ISleepInADrawer.com

Day Two

I have recovered. Mostly.

Sunday and Monday were spent nursing smaller fever spikes, slowly regaining my appetite and strength, and writing apology e-mails to graduate officials for the seminars I was missing. Tuesday, I continued the apology e-mails, chased the cat around, and suddenly found my body demanding time to catch up on the 12+ hours of sleep it'd lost sweating, tossing, and turning Friday and Saturday nights.

Wednesday, I was well enough (and apparently no longer contagious enough) to join the rest of the world. And just in time for the first day of classes. I'm now into Day Two as an "official" graduate student, and here are a few things I've learned:
1. It is f*cking impossible to find your way around the University of Washington Medical Center.
2. Some graduate classes begin with a pop quiz over cellular metabolism.

My mind has suddenly tuned into the fact that now, as an "official" graduate student, my income has taken a significant decline, and has become quite adept at seeking out Free Food and Drink. For example, what's my reason for getting out of bed tomorrow? Simple, pimple: free snacks at Friday Night Seminar, and free beer afterwards.

It's too bad, since I found out at the doctor's office Monday (follow-up appointment) that this bout of strep throat has led to a sudden drop of five pounds. What an effective weight loss scheme!

Critical Care

Earlier this week, when I was too busy with Grad School Stuff to even contemplate a post, let alone set aside time to compose one, I was pondering this site's existence and purpose. If Grad School Stuff is going to keep me this busy, is ISleepInADrawer.com in for an early retirement? A temporary shelving? A permanent resting spot? Will it be like the old family dog?... take it out in the woods and shoot it? Will it know it's coming?

Eventually, I began to search out a compromise... sure, I'll post less... considerably less... but, perhaps I can keep it at a basal level of attention: an absolute-minimum that will both sate my need to type my thoughts out on this page and keep my handful of loyal readers satisfied. "Jim, try a short post later this week, and see how it goes," I'd tell myself. "Maybe that'll be a pragmatic middle ground... two or three short posts during the week, and one longer post during the weekend."

But, as Grad School Stuff made ever-increasing demands on my time (coupled with this annoying habit I have of seeking out 6.5-8 hours of sleep each night), the short posts I kept promising myself never materialized; and, by Friday, I was thinking that I'd have to take the Ol' Dog out into the woods and shoot it.

Fortunately for both the Ol' Dog and you, something else also happened on Friday to yield a rollercoaster of a weekend, and remind me of the reasons why ISleepInADrawer.com isn't yet ready for shelving. After all, how else can I share James-at-his-most-humble?

Around Friday, just after lunch at yet-another-reception welcoming us grad students into the program, the aforementioned thought (Ol' Dog - out in woods - shoot it - no more ISleepInADrawer.com) first entered my head.

About an hour later, I was sitting in yet-another seminar thinking, "My God, it's cold in here..."

Two hours later, I was attending Friday Night Seminar: "Jeez, it's cold in here, too!"

An hour later, I was at Beer Hour: "Weird... now it's hot in here." I ducked out early (after downing my Mac and Jack's) so no one would see me sweating profusely.

And an hour after that, as I finally got home, I was cold again - positively frigid. I took one look at Zach and said, "I think I'm getting sick."

I spent the next few hours wrapped up in nearly every blanket we own, huddled in fetal position on the bed. The chill-sweat cycles came too quickly for me to respond by adjusting my blanket coverage. By the time "God, it's freezing in here" switched to profuse sweating head-to-toe, I'd begin to shed blankets and clothes without abandon, only to discover chills returning by the time I'd sprawled myself (pitifully, naked) across the matress. Zach says it looked like a rather humorous, if not unnatural, dance (he hastened to add "in retrospect").

But, I somehow dragged myself out of bed at 10:00PM, my body awkwardly thrust into two pairs of sweatpants and two sweatshirts, and draped royally in three blankets, to watch the season finale of Battlestar Galactica. When Zach asked me why I was out of bed, I muttered an incoherent reply: "It's President Roslin... she'd do it for me."

Indeed.

Most of Friday night and Saturday is a blur to me. Zach reports that my fevers became markedly worse in intensity, initially jumping to 101°F, but getting higher and higher throughout Saturday. I became coherent enough around 10:00AM, though, to dig up my current lab rotation's "Emergency Contact" list, hoping my PI's home number would be on there, so Zach could ring her for me and let her know that I wouldn't be joining her in lab that afternoon. I blurred and slurred to him, "Here's the list... see if her number's on there..."
Zach: "Why wouldn't it be?
Me: "Emergency... contact... emergency contact list... under my name, my phone number isn't on there... but your celly is..."
Zach: "Celly?"
Me: "Just call her..."

So, Zach dialed the number under my PI's name, not at all taking note that the names listed under that number were those of my PI's parents, and the area code was NOT an area code of the Puget Sound area. So, Zach apparently called my PI's parents, and asked for Katie. The reply: "Uh... this is her father... in Oregon." Eventually, Zach obtained the proper contact numbers and let Katie know I wouldn't be coming in. But, I'm sure I'll have some explaining to do to Katie.

When I asked Zach why he dialed a non-Puget Sound area code without hesitation:
Zach: "Well, I did hesitate, Jim! I saw that the area code was wrong."
James: "No, Zach. It was right."
Zach: "No it wasn't. Not for Puget Sound."
James: "That's right. So, why'd you call the number?
Zach: "Um... I don't know."
James: "And Katie's name wasn't under that number, too."
Zach: "Yeah, but they had the same last name!"
James: "Those are her parents!"
Zach: "Yeah, and the area code was wrong!"
James: "No, it's right! Right for South/Central Oregon!"

Anyway, sometime after Zach called my PI's parents, I slipped back into the cycle of increasingly-severe fevers, and became (to quote my Mammaw) "weak as a kitten." Zach desperately tried to call my primary care physician, only to find that the office was entirely closed (but, oddly, they were open last Saturday for my pink eye episode). While I was tossing around on the bed in a delirium, he was tracking down another physician who was listed as "on call" for my primary care physician. Finally, Zach ended up on the phone with Dr. T who, upon hearing my symptoms and asking a multitude of questions, hypothesized that I was suffering from "some sort of stomach flu."
Zach: "Well, what should we do?"
Dr. T: "What's his fever up to now?"
Zach: "About a half hour ago, it was at 102.8°F."
Dr. T: "Has it been any higher than that?"
Zach: "Yeah. It hit 103.2°F an hour before that."
Dr. T: "Get him to the ER if it gets near 104°F."

Which is what it did early Saturday evening. Zach was diligent in his catalog, and made the call to visit the University of Washington Medical Center: 103.8°F... 104.5°F... 104.2°F... 104.7°F... The only parts of the ride to the ER that I remember were asking Zach to turn up the heat and asking Zach to call my PI to let her know that I wouldn't be making it into lab today.

Let's catalog this ER visit as the third in my life. I don't remember the first visit, as I was four months old at the time. But, I apparently got to spend a few days in an "oxygen tent" (think Boy-in-the-Plastic-Bubble). My second visit to the ER came about a year ago due to an "ear problem," and was cleared up (literally and figuratively) after five minutes with the attendant on duty. Thus, on walking into the ER and signing the consent-to-treatment documents, I thought to myself, "We'll spend most of our time waiting... but, five minutes with the attendant on duty, and we'll be all set to go." We found a few seats in the packed waiting room, but I was called in after about ten minutes so a nurse could take my vitals. When temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, and God-knows-what-else had been counted and cataloged, she not-so-surreptitiously raised her eyebrows, exhaled quickly, and said, "You'll have to wait, but not long..."

True, enough, five minutes later, another nurse called me in. When Zach began to follow me, she stopped him, saying, "Just the sick one... we'll only be a few minutes." I was too delirious to whip out the gay-rights speech, and too relieved to hear that this visit would indeed only last about five minutes. But, instead of showing me to a room, she had me sit down in a chair next to the nurse's station. She kept asking me to look her in the eye.
Me: "Aren't I?"
Nurse: "No, your eyes keep wandering."
Me: "Oh."
Nurse: "And, you're mumbling."
Me: "Oh, I thought I was talking."
Nurse: "You're very dehydrated. And your fever's out of control."
Me: "Huh?"
Nurse: "Take this."
Me: "What is it?"
Nurse: "It's Tylenol."
Me: "Thanks."
Nurse, walking away: "Stay here. I'll be back in a minute to start you on an IV drip."

That got my attention. IV?! As in, "Intravenous?!" I spent the next five minutes convincing myself that she must have been speaking to another patient, and that I was okay. I spent the next two minutes after that thinking that, if I acted quickly, I could run over to the water cooler down the hall and drink enough water so that penetrating a wall of a vein in my elbow joint would no longer be necessary.

At this point, it should be obvious that I have Issues with blood. And I have issues with needles when they relate to blood. Gonna give me a flu shot? Fine. I'll willingly roll up my sleeve, so long as I get a cool Batman band-aid and a pat on the head afterward. But, I'm the guy who cut his finger at a friend's house at the age of ten and promptly passed out. I'm the guy who threw up at the doctor's office in college right after getting a finger-prick blood test. I'm the guy who nearly passed out two years ago at his physician's office for a blood test.

And here I am, in the ER: confused, dehydrated, delirious, freezing, prickly, and now watching the nurse approach with the IV needle. Apparently, I went pale "right then and there." She spent the next few minutes, hand on my shoulder, saying firmly-yet-maternally, "Calm down and breathe. We're going to make you better." Zach was called in somewhere along the line to hold my hand and keep me distracted during the grisly deed. I have only scattered, confused memories of the nurse putting the IV in. My first solid memories come a few minutes afterwards: me sweating profusely and feeling quite weak, the nurse noting that I don't look green anymore, Zach dabbing my forehead with a washcloth, and me asking, "What happened?"
Nurse: "You passed out."
Me: "No I didn't!"
Nurse: "You went green as soon as I put the needle in."
Me: "Huh?"
Zach: "Yeah, Jim. You did."
Me: "But I kept my head up the whole time."
Nurse: "That's because your friend held it up for you."
Zach: "Yeah... you went entirely dead weight."

I should stop at this point and say that Zach and I sometimes play a game called Dead Weight. Well, it's not really a game. It's more of a torture exercise. It usually plays itself out as: Zach's lying in bed reading, and I crawl over him, move his book, grin gleefully and yell, "Dead weight!!!", and then collapse on him, relaxing every muscle and simulating the perfect corpse. Zach, after he's done yelling "Ooooof!" as the force of my-body-hitting-his shunts all air from his lungs, is then charged with the task of moving my Dead Weight off of his body, so we can both go on with our lives. Zach has never been very successful with this aspect of the game, and spends most of the time whining, "But Jim, I was in the middle of a good part!" He's tried the reverse for me, too, where I'm reading and he pounces on me, screaming "Dead Weight!" moments before his body hits mine. But, in those cases, I usually tickle him immediately to end the game.

Apparently, Zach won this round of Dead Weight. He managed to hold me upright in the chair for the minute or so I was "out cold," letting the nurse put the IV in. She also wisely took out a substantial blood sample while I was passed out to check my blood cell count. I regained consciousness soon after, and found myself to be the short term laughing stock of the University of Washington Medical Center Emergency Ward. Zach and I spent the next fifteen minutes or so talking to nurses, as he lovingly dabbed my head with cold water. The IV hooked me up to a low saline solution, apparently to rehydrate me. The Tylenol helped keep a few of the fever chill/sweat cycles at bay. Eventually, my room became available and we were ushered in. As if I hadn't already been the laughing stock of the ER, they also gave me a gown to change into. Zach had to help me tie it.

Dr. M came in first to conduct a thorough examination. She ordered more blood cultures (which were, luckily, done through the hole in my circulatory system the IV had already made) and a urine sample (Me: "I'm dehydrated!" Her: "Try?"). She also hinted at a possible chest X-ray and TB test "just to cover all of the bases." The severity of the moment was broken by the body-wide examination for rashes, bruises, and other signs of what's-going-on. Back, legs, chest, arms... and finally "down there." I resisted the urge to laugh when Dr. M asked if I'd like Zach to leave the room. It was a thorough fondling, but in the end Dr. M fixated on my blood cell count (apparently, my white blood cells were at a level of "16... and we consider 'high' to be 10!"). I forced out a urine specimen (Zach did leave the room for that one), and I was surprsingly examined by two other doctors on duty: Dr. S and Dr. R. As it turns out, Dr. M was doing her ER residency, Dr. S was the residency suprvisor, and Dr. R was Dr. S's supervisor and the senior doc-on-duty. By the time Dr. R came in, I was having another delirious fever/chill episode, but the tone of Zach's voice in his questions, "Do all patients get this kind of treatment? Three doctors, all the tests?" spoke volumes. Dr. R reassured us that she was covering all the "reasonable" bases. Dr. M, minutes later, tried to provide the same reassurance.

All three, however, expressed profound frustration with my tongue. "Stick your tongue out... no, all the way!" "Doc, that's as far out as it goes; it's attached to all the way to the front!" Out come the tongue depressors!

I'm pretty sure that, at a young and impressionable age, someone jokingly told me that doctors reserved tongue depressors for their "problem patients." Since, at every doctor's visit I've ever had, the tongue depressor has been used to gag me so the doc can get a good look at my throat, I've seen myself as a "problem patient" my whole life. The realization late in high school that 99.9% of Homo sapiens can stick their tongues out farther than me did little to alleviate this complex. The seeds had been sown at a particularly ripe age for naïvety: they're here to stay. Unless someone wants to start a fund drive for surgery so I can have the tiny flap of tissue affixing my tongue to the bottom of my jaw clipped. I'm sure Zach would gladly donate to that fund.

One IV, three blood tests, one urine sample, and one rapid strep test later, their diagnosis seemed too elementary: strep throat. This is, of course, after the rapid strep test came back negative. But, as Dr. M said, "We get a lot of false negatives." Zach ran down to the 24-hour pharmacy to fill my penicillin prescription while I polished off the last of my rehydrating IV. Dr. M and a nurse recommended keeping the fever in check with Motrin IB, and gave me a few samples to start off with. The only other grisly task that remained was removing the IV. But, I was in such pain as the nurse removed the tape holding the IV cord to my arm (read: James has hairy arms) that I barely noticed the removal of the actual needle. Discharge papers signed and penicillin/Motrin IB in hand, Zach led me, weakly and arm-in-arm, to the car, and then back home. He gave me free reign of the bed last night, taking the futon in the next room. The fever cycles are kept entirely in check by Motrin IB, showing that I'm entirely at the mercy of whatever's-ravaging-me. But, since classes begin Wednesday, it should be interesting to see what other beginning-of-grad-school surprises pop up between now and then.

Stay tuned. Perhaps I'll post about them.

My Thread

I've had mono before.

Most people get mono in high school or college. Every winter, my college was crawling with cases of mono and mono-like illnesses. Such an illness thrives on debauchery and intimacy. Everyone gets mono in such a manner, right? It's a part of our risqué lives in college, right?

Except I got mono at a cousin's wedding in El Dorado, Arkansas when I was in the 8th grade. I did nothing except eat cake and sing the hymns. I did nothing risqué because - hell - I didn't know I was gay back then. I was probably scared of my pubic hair, actually. Anyway, I was sick for two months, and lost twenty-five pounds.

But, that's okay. There's another illness out there that everyone gets in high school or college. One that's also spread through intimacy and debauchery that's a natural consequence of the years-in-which-we-are-nothing-more-than-big-hormones, right? Right. So, everyone does risqué things in high school and college, and everyone gets pink eye along with their mono, right?

Except me. I never got pink eye in high school or college. Instead, two years after completing college, I get pink eye at a microbiology conference in Leavenworth, WA, engaging in anything but risqué behavior. Three thousand miles west of both my high school and college.

I got mono too early. I got pink eye too late. I got neither through risqué behavior. Obviously, my development is royally skewed, which means I'm royally screwed.

But, the most insulting part is that I didn't even get them in an order that would have made a nice consolation prize. What did I get for mono? Two months in bed and twenty-five pounds lighter, during a time in which I was already growing so rapidly that my ribs were the most prominent part of my body, aside from all the acne. What do I get now for pink eye? Well, aside from the redness and itching, eyedrops that must be applied three times a day to each eye.

It's most insulting since, at this time in my life, I could really use a two-months-in-bed break and an easy way to drop my weight by twenty-five pounds. I didn't need it then; I need it now.

The Fates aren't up there spinning, measuring, and cutting my thread. They're laughing at me.

Alert Status

Believe it or not, I found a "date" this evening for the Seattle Symphony concert. So, I was able to enjoy my favorite piece of music with a friend.

But, that wasn't the Best Part. Aside from Brahms' Fourth Symphony, the Seattle Symphony played two other pieces: a world-premiere new work, and Strauss' Don Quixote, with cellist Lynn Harrell and the Symphony's principal violist as soloist for the latter work.

And about ten minutes into Don Quixote, we witnessed the Best Part. The violist was working pretty hard on a particularly challenging part. Two feet away from her, Harrell was about twenty seconds from an important solo entrance. Quietly, he raised bow to string, patiently waiting for his moment...

and his beeper went off.

Yes, his beeper. A cello soloist brought his beeper on stage with him, and failed to turn it off. Furiously, he groped at his waist, grabbed the cursed device, and silenced the horrid creature just in time to slam bow on string for his entrance.

The viola soloist didn't look too happy, though.

Timescape

Who knew graduate school would suck so much time from making a decent post?

Oh, wait. I did. Off to Leavenworth with the UW's Department of Microbiology until Friday. I'll be back just in time for Battlestar Galactica!

The Seattle Fault

After the last chaotic election that consumed Washington state from the ground-up, I decided to be a good boy and sign up for permanent absentee ballot voting. Besides, Washington state, unlike my former home (the Land of Lincoln), has apparently decided not to hand out cheerful "I voted" stickers. As I always say, sweat the small stuff - no sticker? Then don't expect my graceful presence on Election Day.

On 20 September, Washington state will hold its 2005 primary election. Compared to last November, this round isn't exactly an eye-opener: offices for various local and powerful county governments. Turnout here should be low, though slightly higher on the general election in November. My ballot arrived over a week ago, and I sat down the other day to read the Voter's Pamphlet (a general listing of offices, candidates, and candidate statements) and fill out my ballot, when Frustration slowly began to seep in.

Slow, thorough, delicate Frustration. Mingled with raw fear.

The recent havoc Hurricane Katrina wreaked on New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, mournfully, exposed deep rifts in the government's ability to both plan for and respond to natural disasters on a large, horrific scale. Over the past few weeks, as report after report have emerged showing that the "preparations" made on many levels of government regarding hurricane defences in the Big Easy resembled a sadly familiar ostrich stance, the big questions piled up:
1. Sure, every scientific study has shown that such a scenario could and would sink New Orleans eventually, so why were adequate precautions not taken to protect the metropolis? Thumbing one's nose at Mother Nature rarely produces much beyond tragedy.
2. Sure, evacuation of Orleans and surrounding parishes has been a distinct possibility in the face of total destruction, so why were local governments left high and dry with little help from above? One would think Atlantis would serve as an example of this necessity.
3. Sure, sociologists the world over will tell you that the rich and relatively well-off have the means to get out, and get out fast, so where were the plans to help those obviously most in need during such chaotic times? Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class in their SUV might have needed hand-holding as they loaded their SUVs, but there were thousands of others simply looking for a ride.

Politicians, scientists, and everyone in between will debate the near-destruction of New Orleans until the cows come home. But, in Seattle these past few days, on buses, street corners, and in restaurants, I'm hearing more of the same... variations-on-a-theme-of...
"Thank God Seattle is prepared."

Really?

Stop scratching those heads, folks. Seattle has about as much of a chance of being hit by a hurricane of any category as your's truly has a chance of impregnating a female of any species.

The west coast of the Lower 48 and the entire southern coast of Alaska, however, are huge swathes of American territory proudly boasting geological membership cards to the Pacific Ring of Fire. Earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis - oh my! My three nemeses: no warning for the first, deceptively beautiful delivery vessels for the second, and an open mockery to my fabulous swimming skills for the third.

We know about these dangers - the quality of science education in this nation, after all, isn't so abysmal that we, as kids, weren't given the Ring of Fire lecture, right? Even in Illinois, I got mine. So Seattle, like Los Angeles and San Francisco to the south, was regrettably built upon a fault line. And an uncomfortably shallow one at that (read: shallow fault = much more jelly-like motions of the ground = liquification of the soil = bye-bye mucho buildings). The aptly-named Seattle Fault cuts right south of downtown before slicing Elliott Bay in two and cutting off towards the Kitsap Peninsula. It is one of several faults pestering the otherwise pristine Pacific Northwest as a part of the (again, aptly-named) Seattle Fault Zone. The experts predict that the Seattle fault could easily generate a 7.0 shaker, and perhaps spit out something as catastrophically high as a 9.0.

Yikes. Especially for one who was raised to deal properly with tornadoes, flash floods, and hurricanes, but has little concept of the term "earthquake-proof home."

But, those Seattlites I've been hearing time and again over the past few days keep assuring me that, unlike New Orleans and the Bush Administration, we're ready. We have our house in order.

Is that so, eh?

It appears many of my fellow citizens have been fooled. Seattle is indeed not ready for the very-probable-and-indeed-possible inner workings of the Earth to shift the Seattle Fault, just as New Orleans was ill-prepared for the climatological inevitability of Hurricane Katrina. Outdated contingency plans sit on shelves collecting dust, citizens remain largely uninformed of evacuation and survival plans, and Seattle has done no comprehensive survey of its buildings and infrastructure to gauge their ability to survive the more probable workings (~7.0) of the Seattle Fault Zone.

Worse off, it seems that local and state level governments have done little, if anything, to attempt to rectify these blatant inadequacies.

Ostrich-head-in-ground, indeed.

Yet, it's not as if Seattlites haven't been warned. The 2001 6.7-scale Nisqually Earthquake, which struck a good deal south and west of the Emerald City, injured hundreds and revealed some very disconcerting cracks in the city's response system. Specifically, structural breaches on the downtown double-decker Alaskan Way Viaduct (state route 99) and the Evergreen Point floating bridge (state route 520) across Lake Washington (connecting Seattle to the Eastside). Both are now old and pathetic, crumbling bit-by-bit each day. Some say a particularly blustery day will be the death of the Evergreen Point bridge, while others say something as innocent as a 4.5 earthquake will pancake portions of the Viaduct (and the tourist-rich waterfront).

And with these dire post-Nisqually predictions, Seattle, King County, and Washington state have yet to form a concrete plan (let alone pay for it) to replace either the Alaskan Way Viaduct or the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. But, those are only the obvious problems that a major earthquake could generate. What about rest of Seattle's abysmal highway and interstate system? The region is already starving for adequate roadways (one reason why highways 99 and 520 HAVEN'T been shut down for demolition... as we can hardly spare one, let alone both).

Other post-Nisqually revelations: the Seattle Fault runs just south of downtown, across Pioneer Square (read: oldest part of Seattle) and the International District (read: mostly Chinatown), harboring some of the city's oldest and most fragile brick structures. Commissions troubleshooting potential weaknesses after Nisqually recommended surveys of Seattle's most fragile locales, focusing first on these vulnerable neighborhoods. Alas, the city government failed to even BEGIN a survey of buildings and infrastructure.

Here's where I really began to get scared, as I'd blindly assumed a city as earthquake-prone as Seattle would have done building-by-building surveys of structures, particularly residential, to ascertain earthquake risk. Hell, I assumed I could, one day, make my way down to some city government building and look up the earthquake stats on my own apartment building. Perhaps you now see James at his most naïve... it seemed so logical to me. Just like Rock Island tested its tornado sirens every Thursday, and we had quarterly tornado drills in school. Hell, we even had hurricane drills back in Florida!

Seattle historically hasn't invested adequately in its road systems. Perhaps Seattlites fear that better roads and an expansion of road infrastructure will increase commuter traffic and decrease use of public transporation, or perhaps the city is so hopelessly sandwiched between Lake Washington and Puget Sound that adequate interstate and highway systems have simply proven inadequate. (Hell, it's a possibility, and I'm no transportation expert.) But, the city has been in dire need for the past four years to replace two antiquated express highways, and little, if anything has been done to address these obvious concerns.

Here's where my logic kicks in: if Seattle's government won't even TRY to solve this problem with some simple logic, let's elect a goverment that will, shall we? Yet, I'm also convinced that the Seattle government's structure doesn't respond well to popular mandate, by ballot box or other means. The city council is elected entirely at-large, thus (I fear) often shelving neighborhood concerns (such as the Viaduct or Evergreen Point bridge) in favor of consensus. I'm not advocating a change to districts for all councilmembers. But, perhaps a half-and-half approach (half at-large, the rest from neighborhoods) would help get the ball rolling. Of course, two years after I first brought this up, I'm still often met with eye-rolls. I'm also met with eye-rolls whenever I bemoan the lack of competition in the mayoral race. Here we are, in one of the most liberal cities in the country, with vitriolic political stances on national issues... and yet, no party bigwig pops up to even get the mayor to bat an eyelash of concern for his re-election. What sort of democracy are we running here where the mayor of a city of ~600,000 runs against only a handful of yahoos and no-names?! Perhaps, if Mayor Nickels had a little more competition for both the primary and general election, he would've taken a city council member's request for a post-Katrina review of the city's disaster planning seriously. At this point, after all, what was his motivation? He's virtually unchallenged.

I don't mean to put blame solely on Mayor Nickels and the Seattle City Council. Nor do I mean to imply that any of them are generally lazy, unresponsive political powerbosses. They've done much good for this city. But, I fear, many of their reassurances of Seattle's disaster preparedness have been mere window-dressings. Hell, a tsunami scare a few months ago literally failed to rouse more than a quarter of the affected citizens, and fewer still knew how to respond. Luckily, the scare turned out to be just that... a scare, and nothing more. But, if Oregon, the state with the supposed "good" tsunami warning system, can't get it right, how poorly will Washington face in comparison?

No, there's plenty of blame to spread around. The state legislature has put in place a tax system that woefully underfunds infrastructure projects statewide, and funds those necessary projects with (sales, gas, or property) tax mandates so unpopular and regressive that anti-tax guru Tim Eyman has found major popular support for state-wide repeals of several tax incentives. The state's sheer lack of a progressive income tax starves road construction and maintenance, and helps to keep earthquake-safety a rather low priority. Such priorities are pushed back down to the county and city level, where city politics favors a poorly-executed monorail scheme as a viable "transportation solution," ignoring the fact that the Seattle monorail, even if built, will not entirely replace the Viaduct, will not be built in time, and will not at all replace the Evergreen Point bridge. At the federal level, while the (now former) FEMA director seemed far from qualified for his position, the Pacific Northwest's regional FEMA director also apparently has some controversy surrounding his past. Hell, even I'm to blame here! I've lived here for two years, and only now am I getting my panties in a bunch about earthquake safety. After all, I don't want to die crush in my apartment any more than I want to perish on the Viaduct or the Evergreen Point bridge.

Perhaps it's all small potatoes. After all, it all only falls apart if an earthquake hits, right?

First off, it doesn't take a minor in geology to know this simple truth: it's not a matter of if, but when.

Second, if New Orleans can drown, Seattle can just as easily shatter.

Perhaps, the next time my fellow Seattlites criticize the tragedy in New Orleans, I should advise them (hell, myself too) to get their own house in order, first.

Take It Off

Methinks there are many contradictions in Seattle.

For one thing, I could take my clothes off, covermyself in body paint, and ride my bike across Fremont on the Summer Solstice. Hell, there's even an option where I don't need the paint.

But, Seattle has also had a seventeen-year moratorium on new strip clubs. So, for most of my life, apparently only four strip clubs have existed in the city.

Until now.

So now, I have another career-on-the-side option, just in case I find it difficult living within the parameters of a meager graduate student stipend. Bonus if I get to wear pasties.

Seriously, though, it's nice to see another Seattle Contradiction rectified before it drove me to drink. Now, can someone please explain to me why the city has done no earthquake safety survey of its buildings?!

The Date

While other gay folk out there seem to be devoting their young lives to more interesting pursuits, Zach and I have lately set the unspoken goal of becoming both incredibly nerd-esque and slightly pitiful. Sure, we just got back from New York, the economic and cultural focus of the United States. But, I'm pretty sure we both spent most of the trip with camera in hand. And, alas, we weren't filming any racy home movies.

Our other pursuits lately:
1. watching Tootsie
2. making sure kitty poops each day
3. reading (him: Judaism for Dummies for his new job; me: a dual biography of Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I of England)
4. popcorn!

To crown our achievements, Zach rang me on Friday to propose a "date": the Seattle Symphony is playing my favorite work of music - Johannes Brahms' Symphony No. 4 in E Minor. How could I resist? So, last night, we dressed in our "Seattle best" (read: sweaters, no flip-flops), took the bus downtown to Benaroya Hall, and went to retrieve our tickets at the "Will Call" Box Office...

Only to be told gently by the woman there that the Brahms concert is next Saturday.

Me: "This is all my fault."
Zach: "Why? I'm the one who looked up the concert and bought the tickets."
Me: "Yeah, but since I've quit my job and haven't started school yet, I haven't had a calendar in my hand 24/7. I didn't even know it was September."
Zach: "Well Jim, I hate to break it to you, but it's been September for awhile now."
Me: "Yeah... Well, I guess we'll come back here next weekend for the symphony."
Zach: "Uh, I won't."
Me: "Why?"
Zach: "I'll be in D.C. Remember?"

So, here's the Slightly Pitiful part:
I need a date for the symphony next weekend. Any takers?

For Your Eyes Only

I suppose you only need to give this particular post your attention if you meet the following criteria:
1. You're not at work.
2. You enjoy the male form.
3. You're a fan of, or curious about, Battlestar Galactica.
4. You want another reason to watch.

*ahem* Welcome, my friends.

Best. Show. Ever.

Lifeline

Zach: "Do you know what my dad would call this situation?"
Me: "A clusterf*ck?"
Zach: "Exactly."

Alas, indeed.

The Tribe

I eventually began to wonder how New Yorkers feel about having tourists like me in their city. Nine times out of ten, I'm sure they wouldn't know we were there. I seriously doubt I toured the UN with New Yorkers, for example. Or saw any on the top of the Empire State Building. But, what about the ones on the subway who heard us curse as we realized we took the right subway line, but going in the wrong direction? Or the ones in Battery Park who heard me convince Zach (for a good five seconds) that the U.S. Navy memorial is actually a monument to all the pigeons killed daily in the city? Or the ones (gathering for Saturday evening Mass) who turned disapprovingly at me when I inadvertantly cursed after dropping my eyeglasses in Saint Patrick's Cathedral? The ones who served me food, tore my tickets, and said "yessir" (or "si señor") with a rehearsed precision suitable for military service?

Did they look at me with
contempt?: "F*ckin' tourist."
remorse?: "Pitiful. Midwesterners-Turned-Seattlites never know how to stand clear of the subway doors."
awe?: "I never expected the personification of Rock Bottom to wear hoodies."
glee?: "Yay! Because we certainly don't have enough gays or tourists in this city!"

I asked two New Yorkers and one former New Yorker how they felt about Zach and I taking on the Big Apple. All three were giddy for us to visit, so I contented myself that we really belonged there. Then, I realized that the two New Yorkers I asked were the two friends, one-armed Sarah and two-armed Paul, we were there to visit. The former New Yorker was my mother.

I've never really thought of my own home, Seattle, as much of a tourist destination. Sure, it's a terrific place to live, but I'm always puzzled when I see tourists at the Pike Place Market. It's nice to go to on occasion, but why fly all the way just to see some guys throw some fish around. The Space Needle? Don't get me started.

So, is this how New Yorkers (like him) feel? Did they see me walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, jaws agape, and think, "What's his defect?" Did the doorman at The Producers wonder why I was smiling on my way out? Perhaps they simply see it as a necessary evil: consequence of existing in, by far, the largest city in the country. A cultural and economic metropolis with much to offer its 8+ million residents and, alas, 6+ billion other humans who, for the humble price of an airline ticket, can obtain a temporary slice.

And this human liked the taste. We spent more time than I expected doing "touristy" things, but kept our evenings free for more relaxing alternatives. I think that's what I enjoyed most about this excursion: while we spent the day wandering about, just the two of us, by evening our friends were free for social endeavors. Past (albeit shorter) vacations we've taken recently to Oregon and British Columbia, while fun, lacked that extra, highly coveted aspect: people to share it with. Perhaps most of our future trips will need this goal: someone to visit. Perhaps.

But, when we weren't visiting, we spent our time well: trekking across the Brooklyn Bridge, skipping hand-in-hand through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, imagining myself addressing the UN General Assembly, interrupting Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, watching Chinatown consume Little Italy, falling asleep on the subway during the long ride up to Inwood, napping in Central Park, and making friends with the slow lorises (lori?) at the Bronx Zoo. And let's not forget the food.

Alas, there's much we didn't have time and energy to do. Both Paul and Sarah had plenty of suggestions for our next visit. Here's hoping they don't move out of New York beforehand.

Cave Dwellers

Away is nice, but home is best.

I believe I have just returned from the closest I've ever come to a "perfect vacation." But, by Pacific time standards, I've been up since 12:20AM, and I have to explain to my cat why all of my clothes and luggage are covered in hair from two other cats.

Nap time. More later.

Special Delivery

Why so glum, chum? Zach and I will be back from New York on Thursday.

In the meantime, woe is me: flying makes James a nervous nervous kid, and this kid is going to SeaTac so early in the morning that no airport bars will be open to take the edge off. Corona on my shredded wheat, perhaps?

Alas, Zach has requested I not cross that line.

See you next week.