest and dying in this bed -- with Miguel giving me one final devilish wink to send me on my way to oblivion.
I silently wish to be back in the quiet ICU room with the astonishing view. I'm going to be in pain either way; better I be in pain in near-silence.
I don't know at what point it dawned on me exactly what it was that was spread out so beautifully outside of my window -- at what point I regained even a sliver of true lucidity. I now know though that from that room I watched as the darkness enveloped the 59th Street bridge. I watched the headlights of the cars speeding under it along the FDR -- watched them thin as time passed and New York City fell deeper into the night. I counted the minutes until dawn, hoping that at some point sleep would come -- but it never did. Instead I stayed awake throughout the entire night, terrified and alone -- the steely taste of my own blood dripping down from my punctured brain, through the cotton compresses plugged deep into my sinuses, and into my parched mouth.
Every half-hour or so, the young nurse -- Piper -- would enter my room from a door I couldn't see, take my vitals and ask me if I needed anything. I asked for water. I asked for morphine, despite the frightening reaction my body seemed to have to it. At one point she placed a warm blanket over me and I realized that it did nothing to stop my uncontrollable shaking; my entire being seemed to be spasming, and wouldn't stop. I asked her for another blanket -- and another. I was cold. I was shaking and shaking and shaking and nothing would stop it. Nothing. I was scared. I was terrified. I wanted someone to hold my hand. I wanted someone to tell me that everything was going to be alright. I wanted to close my eyes, get up, and slip through that giant window like a ghost and float away into the night -- over the city, to someplace far away. I wanted to fly. I wanted to disappear.
But then there would be the rhythm of the monitor -- the whisper of the leggings inflating. There would be the sudden awareness of the painful needle shanks in my veins and arteries and the taste of the blood and the feel of it on my cracked lips and the fear would return, and I would return to the bed that held me trapped. I'd ask for more water, and more blankets and more morphine. I'd ask Piper to talk to me -- to reassure me. I'd once again be able to make out just the slightest hint of her smile in all that endless darkness -- with just the electric light from outside to bathe the room in a hint of color -- and she'd tell me that I was doing fine.
She'd tell me that the operation was a complete success.
The tumor that had been eating away at my brain was gone.
"How are you feeling?"
A nurse's voice brings me back to this moment. I'm in the secondary ICU. I can't sleep.
"Peachy," I manage -- barely. "I'm tired."
She whisks around my bed and begins checking the readouts on the various machines to which I'm hooked.
"Do you know where you are?" she says as she adjusts my IV.
"Nowhere I want to be," I say, then thinking the better of it -- "Hospital. Cornell Medical Center." Despite the languid ebb and flow of my awareness, I'm cognizant of the fact that this woman deals with enough shit -- figurative and literal -- that antagonizing her is neither fair nor wise. Thankfully, when she comes back into my field of view again, I notice she's smiling slightly.
"Do you know what day it is?" she asks.
I glance slightly to the left of her as she picks up the chart attached to the foot of the bed.
"It's April 28th, 2006."
"Yes it is," she says without looking up from the clipboard.
"I know that because it's written on the rotation board to your right."
She smiles -- checks off points on the chart.
"Very good," she says. "Can you tell me who's president?"
"Fucking idiot," I say, actually managing a hint of a smirk.
"I'll count that as a yes," she responds, placing the clipboard back on the hook at the foot of the bed and -- in the time it takes me to slowly close my eyes and reopen them -- appearing at my bedside.
She shines a bright pen-light into my eyes; it feels like it's burning a hole through to my sore and damaged brain. She clicks it off and I can still see the purple and black sun seared into my retinas. Somewhere behind it she holds up her index finger.
"Follow my finger without moving your head. Eyes only."
I do as I'm told: side to side, up and down.
"You seem to be doing well," she says. "Are you in any pain?"
"How much?"
"My head's pounding." I whisper now. "Needles hurt."
She pushes past another nurse who's come to fill a tiny styrofoam cup on my sliding table with water. Before I can even react, she's pulling the surgical tape from the heavy IV line which was inserted into the tender skin of my left wrist just before the surgery -- before everything went white. I feel the soft hairs being ripped away. All I can manage is a pained whimper.
"Okay, hold on tight," she says. "We're going to pull your A-line. This runs directly into your artery. You shouldn't need it anymore."
I have nothing to hold on to, but I close my eyes tightly and try to will myself away from here. In one sudden motion, I feel the shank deep in my vein slide out and the excruciating pressure from her thumb as it flattens a cotton ball into the open wound. Flashes of color dance behind my eyelids. I exhale stale air through clenched teeth. She wraps new surgical tape around my wrist.
I allow my eyes to relax without opening them, and the strange shapes projected against the inside of my eyelids seem to diffuse, then vanish. I finally fade away.
"So give them blood. Blood. Gallons of the stuff. Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough. So give them blood. Blood. Blood. Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood."
I feel something gently stroke the inside of my palm -- a light touch. I slowly open my eyes to see a face. It's glowing bright white. As it comes into a wet focus, I realize that it's my wife. The light is coming through the window next to my bed and illuminating her soft features. She smiles.
"Hi, baby," she says. "How are you feeling?"
What begins as a groan evolves into actual words: "Better now." I smile as best I can.
I can see tears beginning to pool in her eyes. I reach up and touch her face; her skin is soft -- even softer than I remember. I look over her shoulder and realize that my mother and father are standing behind her; they're both wearing reassuring smiles. Before I can even find another word, my eyes drift downward. The room blurs. Sound tunnels away. Everything goes black.
The next thing I hear is a voice. It comes from somewhere in a dream.
"Chez," it says. "Chez. You have to wake up."
A slightly darker room than the one I remember emerges from the pitch blackness. To my immediate left, the sun is setting over the East River. My wife is still at my side, but it's the nurse's voice that's dragging me -- kicking and screaming -- back to the waking world.
"I have some bad news," she says. "The doctor wants us to begin taking blood from you every four hours. We need your arm."
Before I'm even awake enough to know what's happening, I feel the latex strap (they asked me if I'm allergic to latex, didn't they?) tighten around my arm; the cold swab of alcohol is rubbed into the crux of my left arm; the needle slips in. I wince -- curse -- awaken fully.
"I have all these tubes in me. There isn't one you can just plug into?" I seethe.
"Well, that's the bad news. We removed your A-line, so that means that we have to find a new vein each time. The rest of your lines are for putting fluids in, not for taking them out."
I turn over slightly, attempting to bury my face in my pillow but unwittingly pulling my IVs taut -- putting me in even more pain.
"You're kidding me," I moan into the pillow.
"I wish I was."
The nurse folds my arm, squeezing a fresh cotton ball into place. "Motherfucker," I whisper. I glance over to see my wife's face; her expression is a concerned pout.
By this time tomorrow, they will have practically run out of places to insert a needle into me. I'll overhear the nurse saying that several of my veins are in danger of collapsing.
Day Four
"A celebrated man amongst the gurneys. They can fix me proper with a bit of luck. The doctors and the nurses they adore me so, but it's really quite alarming 'cause I'm such an awful fuck."
I've devised a plan; I'm going to get out of here.
My arms are bruised black and blue from needle punctures. Last night at around 3am, I was awakened by a large black man with a picnic basket full of test-tubes and needles and the bedside manor of Ed Gein. He attempted to physically roll me over and put a syringe into my arm, but I managed to knock it out of his hand. "I can get security in here if I have to," he said. "You better hope they're armed," I returned with a furious sneer. This exchange was promptly followed by a blackout, which was promptly followed by my coming to just in time to see a nurse inserting something into my IV.
"What is that?"
Before she could even answer, I felt my arm catch on fire -- felt it spread throughout my body. I was being burned alive from the inside out. I opened my mouth in a grisly silent scream. There was molten lava flowing through my veins -- boiling my blood as it consumed me whole.
"Magnesium," I heard her say over the sound of every molecule in my body exploding, one after the other.
Now it's morning again and I'm being allowed to shower for the first time in four days. I'm unhooked from the monitors -- wondering for a moment if the nurse's station will suddenly light up like a pinball machine at word that one of the patients' hearts has apparently stopped cold -- and am marched off to the bathroom, along with my IV stands and catheter. If there's a more pathetic or embarrassing situation short of shitting yourself, I'm unaware of it.
I somehow figure out a way to shower and shave, ridding myself of both the smell of stagnation and the ratty castaway-chic beard I've been cultivating for the past several days, then return to my bed to find one of my nurses -- unfortunately, a young, attractive one -- waiting for me with a forced smile on her face.
"What'd my payment not go through?" I say as I lie back down.
"Nope. Time to take your catheter out."
One of the few true blessings in all of this is the fact that I was knocked out when they inserted both a lumbar puncture into my spine, and a catheter into my penis. For this, I will always be thankful.
"You know, I haven't looked at it once."
"The catheter?"
"Nope. God knows if there's one image I don't want lingering in my brain, it's my shriveled wee-wee with a tube sticking out of it," I say. "Couldn't they have at least sent one of the seventy-year-old nurses to take this thing out? Spare me the embarrassment?"
"Sorry -- I'll have to do," she says with that synthetically sweet smile. She reaches down along the side of my bed as I close my eyes and begin thinking about kittens and butterflies and long, white beaches and star-filled skies and Liverpool's 2005 victory over AC Milan in the Champions League finals and the new Shelby GT and Maria Bello in leather pants in Coyote Ugly and Pearl Jam's cover of the Who's Baba O'Reilly and my wife stepping out of the shower in the morning and any other goddamned thing I can call to mind to distract myself from the twelve inch tube and deflated balloon that's about to be pulled through the end of my dick.
I hear her say the words, "Hang on," then feel razor wire shred my urethra.
My pelvis jolts forward and I muffle a scream which degenerates into a cruel laugh.
"Oh you're fucking evil," I hiss.
"Had to be done," she returns with a look that borders on satisfaction. "Now comes the fun part. If you don't urinate within the next few hours, we have to put the catheter back in." As I furiously try to rub the pain out of my wounded penis, she looks right into my eyes -- no doubt to lend the necessary gravity to her next statement. "That's going to hurt -- a lot."
I reach over and grab a plastic bottle which is now hooked to my bedside, put it under the covers and begin pissing like I've just downed a gallon of iced-tea. It burns like hell.
"I guess that settles that," I say, looking directly at her.
"I gave you blood. Blood. Gallons of the stuff. I gave you all that you could drink and it has never been enough. I gave you blood. Blood. Blood. I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love."
With my shower and shave behind me, I now look presentable for the various doctors who see me intermittently throughout the day and night -- the doctors I'm now trying to actively convince to allow me to leave the hospital so that I might be able to go home and get some real sleep. I've memorized their rounds and make sure that I'm always chipper and alert when they show up at my bedside -- typically in small packs -- to stare in fascination at their prize monkey. In the moments before they make an appearance, I sit up straight, open my laptop and slip in an episode of Firefly on DVD. I smile wide when I see them. I tell them the truth: I feel surprisingly good -- especially for somebody who had brain surgery four days ago.
Across from me, I see the typical lethargic movements of Dead-eye Miguel -- his right eye now held open by a piece of surgical tape which secures his eyelid to his brow. Across the top of his head -- running from ear-to-ear -- is an unbroken line of dull metal staples. Next to him is a newcomer to our little melting pot of brain stew. His name is Mr. Yu. He's a diminutive Asian man who smiles constantly and doesn't speak a word of English. His family tends to visit in groups of seventeen at a time, which means that at least twice a day, the secondary neurosurgical-ICU at Cornell Medical Center is transformed into an episode of MXC, complete with the requisite high-pitched squealing and howls of surreal laughter. All that's missing is a monitor lizard and young girls in bikinis with raw meat taped to their legs.
"You're going home in the morning," Nurse Cockripper says as she suddenly appears at my bedside. "Doctor Schwartz just cleared you. We're moving you to a private room for the night."
"But I'll miss happy fun sexy recovery party!" I say with a deliriously exaggerated smile.
She responds to my obvious sarcasm with a wan smirk and begins unhooking my monitors, eventually leaving only the saline drip which is plugged into my right arm.
"Can I ask you a kind of personal question?" I say as she begins to walk away. She turns around and faces me, putting a hand on her hip like a greasy-spoon waitress who wants to rid herself of a last, loitering customer.
"I couldn't help but overhear you yesterday, talking to the other nurse about some problem you were having with a guy you were dating -- how he didn't understand your job." If there's one thing I have plenty of time to do, it's listen to what's going in the world beyond the partially-drawn curtain that separates my bed from the others. I'm not sure how to specifically ask what I want to ask, so I make a quick decision that I should probably just spit it out. "How can you even look at someone in a sexual way?" I say.
Her face softens. Her posture seems to relax.
"What do you mean?"
"Well," I say, sitting up slightly, "you deal with every type of gruesome bodily function there is. You witness every horrid thing the human body can do -- and you're usually the one called on to clean it up. You stand waist deep in death and decay every day. So, how can you possibly leave this place at the end of each shift, go out on a date, watch somebody take off their clothes and put all of this out of your mind? How can you think of the body as something beautiful -- something you actually desire?"
Her eyes widen slightly. I'm fully aware that the line is at least a good ten to twelve steps behind me. It feels as if all the ambient sound has been sucked out of the room -- the single act of such impertinence creating its own vacuum. She tilts her head slightly -- her hand reaching up to reassuringly touch the ends of the long blond hair which rests gently on her chest. She hesitates, then speaks.
"It's capable of all that awfulness -- it can break down completely -- and then it can heal itself. It's the most incredible machine there is. You don't think that's beautiful?"
Sufficiently put in my place, I smile.
As if on cue, there's the squealing sound of sneakers on tile -- the chaotic tromp of young feet across the hospital floor. I look past the nurse to see two children -- a boy and girl -- plow into the ward with unruly abandon. "Papi! Papi!" they shout as they make a bee-line for Miguel's bed, jumping onto it and wrapping their arms around their father from either side. It's now that I notice that Miguel is wearing a dark, pirate-style patch over his uncooperative right eye and an oversized Yankees hat on his head to cover the grisly row of staples. He moves slowly and carefully -- his reaction to the presence of his children delayed by several seconds. It seems to take an eternity for him to fully comprehend that he's at the center of an epic group bear-hug.
Finally, a weak and sluggish smile spreads across his face. He says something in Spanish. His words are a slurred jumble.
A woman about Miguel's age comes into view and takes her place at his bedside, pulling up a small chair. After a moment, he turns to her -- acknowledging the loving touch she gives his hand.
"What happened to him?" I ask quietly, without taking my gaze away from the strange and heartbreaking sight directly across from my bed.
"He had a tumor in his head," I hear the nurse say. "The same kind you had."
I immediately turn my head and face the young nurse, looking at her with an intensity I wasn't sure I was capable of right now.
She says nothing.
I say nothing.
A few feet away, Miguel's little children laugh for reasons all their own.
The next morning, I'm released from the hospital. I walk through the revolving door and out into a brisk morning in Manhattan. I look up to see the sunlight being split apart by the fresh spring blossoms as they begin to adorn the trees along the street.
I close my eyes and take long deep breaths.
(Lyrics from My Chemical Romance, Blood)
Labels: jayne, tumor tales
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text: The gold & silver mining industries are set for implosion and no one is talking about this. I discussed this trend in a video I put out months ago (below) and the circumstances or conditions that led to the making of that report have now become more serious. The power elite are attempting to acquire all the physical they can while depriving you of your holdings before they pull the plug!