ANN ARBOR - Say, have you seen the game of Baskets and Ball? Created to be a great way to keep the young men fit and active during inclement winter months, especially when added to any existing vigorous calisthenics routine, "BasketBall" is fast gaining popularity among spectators in towns big and small (provided they have gymnasiums and field houses featuring ceilings of sufficient height). At the collegiate level, well regimented five-man teams can be a joy to behold with their precision bouncing and passing of the ball and intricate offensive and defensive strategies; giving the enthralled partisans another outlet by which to express their loyalties for each's own alma mater. It is under this pretext that nationally recognized Duke University sent their budding, Methodist tobacco barons on the train from North Carolina to frigid Ann Arbor town to take on the new, relatively unknown Varsity of the University of Michigan. The ironically nicknamed Blue Devils were expected to mop the hardwood floor with the Wolverines after handing Michigan a sixteen-point defeat when these same two teams met less than two-weeks ago during tournament play in New York City. It should be noted however, that this Michigan "hoops squad" already surprised a then No. 4-ranked UCLA team in that same tournament prior to falling to Duke. Much to the delight of the rowdy undergraduates and co-educationals in attendance, Michigan turned the tables on Duke this time around and earned an exciting 81-73 victory, sending the Devils home with their tails tucked between their legs clad in blue short pants. The legendary Duke tactician, coach Mike Krzyzewski, was gracious in defeat acknowledging the raucous crowd as well as Michigan's shooting prowess saying, "Their boys rained the three-point shot on us like so many Jerry bombs over Warsaw during the Blitz." But his embarrassment in losing to an upstart bunch was evident during the waning moments of the game by the look of incredulous disbelief on the immigrant Pole's sweaty, reddened face. At the final buzzer hundreds of students descended in jubilation to the playing court, chanting in unison, "It's great to be a Michigan Wolverine!" Indeed. Michigan sophomore Harris completes a dunk shot
Sixty days of bed rest came and went and I was left with a gargantuan scar on my backside and a ferocious Tom Hanks in Castaway beard. Beards and moustaches are not my normal facial hair cup of tea and in the real world it isn't really possible to take the time to grow the kind of beard I was left with because this isn't the 1860s and I'm not repelling Pickett's Charge, but more importantly, in this day and age it is socially unacceptable to venture out into public looking like I did. Yet, friends insisted that I keep it because, well, they are friends and they can revel in the hilarity of an awful beard without having to live with it on their faces. Furthermore it was No Shave November and I had put all this time and effort into growing it, so I figured I would let the beard ride with some appropriate grooming.
Unfortunately, the rechargeable hair trimmer I already owned died on me before I went on bed rest so I needed to purchase a suitable replacement to attempt the task at hand.
After too much deliberation on Amazon.com I settled on the Wahl cordless beard and moustache trimmer. I wanted something small, but mostly I wanted it too be inexpensive and that is what I ended up with. Much to my amusement the Wahl Trimmer Corporation includes in their operating and trimmer care instructions a section about how to grow a beard. I was surprised the section did not read:
1. Be a man's man.
2. Wait.
Instead, here is what I learned.
GROWING A BEARD
There a three key factors that will determine which beard style is best for you:
1. The shape and dimensions of your face.
2. The natural growth of your beard.
3. The thickness of your beard. If you are unsure about the type of beard that would most suit your face, speak with a professional hairstylist.
A girl I briefly dated once told me I had, "No ass." As it turns out, the location of my oft-discussed pressure sore as evidence, I suppose she was right about that. After tomorrow though, in that spot, I will have less. And as a means to an end this will be a good thing.
Hey Hey, My MRI
This is how the pressure sore looked in September of last year. In this cross-sectional image, my legs projecting out towards the viewer, the sore is circled.
The next image is the condition of my sore in April of this year. Not much difference in the appearance, hence the necessity of the third surgery to clear out the last residual infection.
Over the summer I underwent daily hyperbaric oxygen treatments to help aid in healing this sore (and in conjunction watched a lot of shitty movies - I'm looking at you Mission: Impossible 3). While I can't confirm the extent to which these hyperbaric treatments contributed to curing the osteomyelitis that delayed the healing process for these many months, the wound responded to treatment in such a way this summer that the U of M plastic surgery team feels they can safely close my sore with a flap procedure.
A pressure sore forms because the blood circulation to the tissue covering a bony prominence becomes constricted and the tissue then deteriorates. When it was discussed with me last October that these sores often need to be closed surgically and that this was often accomplished with a flap procedure I was under the assumption this would be something similar to a face lift. An ass lift of sorts. I'm not going to pretend to know all what is involved in a face lift, but I do know that it entails stretching loose skin back to make it appear tighter, more youthful. Simply stretching the skin next to and over the cavity caused by the pressure sore will not rectify the problem of providing more cushioning over the ischial bone where the sore formed in the first place ("No ass," as stated previously). The gluteal rotation flap attempts to solve this problem by moving not only the skin but a portion of the gluteus maximus muscle over the depression caused by the sore. The procedure is more involved than the three debridements and biopsies that were previously performed and is expected to take two to three hours. I'm anticipating to end up with a scar that looks something like this:
(click to enlarge)
The convalescence period after this operation starts with at least three weeks of complete bed rest to allow the flap to take hold. After which point, if the drainage has subsided, I can start a sitting protocol regimen. I will begin with fifteen minutes of sitting three times a day. If there are no problems with bruising or lack of circulation, the sitting durations will be increased by fifteen minutes every couple of days. If all goes according to schedule it will be a six week recovery process.
And then I'll finally be able to get back to whatever it was I was planning to do last fall.
...at the end of the tunnel. The light is but a flicker, but it is there. I found out today that there is hope for a conclusion to the saga of the pressure sore coming in the form of a plastic surgery procedure. Finally.
The procedure is scheduled for September 17th. Why almost a whole month from now? Why not sooner? Because any sooner would be, well, convenient. And the U of M Plastic Surgery department isn't in the convenience business, they're in the Michigan Difference business! Or so I've been told.
Post surgery convalescence will be a stay of three to five days in the hospital followed by a scant six weeks of total bed rest. Wait, an additional six weeks? C'mon, what's six more weeks of lying around when you've already logged over fifty? I mean besides "the rest of September" and "October."
I suppose there is a chance this sore could heal on its own in the intervening month and I wouldn't need to have the surgery, but that would be way too...um?...ahh, what's the word?
Anyway, so there's a light somewhere down at the end of the tunnel.
Time for something different. When I learned in March that I would need a third debridement and ischium biopsy peformed on my pressure sore, with the prospect of losing an entire summer on the couch, I wanted to know if there was a better way to end this predicament.Much to my frustration, my doctors at UM Plastic Surgery were more than satisfied with the way they felt my wound care had progressed. Yes there have been setbacks, but the problem up to this point has been a lingering myelitis bone infection deep in the wound that prevents the regrowth of tissue over the biopsied area of the ischium. If the wound doesn't heal from the inside out, it will never heal properly. In the view of my doctors at UM, they have pared down the area of infected bone and with this third ischiectomy and another course of IV antibiotics, they are confident this sore will finally heal as is it supposed to. When questioned whether or not there was anything I could do in addition to what we've already done, the answer was, “No, not really.” While they might be right in assuming that if they finally kill off the infection the wound will heal from the inside out and no further debridements will be necessary, they've also be wrong twice so far and I've lost eight months to this sore. I decided to look for other options.
I'm now entrusting my wound care to the Wound Healing and Hyperbaric Center in Westland, MI, an extension of Garden City Hospital. My main reason for selecting the Wound Healing and Hyperbaric Center was the availability of hyperbaric oxygen treatment which is supposed to provide excellent support in healing all sorts of chronic wounds (more on that later). This is a therapy not offered by UM. An additional reason influencing the decision to work with the wound specialists in Westland is their willingness to try other wound treatment options. At UM, the extent of the suggested wound care regimen was twice-daily wet-to-dry dressing changes and after a course of antibiotic treatments application of the growth factor medication Regranex. Again, other treatment options were not suggested or recommended. At Westland, during my initial consultation, several treatment options that had been suggested to me by visiting home health nurses I've spoken to, but not favored by the doctors at UM Plastic Surgery, were discussed from the outset. One of those treatments is negative pressure therapy, also know as a wound vac.
Negative pressure therapy uses suction to enhance the capacity of the wound to heal. The suction increases blood flow to the wound bed similar to the telltale signs of a junior high, hickey-inducing makeout session. The increased circulation brings much needed oxygen to the tissue critical to wound repair. In addition, the suction removes harmful waste drainage away from the wound site. With the waste drainage removed and increased blood flow to the wound bed the formation of granulation tissue is enhanced. The granulation tissue is the base layer on which skin cells can form. After increasing circulation and removing the excess fluid, there is also a diminished opportunity for harmful bacteria to take root in the wound. All of these characteristics of negative pressure therapy are encouraging when compared to the alternative of what I've been doing. Some of the research suggests that negative pressure therapy doesn't necessarily speed up the healing process, and I will have to carry around a small vacuum unit with conspicuous tubing running from my wound and out of the waistband of my pants. Even if the speed of the healing with he wound vac is negligible compared to more traditional methods, at this point it is worth a try.
When your dementia-addled hospital roommate shits on the floor because he'd rather not shit the bed, and then forgets to signal the nurse call light because of said dementia, well, that's an odor that lingers. I suppose I can't blame the guy, such are acts of self-preservation when faced with limited options. All day since I've been experiencing phantom whiffs of the experience; an unpleasant reminder of my two-and-half days at University of Michigan Hospital following my third pressure sore debridement surgery. I had already made up my mind that I was ready to go home the night before and was informed I was to be discharged earlier in the morning, but crazy-old-guy-losing-bowel-control is a moment that really drives home the desire to get the F out of Dodge. I'd also like to have this whole on-going ordeal come to a conclusion before...why even speculate?
The truly sad thing about the old guy is that in his brief moments of clarity he had been trying to convince various hospital staff members (and more likely himself) that he was ready to go home on his own instead of into a home for "rehab"--as his discharge planner so delicately put it. From my point of observation it was easy to see that none of these people believed going home was an option the old coot would get to explore. Shitting on the floor was more than enough nails to seal that coffin.
Today's lesson: Stay fit people and keep the mind sharp.
There was a time when things pressure sore were a lot easier to lampoon, but that ship is loaded for bear and untied from its moorings. The wind is blowing like stink and she's about to set sail.
We had our fun I guess: this handy visual aide comes to mind.
But that was back in the halcyon, autumnal days of aught-seven, when this sore was just a ragged, odorous, weeping, infected mess.
I took the professional advice and followed the proper course of action. A corrective procedure here; a ten week course of antibiotics there; the New Year held promise of good tidings, but 'twas not to be.
"We're very, very close. I can feel it." Give it a second go-round and we'll nip this thing in the bud. What's six more weeks, anyway? That was January.
Yeah...Not so much.
It's like this: They really should have stopped after Police Academy 2. Let's see: Mahoney is the comedian, Hightower is tall and strong, Tackleberry loves guns and Jones tricks people with sound effects. Oh, and Callahan has huge Js, but you never really get to see them. We get it! Guttenberg even called it quits after Four and yet they still kept plugging along. But what other ideas are there?
And so back into the breech...
So, No, Cube, even though I did not have to use my AK, today was most definitely not a good day.
ABU DHABI (AFP) - More than 10,000 camels from across the Gulf will be competing for millions of dollars in prize money at a beauty pageant for the "ship of the desert" in Abu Dhabi next week.
The contest is part of a camel festival being staged from Wednesday in the capital of the United Arab Emirates which aims to celebrate and preserve the region's cultural
heritage.
Camels from Bahrain, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar and Saudi Arabia will strut their stuff before a panel of expert judges who will decide which owners should be awarded prize money totalling around 9.5 million dollars. One hundred cars are also up for grabs.
According to the Neilsen TV ratings, the camel beauty pageant is much more popular among male viewers in Abu Dhabi than the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, which aired in December. When asked why this might be, one young pageant fan surmised, "Well...You get to see like 4 times as much camel toe."
So yeah, I guess tomorrow, March 30th, according to the University of Michigan Health System, is National Doctor's Day. And I guess the University of Michigan Department of Internal Medicine felt I should be aware of this because, well I don't know, maybe because I tend to spend a lot of time hanging out at the hospital. When I opened the promotional materials sent to me making me aware of Doctor's Day, I immediately asked myself, "How can I best join in recognizing the splendid efforts of the fine physicians at U-M on Doctor's Day?" The answer is simple. I can "Make a Difference Through a Unique Tribute" of a tax-deductible donation, as recommended in the enclosed fundraising form. The Department of Internal Medicine has conveniently chosen a few monetary levels at which I can express my gratitude: $50, $100, $500 or "Other."
Now, in the last few years, I have learned a few things about hospitals, insurance coverage, medical billing and the like, so I know that even though patient medical bills seem to be exorbitant hospitals still need to budget their resources and a little extra cash in the coffers always helps. But, milking me in the name of doctor appreciation, well, that strikes me as a bit disingenuous.
I am made aware that I can make my donation in the name of my favorite U-M Internal Medicine specialist. Oh, how nice, but I have so many more questions. Is my chosen doctor going to get a cut? Is there a tote board in the break room keeping a running total raised by each doctor? "Jim, your patients are really sending in the scratch. Keep up the good work." How will I choose which Internal Medicine doctor to recognize? The last time I was at the hospital for a stay, I saw eight different Internal Medicine doctors, and that's not counting the two Plastic Surgery residents or medical students who came in my room to poke around. For reals, Yo. Eight. Plus, I would like to think that my favorite Internal Medicine doctor is already aware of my satisfaction with their care. A showy, unnecessary display of gratitude on my part would just embarrass them; s/he isn't big on P.D.A. (I'm playing the pronoun game so as not to hurt the feelings of the other seven). And cash donations are so cold and impersonal. It's like giving a gift card at Christmas: "I like you, but not to the extent to know you well enough to buy you anything specific." How about if we all just sign one of those oversized Thank You cards? No?
So here's my thing: If I do send some greenbacks your way U-M, can you guys get cracking on figuring out a more effective method of encouraging tissue growth around my wounded ass bone? I'm not complaining and I'm definitely not a doctor, but it just seems the traditional method of lie-around-and-wait-and-see is really time-intensive. I'm just asking because I had a couple things I wanted to do this...7 months ago.
The Michigan Difference
The last few years, the university has touted "The Michigan Difference" as their main message in all of their advertising and so all of the publicity media have the same general look. The Health System advertising is the most prominent: atmospheric, instrumental version of the Michigan fight song playing in the background, shots of diverse doctors and nurses at work, a montage of patients with horrific scars overcoming adversity, someone doing science, someone writing something important on glass, a voice-over extolling how awesome it all is, ends with "The Michigan Difference." The Doctor's Day materials are no different and are of the highest quality. It's a presentation that subtly says, "We're not cutting corners on this, and you're going to give us a lot of money." Their print shop uses great card stock, it even smells professional. I read the spiel about Doctor's Day 2008 and looking back over the front of the donation form--an assemblage of images of U-M doctors in varied types of work--something caught my eye. The doctor in the middle of the frame is holding a Foley catheter. And. He. Looks. Mesmerized.
Um, Why?
"Hey Bob, we're putting together the promo for Doctor's Day 2008 and were wondering if you'd like to be in the photo collage on the front of the fundraising form?"
"What's Doctor's Day? Never heard of it."
"Just this thing the hospital is doing to raise money."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"And why me?"
"Oh, we heard you're doing some really some cool stuff with your research and the Department wants to showcase you."
"Wow. That's really nice. What do you need me to do?"
"Just hold this out in front of you like so...and sort of look towards it and not at the camera."
"This?"
"Yep."
"...But this is a catheter."
"Yeah, I know. Try to look at it with interest--"
"My research is in nanotechnology and--"
"I know and we're real proud of what you're doing...Now really focus your gaze."
"But this is a catheter."
"Yes, but nanotechnology is hard to photograph and get you in the picture."
"What if I look up from a microscope or something?"
"We already did that."
"We did?"
"Just hold it up a little higher, but don't look so much at me."
"Can I hold something like a--"
"Like what, Bob?"
"How 'bout an artificial heart?"
"That's been done too."
"By who?"
"Uh, that kind of goofy looking guy."
"Ted?"
"Yeah, him. And he's Surgery anyway, and this is for InternalMedicine--"
"Well, I'm not a Urologist!"
"Well I know that, but come on. This fits our theme."
"How does this fit our theme?"
"I don't know, 'Our doctor's are passionate about medcine, even the mundane things'."
"When's the last time anyone saw a doctor place a catheter?!"
"I don't know--"
"Can't you just take my picture?"
"You have to be doing something."
"Seriously?"
"Look, I still need to get a shot of Johnson and some old lady before lunch."
"But this is a catheter!"
"Dude. Do you want to be in the picture or not?"
"...I guess."
"Good. Now try to look really interested in the cathe--...You're still looking into the camera, Bob."
If a person is already mainlining copious amounts of antibiotic medication and they happen to get the former in to their bloodstream, it will start posturing like the latter. At least that is what happened to me a few weeks ago. With an immune system already suppressed by several weeks of antibiotic treatment, the body doesn't take well antibiotic-resistant micro-organisms. My new friend Serratia marcescensfit that bill. My body's reaction was a persistent two-day fever that peaked at 102.7 degrees Fahrenheit. That was enough for mom to shuttle me off to the Emergency Room and another three-day stay at the hospital. The length of the stay was determined by the length of time it took to culture and identify the bacteria that grew out of several samples of my blood. The hot zone in this instance turned out to be the PICC line in my left arm that was placed to dose the IV antibiotics that were supposed to get me healthy after my most recent surgery. Somewhere in the two and a half weeks after the surgery, the bacteria got into the line and reared its ugly head. Treatment of the fever consisted of knocking back the occasional Tylenol, and alternating between a cold washcloth on the forehead and shivering through fever chills; treating the infection consisted of ten-days worth of a couple different oral antibiotics to kill off Mr. Graham-negative stain, as S. marcescens is sometimes known.
For me, going to the hospital is becoming such old hat that I'm starting to not care what the diagnoses are anymore, and mostly just focused on when they will let me go home. It becomes a dance of how can I answer these doctors' questions so that I'm properly diagnosed, but yet don't set off too many alarm bells that will keep me here more than a day? It's the same type of attitude that keeps me from seeking medical attention in the first place and that will probably be my ultimate downfall: “Tell me sir, how did you get your legs cut off?” “Uh, I think I was hit by a train.” “And when exactly did this happen?” “I think it was Tuesday?...Monday or Tuesday.” “Tuesday! You realize today is Friday?!” “Um yeah. Well, you know, 'Lost' was on last night and it was a new episode and I wanted to see it on a big TV.” “You've lost an insane amount of blood.” “Well, I can't really feel it, so I figured...”
In summation, a week after I left the hospital I saw my infectious disease doctor and he decided to have me finish out the course of medication I was on when I left the hospital and then to stay off of any further antibiotics. The good news was the bone biopsy that was done in January didn't reveal any further bone infection and the wound site of my pressure sore seems to be healing up properly this time around.
*I was all set to recount this episode but then the day after I left the hospital I found out Deep Purple was playing a command performance at the Kremlin and then things got a little crazy around here.
**The amount of time I spent in MS Paint trying to get this image to look just right probably far outweighs the amusement value of the intended sight gag.
I've covered this territory before (see My Left Toe), but this time I decided to make it a multimedia experience.
In the interim between my first visit to the podiatrist and my most recent sojourn, about a year after the first visit my right big toenail needed some attention. Similar to what happened to the toenail on my left foot, somewhere along the way I split the skin away from the outside of the nail. During the second visit the right side of the nail also needed some attention. When I went to get the toe looked at, the podiatrist did his usual straddling-the-thin-line-between-medicine-and-torture-routine and removed significant chunks of both sides of the toenail.
As the toenail grew back in, the outiside of the nail came back ingrown and about 15 degrees to the right off verticle. All of this took place over the course of about a year, as toenails grow at a rate on par with continental drift. At one point, I ended up snagging the outside edge of the nail on the thin side of the footrest on my shower chair and separated a portion of the nail from the nailbed underneath. Of course, I can't feel any of this so it was quickly out-of-sight, out-of-mind. On occassion, the side of the nail would bleed a little bit and then scab over but it wasn't showing any signs of swelling or infection and I continued to let it go. One time I even considered doing a little home podiatry, but realized I didn't have the right tools or dexterity to pull off the task.
While I was hospitalized after my most recent surgery, one of the nurses made a comment that I should get the toenail checked out. So while I'm currently laid up, I finally decided to get the nail taken care of - kill two birds with one stone. This time I got a little video footage of the experience. Unfortunately, I wasn't quick enough on the draw to capture the very beginning of the procedure.
I'm debating whether or not to upload this on YouTube. I'm sure the creepy, foot-fetish video enthusiasts would love it though...Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The following has nothing to do with SCI, pressure sores, or anything of the like. It is based—quite loosely—on actual events.
The house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac in an unassuming subdivision in suburban Atlanta. It is a ranch home of modest size, but not all that spectacular. In fact, it looks to have seen better days. A black 1978 Pontiac Trans Am sits next to the driveway, its hood emblazoned with an airbrushed image of a purple dragon rising out of ann eerie mist. The car is up on cinder blocks and not in working order. In the backyard is an in-ground swimming pool in the shape of a music note, that when originally constructed, had a working water-level smoke machine. The pool hasn't had water in it in years.
The interior of the house is in a similar state of neglect, it has the trappings of a previous life of significant disposable income that is now all gone: free-standing arcade-style video game machines, big screen TV, billiards table (only one remaining cue stick has a felt tip still attached), a black Gibson Flying-V guitar that when held in the right light, at the right angle, reveals a metallic purple finish. Everything in the house is covered with a hazy, sticky film that reveals a history of numerous party goers smoking too many cigarettes. In the kitchen the phone begins to ring. The answering machine does not pick as the machine garbled the message cassette tape a long tine ago.
In the back bedroom, Ritchie Blackmore slowly becomes aware of the distressed ringing as well as his own returning state of consciousness. The two things that pass through his mind in this moment are, Who could possibly be calling at this ungodly hour of the morning? and, None of those other guys are going to get up and answer that phone. Blackmore pulls himself slowly to the edge and the bed and makes a concerted effort to get to his feet. The cocktail waitress from the lounge at the airport Holiday Inn, hardly stirs on the undulating water bed mattress as Blackmore sets his feet under wiry frame, she is still dead to the world at this moment. The phone continues to ring as he makes his way down the hallway to the kitchen. When he picks up the receiver the connection sounds far away and the voice on the other end of the line is unfamiliar to him.
“I am trying to reach 1970s rock and roll masters Deep Purple.” The voice's diction is short and choppy, The accent sounds eastern European. “Who is this?” Blackmore asks.
“I am Vasily Karpov, Assistant to the Minister of Culture, Russia,” the voice says. “I am looking to speak with heavy metal pioneers Deep Purple. It is of utmost importance.”
“Who gave you this number?”
“A mister Goldman at Warner Brothers Recording Company, said I could reach Deep Purple on this line. Am I correct? To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Ritchie Blackmore. What do you want?” Blackmore's head was beginning to ache.
“Mr. Blackmore, it is truly a great honor. I am calling on behalf of Dmitry Medvedev - First Deputy Prime Minister of Russia and Gazprom Chairman. Do you know this name, Gazprom?”
“Gazprom? No, never heard of it.”
Karpov filled him in, “Gazprom is greatest natural gas company in all of Russia and eastern Europe. Most successful company in history of Russia free-market economy. We will be celebrating our 15th anniversary in a week.”
“O.K., but what does that have to do with me?”
“Mr. Medvedev is a great fan of you and your super rock group, Deep Purple.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. He has all of your original albums.”
“He does?” Blackmore was stunned, “I don't even have all our albums. A lot of them aren't that good.”
“Oh, I think Mr. Medvedev would heartily disagree,” Karpov said, a chuckle in his voice. “He has been a fan of your rock group his entire adult life.”
“That's nice Mr. Karpov, but is there something I can do for you? If not, I'd like to go back to bed.”
“Mr. Blackmore,” Karpov continued, “At the request of Mr. Medvedev, I am to convince you and your heavy metal comrades to play a private concert at our Gazprom anniversary celebration. Here in Moscow. At the Kremlin.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackmore. In all seriousness.”
Blackmore thought for a moment. Moscow? In February? It didn't sound that great to him. “I don't know, Mr. Karpov. This isn't that great an time for the band. We've got a lot on our plate at the moment.”
“It is odd to me that you say that, Mr. Blackmore. Mr. Goldman at Warner Brothers said you haven't toured in years. I hope you are not being disingenuous with me”
Damn, that Goldman. “No, of course not,” Blackmore stammered. His headache worsened, “What Goldman said, that's not entirely true. We've done a few things here and there and have some county fairs lined up co-headlining with B.T.O. in the spring. Just last month I --”
Karpov cut him off, his tone now stern, “Mr. Blackmore, Mr. Medvedev is a man who gets what he wants. Soon he will be succeeding Vladimir Putin as President of Russia.”
“You don't say.”
“Yes, and his wish to celebrate this accomplishment is the have the Deep Purple play a heavy metal, rock and roll concert for himself and his friends.”
“I see.”
“You will be highly compensated for the effort.”
“That might make it a little easier to convince the rest of the band.”
“You will make it happen, Mr. Blackmore.”
“I'm glad you're confident about this.”
“Mr. Blackmore, Dmitry Medvedev told me that when he is selected president of Mother Russia he will run the country using only three phones.”
“Three phones?”
“Yes, three. A black phone to speak directly to Putin at party headquarters. The red phone hot line to the Oval Office. And a purple phone.”
“A purple phone?”
“Yes. Deep Purple.”
Blackmore rubbed his aching temples, “Of course.”
Ritchie Blackmore stayed on the line for several more minutes as Karpov outlined the details of the soon-to-be-resurrected Deep Purple's Russian itinerary: travel to Moscow on Gazprom's private Gulf Stream jet, lodging at the Metropol Hotel, new instruments, and lucrative expense accounts. The concert would be at least an hour and a half and Medvedev would get final approval of the set list—this was stipulated mostly as a guarantee he would get to hear his favorite songs. If all went as planned, there would most definitely be the opportunity to parlay this show into other high paying, more formal state functions—to be the Kremlin “house metal band,” if the group was so inclined. Such is Dmitry Medvedev's love of the D.P.
After ending the conversation with Karpov, Blackmore lit a cigarette and walked across the shag-carpeted living room and picked up the old Flying-V. He started to strum an all-too-familiar, simple three-chord progression. He was a bit rusty, but it came back quickly.
Shortly thereafter, the rest of his housemates began to stir. The first to emerge was Ian Gillian, lead vocals. Gillian was not a morning person and he and Blackmore quarreled many times over the years about the creative direction of the band. They had both quit and/or been fired from the band on more than one occasion. Blackmore continued to quietly work through the famous opening bars of his most famous song.
Gillian shoots Blackmore a sideways look on his way to the coffee maker, “Jesus, man. Don't you ever give it a rest? 'Most famous riff in Rock history.' I get it, alright?”
“Nope, not today man,” Blackmore wasn't interested in an argument. His headache had started to subside. But he was going to be outnumbered in this one.
Next to join the land of the living was bassist Roger Glover, and he wasn't happy either, “Ritchie, who were you yammering to on the phone his morning? I'm hung over and trying to catch up on some shut eye. Can't someone buy a new tape for that damn machine?”
“Give it a rest fellas,” Blackmore said calmly, “I just cut us a deal that's gong to put Deep Purple back at the forefront of the geopolitical music scene.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Gillian incredulously. “We were never political.”
“Well, whatever. The point is we will be now, and we're going to get rich doing it.”
Glover chimed in skeptically, “What'd you do, release the rights to another one of our masterworks so a bunch of kids can pretend to play guitar on another stupid video game?”
Blackmore was beginning to tense up, “You got a problem with our songs being used on another video game, Rog?”
“No Ritch, I've got a problem with you negotiating these backroom deals by yourself when the rest of us have just as much invested in the proliferation of these great pieces music as you do. I don't want the cultural significance of our music sullied by a bunch of corporate suits, man!”
“Oh, Roger, come on!” Blackmore was fully on the defensive now, “First of all, let's be realistic. We do 'Woman From Tokyo.'”
“What's wrong with 'Woman From Tokyo?'” Gillian asked. “You've always said you liked that song.”
“Of course I like it, I came up with that riff--”
“Oh God, you and your 'amazing' riffs! What's your point?”
“Have you ever listened to the lyrics of 'Woman From Tokyo,' Ian?”
“Don't patronize me Ritch, I wrote the lyrics.”
“It's not like we're the Beatles, or something. We do 'Space Trucking.' To say it's beneath us to have a couple of our songs used in a video game is ridiculous. I think we're grossly overestimating the cultural significance of our music.” Blackmore continued, “And for your information Roger, that video game deal of mine put food in that refrigerator last month, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you.”
At this point, original members, drummer Ian Paice and keyboard player John Lord, entered the room where the other three are arguing.
“What in the hell are you guys fighting about? It's 7:30 in the morning. We're going to get the cops called on us again.”
“Ritchie, who was that who called so damn early?”
Blackmore looked up at the two original Deep Purple torch bearers and then back at his other two bandmates, “Pack your mittens, bitches. We've got a gig in Moscow.”
Blatant factual inaccuracies: Pretty much everything, aside from song titles, band member's and future Russian president's names. Deep Purple are actually from England and apparently tour the Continent quite frequently, although I did not investigate their current line up. Also, the Volga does not flow through Moscow.
I'm heading back into University of Michigan Hospital tomorrow (Wednesday 1/16) for another surgery in an attempt to get the pressure sore I've been dealing with these last five months to heal properly. Those who've been following along are already aware that the procedure I'm undergoing tomorrow will be a repeat of the one I had back in October. Although highly less than ideal, as I was anticipating as recently as December that at this point in time the wound would be ready to be closed. Upon closer examination, my surgeon determined that the underlying bone might still contain some residual myelitis infection. Thus, he will be opening the sore back up and performing another bone biopsy. This procedure and the subsequent healing period will be a setback of at least another six weeks of convalescence. Thanks to everyone who has and continue to send words of encouragement.
Recently, on a thrilling Friday night in an effort to avoid watching yet another episode of Scrubs, I ended up watching the ABC TV news magazine 20/20. This particular episode profiled the stories of three people dealing with unusual physical deformities: a college student born without legs, a black, television reporter, with a rare disease that is turning his skin white, and a young model born without a right ear. Each segment focused the various challenges and difficulties each person deals with on a daily basis in relation to their disability. For example, in the case of the TV reporter (surprisingly, an entertainment reporter for Fox 2 Detroit) he has the challenge of being a black man turning white, working in a visual media, while trying to come to grips with revealing his changing skin condition or to continue covering his face with concealing make up. I found the story of the guy born without legs to be the most interesting, both in terms of the challenges he continues to overcome and how his situation relates to my own.
Some observations: In terms of maintaining positive body image, I'll take useless legs; but on the other hand, useless legs are dead weight. He makes a life without legs look easy, but he's lived with it his whole life. Fully functioning arms and hands are the key. I loved the picture of the dog staring at him as he went on his skateboard at the dog's eye level. The skateboard is sweet, but in Montana in the dead of winter? Seems impractical. He must use his wheelchair way more often.
Click picture for video
A production note: Not to be a dick, but to the producers of 20/20, if you really want me to have some sympathy for the model having a prosthetic ear created so her portfolio can also contain shots of both the right and left side of her head, try running her segment before the one on the guy born without any friggin legs who travels the world by himself on a skateboard! Just a suggestion.
This is the front page of Wednesday's Ann Arbor News celebrating Michigan's victory over Florida in the Capital One Bowl, played New Year's Day in Orlando. Michigan's head coach, Lloyd Carr, had previously announced he would be retiring after coaching this one last game - a big deal in the land of Michigan football fandom.
I really hope that the person who wrote this headline is proud of their handiwork, because I am. It'd be a shame if this choice of words was completely unintentional. Yes, I will run with the innuendo:
So, it is great to be a Michigan Wolverine.
I was unaware the game was played in Thailand.
Best severance package ever.
Way better than a gold watch.
Maybe the Rose Bowl isn't that special after all.
There's a time and a place for everything...it's called college.
Carr was overhead asking, "Can I retire again?"
Always read the fine print of the Capital One credit card application.
