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And happy new year.
personal
And away we go
For some time, I’ve needed a new phone: the one I’ve got (a Sprint Touchpoint 1100, made by LG) has gotten beaten up enough that the battery no longer has a reliable connection to the main body, the result being that it turns itself off almost every time it gets jostled.
A recent item on Gizmodo pointed out that, between various rebates, Amazon is basically paying you $150 to take a phone off their hands (with purchase of new cellular service contract, of course). While I decided against that particular option, I found another, somewhat less generous offer to relieve them of a phone. This went along with T-Mobile service; after checking with Drew that T-Mobile didn’t suck distinctly harder than anyone else, I took the plunge.
The phone, a Sony Ericsson T610, should (I think) be here in a few days. It’s got all kinds of bells and whistles: Bluetooth, a camera, a Bluetooth headset included free (another special offer). Of course, I wound up also ordering a Bluetooth dongle for my Mac, so that I’d be able to copy data between the phone and my address book, which ate up a good chunk of the money Amazon is paying me to take the phone.
Lazyweb: help me pick out some headphones
For my girlfriend, actually, but she’s not geeky enough to use Lazyweb. She’s also, apparently, too petite for typical headphones.
I picked her up a cheapo pair of Sony h.ear headphones, which sort of hook over your ears like paperclips. No good. Turns out her ears are much, much to small to accommodate them–the ‘phones hang too low, and even if they didn’t, the speakers would be too large to fit the recesses of her ears.
Constraints: must fit her; must not cost an arm or a leg, and must tolerate getting sweaty at the gym.
O Lazyweb, I invoke thee!
Head down
In the absence of, well, work, I’ve been trying to teach myself PHP and MySQL. Partly because it’s stuff I just want to know–ever since I gave up on Hypercard, I’ve felt a sort of phantom-limb syndrome whenever I need to algorithmically process a batch of text or something. And I’ve got some ideas for projects that I think might be fun. Partly because I might be able to turn this into an alternate revenue stream.
The book I’m working from seems to be pretty good, as far as it goes, but after doing a little poking around in the PHP documentation, I realize the book barely scratches the surface of the tip of the iceberg. I’m still at the point of getting a feel for the semantics and data types–not doing much beyond “Hello World!” tests. But I’ll get there.
Halloween
There are always a bazillion parties on Halloween, and of course the crush on Sixth Street, but I’m going to be at the Enchanted Forest. Every year for the past N years, there’s been a Halloween fire show at Cafe Mundi. This year it’s at a different location, but will still be a good show. And for the first time, I’ll be in it, doing more than holding a towel.
When: Halloween night, starts at 8:00, doors at 7:00
Where: Enchanted Forest (Oltorf near Lamar)
Outdoors, primitive site. Bring your own everything.
Fucking Ritz Camera
I’m developing a website (don’t look yetok, you can look now) for my sister. She took some product shots, and asked how she should send them to me. I told her to get a Photo CD made from the negatives.
Now, Photo CD is a specific, high-quality format for storing photos digitally; it’s not just a CD with photos on it. She goes to Ritz Camera, gives them the film and asks for a Photo CD. Yes, by name. But apparently the Ritz halfwits knew better, and (as near as I can tell) scanned her prints on a dusty scanner that blew out all the highlights, and burned that onto a CD along with all kinds of Windows cruft. Ceçi n’est ce pas une Photo CD.
I’ve just received the Not-Photo CD. Her website is supposed to go live in two days. There’s obviously not enough time to redo it. The scans I’ve got are usable, but much lower quality than they would have been if I had gotten what I wanted.
The story of Adam’s second broken hip
First installment: 19 Oct 1999
I am writing this exactly two weeks after the accident, which happened on 5 October 1999, almost exactly four years after my previous broken hip. It is somewhat difficult to give a good linear account of what happened, because I sustained some head trauma in the accident, and as such wasn’t sure what happened to me until later, when I remembered.
At first, all I knew was that I had gotten into an accident riding around my neighborhood on my commuting bike. I didn’t know exactly where or what the circumstances were. I also didn’t appreciate the extent of my injuries at the time: I just thought I had a lot of road rash, although I was dazed. Jumping ahead a bit, after I was released from the hospital I found the backpack I was wearing at the time of the accident. I had just purchased a nice bottle of scotch to give to a friend for his birthday; when I pulled it (intact!) out of my backpack, everything came back to me. I had been riding westbound on a nearby street (41st St), coming from a liquor shop. This street has a healthy downhill, and at the bottom, a dip and a bump. I have ridden this way many times before, but this time I hit that bump exactly wrong and went flying. A woman following saw this happen, and insisted I let her drive me home. I was reluctant at first, but assented. Someone else rode my bike home for me (the bike is fine, incidentally). Upon arriving home, my then-wife Jenny quickly realized my mental status was altered. She mentioned an event in the recent past; I had no idea what she was talking about. She asked “What month is it?” I thought about it for a second and responded “I don’t know.” She put me in the car and headed for the ER. I was complaining of hip pain, so we brought my crutches. At that point, my recollection gets very fuzzy.
Once in the hospital, it was discovered that my head was basically OK, but my pelvis basically was not. I had two major breaks and some incomplete fractures. My short-term memory was almost completely shot. I would reportedly ask “Have there been x-rays taken?” Answer: “Yes.” Question: “Have I seen them?” Answer: “Yes.” Repeat every three minutes. Obviously the fact that I had seen them did make some deeper penetration, since I had the presence of mind to ask about it, but that’s about it.
My surgery was on Wednesday. I was in traction until then. Surgery lasted five or six hours. I had ten screws roughly 1″ long each, along with a chain, inserted to hold the two pelvic breaks together. I was in the ICU that night, and friends came to visit me. I don’t remember actually seeing them, but I remember their presences, and vaguely remember conversing with them. I told the hospital staff that I couldn’t eat much solid food, so they put me on what is evidently a fixed liquid diet of oatmeal, jello, and juice. I could have managed some fruit, but that wasn’t part of their plan, evidently.
Thursday I was in a regular hospital room. I was still pretty foggy, but I was able to hold thoughts in my head for more than three minutes at a stretch. More friends visited, and this time, I could actually remember seeing them, if vaguely. The hospital experience was largely as I remembered: a regular schedule of things being put into my body, mostly through two shunts, one in the back of each hand. I received two units of blood, which concerned me, but was evidently necessary. I had two huge surgical incisions: one running from my left side below the ribcage to a point south of my navel, the other running vertically up my left butt cheek. Blood drains in each. I felt like I had been opened up like a christmas package. Jenny wore an outrageous outfit to help lighten my mood, as she did each day of my hospitalization.
Friday, I had my foley catheter removed. That’s a relief. I also had my shunts unplugged from full-time drips, although the shunts stayed in. Someone from Physical Therapy came by and got me up on my crutches. I had plenty of practice with this, and was able to maneuver pretty well, so they were satisfied with me. A good thing I got up too: the massive quantities of laxatives they had been pumping into me (anesthesia can put one’s guts to sleep, evidently) were starting to work their magic. I made five trips to the can that day. Beats using a bedpan, I tell ya. I began refusing the laxatives, and started eating normal food.
Saturday I spent almost the entire day sitting in a chair, rather than in the bed. This is a big improvement. I could tell I was just about ready to leave the hospital.
Sunday morning I agitated with all the doctors who looked in on my to sign off on me, so that I could be released. One doctor seemed somewhat reluctant, pointing out that I was still experiencing discomfort. I replied “Look, I can experience discomfort here, or I can do it at home. I’d rather do it at home.” By the time Jenny showed up, my release was ordered, and I was getting ready to go. I was home early that afternoon (Oct 10th), and went to a bridal shower at a friend’s place. That friend was the one for whom I had bought the fateful bottle of scotch, the discovery of which triggered my memories.
I met with my doctor the following Tuesday, and he was pleased with my status at this time. I met with him a week after (the day of this writing), and he is still pleased with my status, but he is being much more conservative with my recovery program than before. I won’t be starting physical therapy for at least another two weeks. I had my staples out today.
I am getting around on crutches, which is a big inconvenience. In case you are wondering, I wasn’t in a cast at any point. Sometimes my pelvis just feels uncomfortable as a result of sitting around, but it isn’t an intense pain. I have weaned myself off the pain meds I was prescribed, but I am still taking a potent anti-inflammatory drug.
Second installment: 19 Dec 1999
I am writing this about 11 weeks after the accident.
I made good progress on my recovery following the previous installment. While I was not allowed to put any weight on the bad leg, I gradually recovered some strength and flexibility in it, and my general level of discomfort decreased. I resumed my daily trips to my neighborhood coffee shop about a mile away.
Four weeks after the accident, I had a visit with my orthopod. X-rays were taken, and he was so pleased with how they looked that he was almost giggling. He didn’t allow me to start doing anything new, or start physical therapy, but he was obviously happy with my progress. He and other people at the office commented on how well I seemed to be moving around, and how I seemed to be in generally good shape. One barometer of my progress was that before, in my trips to the coffee shop, I was taking the bus both ways. Around this point, I started to ride the bus one way and gimp the other.
Five weeks after the accident, I finally got over the occasional weak spells and dizzy spells I had been experiencing.
Eight weeks after the accident, I saw my orthopod again. He took more x-rays, and again was happy with my progress. He commented that one of the two breaks wasn’t even visible anymore. He told me to get up and walk without my crutches, which I was able to do with considerable wobbling. It felt physically very weird, since I hadn’t put any weight to speak of on that leg in eight weeks. The doctor told me that I could start as much weight-bearing as I could tolerate, but I should continue using crutches for stability–two crutches for two weeks, then one crutch for two more weeks, then none. I was allowed to drive, but not a manual, so I traded cars with a friend. He finally started me on physical therapy. I began augmenting this with rides on my stationary bike. Around this time I started gimping both to and from the coffee shop.
Once I started weight-bearing, I quickly got re-accustomed to it. After only a day or two, I upgraded myself to one crutch, and increasingly around the house, I would use no crutches. I was making daily progress in terms of strength, balance, and comfort. After about ten days, I felt emoldened to leave the house without a crutch on one or two occasions–I was still walking with a limp, but not bad. My sessions on the stationary bike were getting better–higher speeds, less pain, faster warmups. By the day before my next appointment, I could walk without much of a limp.
Ten weeks after the accident, I saw my orthopod again. No x-rays this time. He asked me how I was doing and I said “Better than either of us would have imagined.” He told me to walk, and I got up and walked quite normally. He was blown away. He even showed me off to his colleagues.
At this point, I can walk all I want, and I am walking about 2 miles a day (to and from the coffee shop), in addition to physical-therapy excercises and stationary bike rides. I am not allowed to run (not that I want to try that yet), jump, or ride a real bike for another three weeks, the time of my next appointment. I still don’t feel completely recovered–my left leg is still significantly weaker than my right leg, but that only comes into play when it is stressed. I still have some pain, especially at the end of a walk. I don’t have quite as much flexibility in the left leg as in the right. But I continue to make improvements each day.
I’m not sure if there is a secret to a successful recovery; I imagine everybody needs a different approach. But what seems to work for me is doing as much as possible, living as normally as possible, without overdoing it. Don’t be defeatist about the recovery, don’t be passive, but don’t get obsessive either. Just be determined.
The story of Adam’s first broken hip
The original story
It happened on October 19, 1995. Jenny and I were out for a ride eastbound on FM 969, towards the neighboring town of Weberville. We were a little east of Route 183 when a pickup passed me. It passed really close. It was hauling a trailer, which I guess was a little wider than the truck. It hit me. I went down on my left side. Ouch. It wasn’t immediately obvious that I had broken my hip–at first I tried to get back up on my bike, but quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen. There was a lot of traffic (this was around 4:30 on a Thursday, so we were in early rush-hour). A lot of people stopped to help, there were some witnesses. One of the first people to help was an off-duty emergency medical technician. She jumped out of her truck with one of those neck braces just like you see on ER, got me immobilized, and took charge of the situation until an ambulance showed up. There were plenty of people with cellular phones to call 911. So the situation was not too bad.
>I was admitted to the trauma center at Brackenridge hospital, where X-rays showed I had a clean break in the neck of my left femur. You know how the femur has a ball at the top (that fits into the hip socket), a narrow neck that flares outward, and then the long, straight part? I broke it at the neck. I was rather surprised and dismayed to learn this–after all, 29-year-old men aren’t supposed to break their hips. An orthopedic surgeon, Dr Adams, was summoned, and I went into surgery around 10:30 PM that night. They put three 4-inch long pins in my femur. I came out of it around 1:30 AM. Jenny and my friends Chris, Tracy, Dave, Heidi,and DuShun were all waiting for me. I was, needless to say, a bit groggy. But I was still really glad to see them. Tracy passed out during the visit, but was OK. I learned that I had puked while under (evidently almost everyone who goes into surgery with anything in the stomach pukes) and I had been intubated as well, which left me with a sore throat for a few days.
On Friday, another friend, Marty, dropped by to visit and my folks made plans to come down for a few days. My hospital routine began. The routine is centered on when certain things are put in you or removed from you. Every morning around 6:00 they would draw a blood sample and then a urine specimen. Twice a day, before breakfast and before sleep, they would give me an oral stool-softener (evidently constipation is a big problem with people who spend a lot of time in bed) and an injected anti-coagulant (evidently blood clots are a big problem with people who have had major surgery). Morning, afternoon, and night I was given an antibiotic through my IV. Friday I was hooked up to a demarol IV drip. This was interesting: they give you a really low-level drip, and if the pain becomes really uncomfortable, you can hit a little button that will dispense a booster. It will only dispense one every six minutes. This is called a PCA–patient-controlled analgesic. I generally went easy on the pain button. Also on Friday they got me out of bed and hobbling around behind a walker. Evidently I was doing pretty well to even stand up. That night I even got out of bed and tried to take a crap. The nurse suggested a bedpan but pride prevented me. I managed to get to the can, but it was a false alarm. Life is reduced to challenges on the level of going to the bathroom.
On Saturday, they took me off the demarol and put me on an oral painkiller, vicodan (sp?). They also got me moving around on crutches. This was somewhat scary at first, but I got the hang of them pretty quickly: the physical therapist soon decided that I was able to get around fine on my own, and said that as far as she was concerned, I could be released anytime. My parents arrived. At first I was opposed to them dropping everything and coming, but ultimately I think it was for the best: they could reassure themselves that I was not on death’s door, and they also helped out around the house some. I also learned a bit more about the accident. The guy who hit me was indeed caught. He was on company time working for a small landscaping firm in the town of Manor (that’s pronounced "may-nur" in case you aren’t from around here), and his boss called me and assured me his company insurance would take care of my medical. That’s nice. Of course, he is obliged to do so, but it was nice that he made the first move.
On Sunday, another orthopod (not the one who worked on me, but an associate of his) stopped by and declared me fit to leave. I was really happy to hear that. Although I was really happy with all the people I encountered in the hospital, I certainly didn’t enjoy being there, so this was great news. I was out of the hospital and on my way home by about noon. This was a day sooner than the most optimistic forecast the doctor had given for my release, so I was happy about that too.
Monday, my first full day back at home, went well enough. In the morning, my cousin Joel called. Joel is a cyclist and also a lawyer. He offered his services (as a lawyer, not a cyclist, wise guy), and I gladly took him up on his offer. That afternoon, I got a call from the other guy’s insurance adjustor. As soon as he started asking specific questions, I told him "I’m sorry, you’ll have to talk to my lawyer" (as I was advised to). He was visibly crestfallen, even over the phone. He said "You already have a lawyer?…I usually try to get to people before a lawyer does." Yes, he actually did say that. I was rather amazed. He was further dismayed to learn I had me one of them fancy big-city lawyers up in Chicago (if he had found out Joel is Jewish, that would have made his despair complete, I think). It’s nice to be able to say "You’ll have to talk to my lawyer." Jenny got a copy of the police report. The driver was charged with failure to pass with adequate clearance. He was also driving without a license, expired plates, and no brakes on the trailer. He may also be lacking a green card, for all I know.
A week after the accident, I had my first follow-up visit with the orthopod. He said that things were coming along nicely. Shortly after this visit, they removed the staples that held the surgical incision shut (and which were ghastly to look at). I also began physical therapy, which was a real slap in the face at first. I’m a cyclist, so I take strong legs for granted. When it becomes a challenge just to lift my left leg, the feeling is…well, it is hard to put the feeling into words but it is not pleasant. Its frustrating, physically painful. By a month after the accident, I had recovered a lot of mobility and strength, and with every PT visit, they had me doing something more strenuous. I eventually wound up doing stuff that was hard for my good leg.
Three weeks after the accident, I had my second follow-up visit. The doctor was quite pleased with my progress and allowed me to put some weight on the leg: for ten days I was putting 60 pounds on the leg. For the next ten, I was putting 120 pounds on it, using only one crutch, with increasingly vigorous physical therapy. Moving to one crutch was a big improvement, as I had a free hand to carry things with.
At my subsequent office visit, the orthopod was not satisfied with the level of new bone growth, and kept me on one crutch for another three weeks. This was frustrating, as I had been hoping to get off it at that time. At the end of that three weeks, the doctor decided my bone was sufficiently knit up to tolerate walking without a crutch, so I did. That was in mid-December. At the end of December, I ended my physical therapy.
As of this writing (4 October 1996), my condition is pretty good. I do have less strength in my bad leg, but this is only revealed when attempting relatively obscure tasks, like standing up from a low chair using just that leg. There is still some pain when I lie on that side and there is pressure on the affected area. I can run a little–enough to get across the street–but when a friend came by a while ago and suggested we go for a jog, I had to laugh. That is out of the question for the time being. But, hey, I can ride my bike fine. I haven’t been on it as much as I should be, but I can’t blame that on the accident–just my own laziness.
About ten months after the accident, my lawyers came to a final settlement on the case with the other guy’s insurance. This was less than they had initially projected, but probably as much as I could realistically expect to get. And we kept it out of the courts, thank goodness. All kinds of people told me “you should sue!” Life’s too short for that.
The doctor who worked on me says that a complete recovery to my prior condition is unlikely: there should be less range of motion, less strength, and more pain. I have chosen to disbelieve him, though my progress seems to have tapered off somewhere short of “perfect.” More ominously, he has warned me that I may develop a condition called avascular necrosis (AVN), which would mean that there isn’t enough blood getting to the top of the femur, and that part of the bone dies. If this happens, I’ll need an artificial hip. And since artificial hips wear out after about five years for a young person, I’ll be looking at a lifetime of replacements. This is the thing that worries me the most, and there’s no way to tell whether or not it will happen right now. The doctor said the bone could knit up fine, and I could still develop AVN five years down the road. Scary.
Jenny helped out a lot, in little and big ways. For a while there I was not allowed to drive, so she finally broke down and got a driver’s license. She drove me to my appointments et al. She also took care of a lot of little stuff around the house that was too much trouble for me to do, like fetching a cup of coffee. Fetching a cup of coffee!! Yes, that was too much trouble for me. Try carrying anything liquid while on crutches. Doesn’t work.
Update: 26 November 1997
Two years down the road from the accident, I decided it was about time to get my screws out. I could have had them out one year after the accident, but somehow never got around to it. Funny that I wouldn’t be anxious to undergo surgery again, isn’t it? Anyhow, I decided at the beginning of this month that Now is the time. So I scheduled surgery for November 14. A consult with my orthopod, Dr Adams, the day before, and some paperwork with the hospital as well, which sent me chasing around a bit and did not fill me with confidence in their administrative skills. “No food after midnight,” they tell me. They draw some blood and ask some questions to make sure I am fit to undergo surgery. Many, many people confirm what procedure I am supposed to undergo, exactly. This is a good thing, I suppose.
My surgery is scheduled for 1 PM, and they tell me to show up two hours before that. When I show up, they have me put on a hospital gown and hang out in a room while a procession of medical-type people file through and ask me largely the same questions. Eventually they have me lie down on a gurney, they roll me into a holding pen, where more people ask me the same questions. “Which side are we working on?” “Left, there’s a big surgical scar, you can’t miss it,” I tell them. Eventually an anesthetist sticks a little IV in the back of my right hand and they start wheeling me off to surgery. I think less than a minute elapsed before I blacked out.
I vaguely recall coming-to in a room with a few other patients, and asking a lot of questions like “How did the surgery go?” etc. I don’t recall what the answers were, if I actually articulated the questions in the first place, or what the questions exactly were. Some time later I became reasonably alert in the same room where I had gotten into the hospital gown. I was still pretty groggy, to be honest, but I did want to get home. Hospital staff always want to make sure one can hold down liquids, and I drank some water and apple juice, so they let me get dressed and go. I got to keep my screws, which are stainless steel, 95 mm long, 4 mm thick, cannulated (that means they’re hollow like beads), with very serious looking threads rolled into the tip and a 4 mm allen-key socket in the head. That night I was not able to hold down water, and my dressing looked pretty bloody, but by the next day I was wolfing down pizza and the bleeding had pretty much stopped.
On the 24th, I visited my orthopod and my staples came out. I still couldn’t get used to looking at them, at least not when they’re in my own skin.
As of this writing (Wednesday, 26 November 1997), I am on crutches, and will be for about two more weeks. My orthopod wants the voids in the bone left by the screws to fill in so the bone can regain some strength before he lets me run around with my full weight on that leg. This is really frustrating, because I feel like I should be OK, but when I saw him to have my staples removed, the first thing he said when he saw me was that I shouldn’t even think about getting rid of my crutches yet–he had another patient in my situation who quit using his crutches early, he fell, and wound up injuring himself quite badly. Oh well. I’m relying on Jenny to fetch cups of coffee for me again. Other than that, the doctor thinks I am doing pretty darn well. He thinks that odds of AVN developing at this point are minimal. That’s a nice to know. I used most of my share of the settlement (after my lawyers and my insurance took their cut) to make a big downpayment on a house that Jenny and I wouldn’t have been able to afford otherwise.
Update: 02 January 1999
Having my screws taken out was one of the best things I ever did. After my accident, I had suffered low-level chronic pain, and a small loss of strength and flexibility. I always assumed this was a consequence of having broken my hip. It wasn’t: it was a consequence of having big-ass stainless-steel screws in me. Once I had recovered from having the screws taken out, I felt like I was 100% back to normal. No pain, no diminishment in strength, and none in flexibility (or near enough to none as makes no difference). I couldn’t run with the screws in me. I can run now.
Another benefit of having the screws out: I can show them to friends and really freak them out.
Well, that is pretty much the whole story. My advice is "Don’t break your hip."
Death
There’s been a lot of death in the news lately. Warren Zevon and Johnny Cash. I recently mentioned Walter Richter. And today I read that Ken Kifer bought the farm, run over by a drunk driver while riding his bike.
I used to hang out on the rec.bicycles.* Usenet hierarchy, and Ken was one of the regulars, and one of the most prolific writers on bike subjects I know of. I never met him in person, but felt that in a small way, I knew him.
Warren Zevon’s impending demise had been public knowledge for over a year; Johnny Cash’s mortality is unmistakable on his last album. My neighbor Walter Richter had been in decline for some time, and had a good run. Reading about Ken this morning was like a punch in the gut.
Schlitterbahn
A month or so ago, Gwen discovered, to her amazement, that I had never been to Schlitterbahn. She said that once school was back in session that we should make it a point to go.
Saturday night, I mentioned that we should look into going. It turned out that the next day was their last day of the season before closing for the winter. That seems silly to me–there will probably be three more good weekends before the weather threatens to get too cold. At least according to my standards. But this is Texas. Anyhow, we decided on the spot to go, and bought our tickets online–which they loudly trumpet saves two dollars (they do not trumpet as loudly that they charge a $1 “convenience fee” for online tickets). We also received a “last day of the season” discount.
Sunday, we made a fairly early start, so that we’d have the whole day there. Driving down, we drove through an ominous rainstorm around San Marcos. We also drove past what must be the highest concentration of RV and manufactured-home vendors on the planet, including one selling a model hilariously called the Taj Mahal, another even more hilariously called La Casita Grande. And, to my surprise, a two-story model.
When we arrived at about 10:00 AM, there was no rain, but the sky was very threatening. We waited an inordinately long time to get in (thus negating any supposed convenience of online ticketing)–there wasn’t a long line, but, inexplicably, the clerk was taking about ten minutes to process each party–though he scarcely took a minute to pass us through. Once inside, we got changed and dove in. Although I’m told that lines can be an hour or more for the most popular attractions, we never waited more than a couple minutes, and for the most part, we just got on and went–often several times down the same slide. Clearly, we had picked the right day to come.
Around 1:00 PM it started raining, which made no difference, since we were already wet, but around 1:30 there was thunder, and they closed all the attractions until it stopped, which took half an hour at most. We continued having fun, but it was getting cold, so we warmed up in a hot tub (“warm tub” would be more accurate). Having started in the old part of the park, we then took a shuttle over to the new part. (The old part has a lot more trees, which is nice. The new part has more high-profile rides, which are also nice in a different way.) By the time we got there, the sun was starting to come out again.
We stayed at the park till about 4, hungrily ate a lunch we had packed (all that water-sliding really does sap your energy), and headed home. It was a ball.
For the record:
- Schlitterbahn does allow you to bring in outside food, and you should–the food sold in the park is 4x a fair price
- The storage lockers they rent (for a usurious $4) are tiny–pack accordingly
- It would be a lot of fun to bring a waterproof camera along
- Sunblock sunblock sunblock
Burning Flipside 2003
I’m back and halfway recovered from Burning Flipside, one of the “regional burns” associated with Burning Man. As I understand it, Flipside is the oldest (since 1998) and largest (900 tickets sold–quickly–in 2003) of the regional burns.
I had been delinquent about getting tickets when they went on sale, and missed out. Fortunately, a secondary market sprung up, as many people bought tickets for friends who later cancelled (this resulted in a frantic last-minute round-robin exchange of e-mail messages as ticket holders tried to hook up with ticket seekers). It was pretty late in the game that we got our tickets, and so we hadn’t done a lot of advance preparation. We did get supplies to make a shade structure out of PVC and old sheets, along with all the usual camping crap one would need, food (lots of food), beer, wine, fuel, etc. We both scrounged up weird odds and ends around our households to use as barter goods. Apart from a daily ice delivery, commerce is not allowed at Flipside. Technically, barter isn’t either–everything is on the gift economy–but as a practical matter, it would be a bad idea to show up without anything to trade.
We headed out Friday around noon, and got to the site quickly. Admission is a tedious process.
We first signed a multipage waiver absolving the site owner of any liability. Flipside takes place on a private campground called Recreation Plantation. RecPlan is a 40-acre site with limited modcons (a few flush toilets, a few showers), a few RV hookups, a pool, and a creek. Most of the property is rocky and covered with scrubby trees (which someone aptly referred to as “upstairs”); there’s a fairly short and sharp decline from this that leads onto a smooth, open, grassy field of about 10 acres. The field adjoins the creek, which has some trees along it. In past years, all the action at Flipside was on the field. That’s still where the biggest theme camps are, but as the event has grown, more camps are found upstairs.
After that, we drove a little ways in and arrived at the main check-in, where we were subjected to a somewhat condescending interview process. I suppose this is necessary to keep out troublemakers and people who don’t get it (or at least get some idea of how many of those people are arriving).
Finally we made it to the “greeter’s station,” where we were given a temporary permit to drive onto the field and unpack the car. The car was very full–I had packed an enormous beanbag chair that we wound up not using, and the materials for the shade structure, which also turned out to be unnecessary (there was no room for it). We were camping at the Circle of Fire with my fire-freak friends. We deployed our stuff fairly quickly, said Hi to quite a lot of friends, and went back roughly to where we came in, quite some distance away, to park. We walked back down and said Hi to more people, and took it all in.
After that, impressions of time become very fuzzy. Not many people wore watches. Some activities were supposed to happen at specific times, so knowing when to be where was somewhat problematic. But it’s probably just as well–otherwise I’d know exactly how much sleep I wasn’t getting.
The COF camp was on the field, which was extremely hot and bright (except when it was raining), and although we had an enormous dome that should have been a fine shade structure, it was in fact intolerably hot and close in there, so we spent most of the time under two much smaller canopies in back. Or at other camps: Jenny, for instance, was camped at the Toadstool Kingdom of Slack, which was positioned right on the slope between the upstairs and the field. This spot was about 15° cooler than any other place in the camp, so we spent plenty of time hanging out there.
Our camp was near another theme camp, the name of which I never learned, but which I came to call the “obnoxious techno music at 7:00 AM camp” for reasons that should be self-explanatory. This camp had a giant parachute-covered dome that played music all the time, but played it especially loud at hours that everybody else wanted to be asleep. At one point, Flipside’s most obnoxious participant, Xeno, of Flipside’s most obnoxious camp, Chupacabra Policia, came over with a bullhorn to chastise them “no one is listening to your music.”
Art
The toadstool was an ambitious project that the builders had great trouble erecting. They had tried using a fairly elaborate gantry with block & tackle, which didn’t work at all. They eventually put a fulcrum above it and pulled it up with a Jeep. This was just one of many really amazing projects that got hauled out there. The Gateway fire-sculpture thing is like a giant double-barreled sheetmetal chimenea on rockers. The art-car that shoots flames out of four jets. The flame-shooting totem pole (you may sense a theme here). And the Man itself, which bore little resemblance to the original (or any man), but was basically a wooden derrick with arms sticking out.
Theme camps
Likewise, many of the camps were pretty amazing undertakings. One camp had a trampoline and moonwalk (which we enjoyed immensely). John Cougar Melon-camp, apart from creating an excellent visual pun, hosted a Bill Hicks revival hour at which spicy Bloody Marys flowed freely. Spin Camp had a QTVR rig that I never got around to posing for. The Groovepharm camp had the usual Groovepharm visual/auditory feast. Camp Baksheesh had some kind of puppet karaoke that I somehow never saw. And so on. Every night we would wander from camp to camp, taking in the experiences like we were going through a Whitman’s Sampler.
The bigger and crazier theme camps were all on the field. Next year, I think I’m camping upstairs, where it’ll be cooler and quieter.
People
Of course, the main attraction is the people. I had a lot of friends there scattered among seven or so camps. I met a fair number of new people. I’m sure that the environment helps, but pretty much everyone I met was a pleasure to be around.
At one point, a friend on X came by to give me the earnest “I love you, man” speech that is characteristic of that drug. I realized that Donald Rumsfeld desperately needs to take X. Apart from booze, I took no drugs the whole weekend, and in a way, drugs are redundant: the experience is already an exercise in sensory overload. There were a few people who were so far gone on drugs (or simply so far removed from reality even without them) that they couldn’t take care of themselves, but this was less of a problem than I expected (fortunately, there are Flipside Rangers to take care of them). And even going on indirect evidence, there was a bare minimum of assholes. People seemed to be there in a spirit of conviviality and community.
Costumes were probably more common than street clothes (I was an exception–even among freaks, I’m a freak)–of course, the line between the two can be a blurry one, especially in this crowd. Nudity was common, and I observed that nipple piercings are way more common than I ever imagined. Tattoos were conspicuous only by their absence.
The Big Burn
The high point of the whole event is the big burn, when the Man is burned. A lot of preparation goes into this, despite which there is still a lot of last-minute headless-chicken imitation. The burn ceremony (perhaps “rite” would be a better word) began with a procession of firedancers and stiltwalkers, who walked from the Circle of Fire to the main circle. They were organized by color (this year’s Flipside theme was “dreams of chromatic distraction” [don’t ask]), with about six firedancers, one torchbearer, and one stiltwalker in each of six color groups. Once around the Man, they all did their thing, and the last man burning, Bob, then lit the Man. Everybody was crowded around the perimeter (delineated by a huge circle of nifty LED pods that fired off different colors in different sequences), screaming and excited. After the Man burned for about 20 minutes, it collapsed in on itself and everybody rushed to get as close to the fire as they could, jumping and dancing around.
I observed this from a distance. I was one of the safety people for the big burn, and one of the few experienced firedancers to be working safety. I was one of the people in headless-chicken mode beforehand, trying to round up enough towels, buckets, extinguishers, and other safety people. As the burn drew near, Tiglet and I drilled unexperienced safety people on what to do (fortunately, there was only one minor incident during the burn). After the performers had cleared the field and the Man started burning, Stephen realized that our fuel depot was directly downwind of the Man, which was casting a lot of embers in its direction. He rounded up safeties to help make sure none of the embers landed there to start a fire, so I moved buckets and towels back there and tried to help. As I looked on the people around the fire, I was struck by the energy and intensely primal and pagan spirit pervading them.
I made up for not being part of the procession by having seven or eight really good burns later that night. Kudos to Juan of Camp Baksheesh for being an excellent DJ for COF.
A pretty serious rainstorm whipped through in the wee hours Monday, but most of our stuff came through OK (lucky thing we already had the rainfly on the tent). We got up at a reasonable hour that morning, cleaned up around the camp, packed up the car, and were on our way by 11:00 AM. On the country road leading out of RecPlan, we passed by a Hummer, paradigmatic symbol of American crapulence, and re-entered everyday reality.
I’m missing a million things. You had to be there. I took a few pictures (login as adamguest/adamguest — if there’s a picture of you that you want removed, please let me know), but these were all taken during the day, and much like bars, Flipside isn’t seen in its best light in the light. Scott took some too (same login). Bob got a bunch more. Kristin is maintaining a master list of Flipside 2003 photo albums.
There are any number of ways to define burn events: as temporary autonomous zones, as art festivals, as experiments in radical self-expression/self-reliance, etc. To me, they are about suspending the constraints of everyday life, creating a situation where people can either be more fully themselves or experiment with being other people, having extraordinary experiences, and living fully and in the moment.
Get your warblog-coverage on
The Austin Chronicle has an article by Marc Savlov on warblogs.
Savlov had sent a request to the webmaster for austinbloggers.org for background info for the story. That e-mail addresses is an alias for several people, me being one. Although I’ve felt for years that Savlov is a prick, I responded in a helpful spirit, with some info and links.
Apart from sending no “thank you,” message, Savlov ignored or contradicted everything I sent him, which (I assume) conflicted with the story he wanted to write. This is not to say that I am right and he is wrong, but if a journalist asks someone assumed to have some knowledge of a specific field, and gets a response that doesn’t agree with what he expected or has been picking up from other sources, he might shoot back “That’s different from what I’ve been hearing. Why do you say that?”
He took the typical old-media condescending view of blogs in general.
And he spent about one-fifth of the story talking about a site that he acknowledges is not a blog but is “blog-like.” Whatever.
Wisdom teeth out
In a ten-minute procedure this morning, I was relieved of my three wisdom teeth and about $1300. The procedure was not painful, but it was unpleasant: I was very anxious through the whole thing, and apparently was ashen by the end of it, as the doctor was concerned about me and wouldn’t let me get up until my color returned. I did this under a local anesthetic, which was supposed to last for about four hours. Right now, about three hours have passed and it’s wearing off (I’ve already taken a happy-pill, but it’s not doing much good yet). One of the extraction sites is still bleeding and that whole side of the mouth hurts, even though it’s also peculiarly numb. Also peculiar is how perfectly the numbness bifurcates my mouth. My bite feels very strange–I wonder if my teeth are re-aligning themselves or if this is an artifact of the swelling and the fact that I had gauze in my mouth for hours.
Getting older
Yesterday, I received the alumni magazine from my high school. It contained a small picture of an alumni get-together, with people from my graduating class and the classes one year ahead/behind.
I was shocked. There were faces in that picture that I simply couldn’t recognize (not possible in a graduating class of 69 people)–and when I read their names in the caption, I was doubly shocked at how much those people had changed. I mentioned this to Jenny, and she just said “fat balding guys?” That nailed it.
Time has been kind to me. I’ve certainly changed and aged, but physically, I don’t think I’d leave anyone from back then wondering.
Next year will be time for my class’ 20-year reunion. I won’t be there.
Anniversary
It was one year ago today that Gwen and I met. The best thing that’s happened in my life over the past 365 days.
A big Saturday
It seems like everything was going on this weekend. Unfortunately, one can only be in so many places at one time.
Gwen and I elected to start off Saturday with Flugtag, which seemed sorta corporate, but also seemed like it might be sorta fun. We wandered around the staging area to see the (ahem) aircraft before the event itself, which turned out to be a good idea. That’s where the action really was: the Sombrero Aliens had a live mariachi band, cheerleaders, etc. We could inspect the construction and decoration in detail (I got some pictures–log in as adamguest/adamguest). And so on.
Our vantage point for the actual event was fairly distant, and the event was dull: it felt like hours of boredom punctuated by moments of anticlimax. Gwen and I stuck around for five launchings, none of which flew so much as fell.
So after that it was off to Eeyore’s Birthday Party. For whatever reason, I didn’t run into nearly as many members of my freak contingent as I expected, though we did run into some of Gwen’s old friends there. The event seemed smaller than last year (when there had been a sort of adjunct party going on about a half-mile north). The police presence was much lower this year as well. But it was still fun, and remains a funky, anarchic, and essentially Austin type of event. I didn’t pull out the camera because when you’re behind a camera, you’re not participating, and Eeyore’s feels to me like a “no spectators, only participants” kind of event.
My allergies were getting the better of me, and so we wound up leaving earlier than I really wanted. That night, we went to Yard Dog (a gallery specializing in self-taught, outsider, and primitive-style art), where a 92-year-old man was having his first art opening. The writeup in the Chronicle said he’d started drawing nudes for the past 15 years and had never shown any of them, but all the work on display was dated 2002. Go figure. Aside: Outsider art that really is what it claims to be is one thing, but some of the stuff at Yard Dog is clearly done by MFAs who adopt primitivism as a style. This annoys me.
Full moon night
Last night was a full moon. Quite amazing to see as it hung low over the horizon. The air was positively pungent with the smell of chinaberry blossoms (thanks to Jenny for identifying it). Apparently the chinaberry is considered a pest tree, not native to these parts, but it smells fantastic–somewhere between jasmine and bluebonnet. Everywhere I went last night, I could smell it. Amazing.
It being a full-moon night, there was a drum circle in the tunnels. This is one of those hidden aspects of Austin that make the place what it is. Some of my fellow fire freaks decided to meet down there for a firenight. Despite some trouble finding the place by those living outside Austin, a good time was had by all. As I sat there watching a friend spinning frenetically to the miasmic throb of the drums, the chinaberry perfume drowning out even the stink of burning fuel, it occurred to me that we were experiencing a Baraka moment.
Gwen and I headed out around midnight–right when the second shift was arriving.
Comics
I’m ready to sell my comic-book collection. Anyone who’s interested, I have a list of titles, issues, some comments on condition, etc. Except where otherwise noted, all are in very-fine to near-mint condition.
With some exceptions, most of my stuff doesn’t seem to be very marketable (judging by ebay). In some ways, this surprises me–a lot of my stuff is from smaller publishers, and is better quality than a lot of the mainstream stuff. Then again, mainstream stuff gets made into movies, which no doubt feeds demand. It was also interesting just looking over some of the issues in my collection for the first time in quite a few years, and being surprised at what passes for “good” in comic books. I suspect that the original artboards for a lot of these really are good, but between the shitty paper and awful print quality, only a faint echo of that comes through.