domingo, 24 de febrero de 2013

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 pm update -

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 pm update -

so a lot of people *always* complain about friends who tweet or post about the 'wonderful' sandwich they just had or how great that foot massage feels (*while* they're getting it), and i have never seen the appeal of reporting in from the supermarket line or the carwash.

and then here i am, in the cardiac ward of the hospital on one more saturday night, and i thinks to myself, "well, why not?"

so i'm here to tell you that the food is somewhat adequate and too salty (!)... but the people here are cool and helpful and great in pretty much every respect.

had a nap for like three hours in the ER after they told me to forget getting any morphine. like they stopped all attention when they realised i wasn't gonna croak on the spot, so i had all that time to snooze. because of that, i was keyed up when we got to the CW... thinking, "well, my doc says i should get exercise every day, and i just had that nap."

so here i am taking a stroll around the floor, like on my seventeenth lap when this charge nurse pulls me over for speeding!

yah, i was shocked too. "too fast?" says i. "how can you tell?"

"heart rate's over a hundred," says she, "so get in the slow lane or i'll run you in." (parts of this exchange might not be verbatim)

just got me a nightcap (full liter bag of Saline Light - "breakfast of former champions!") - dominic the cheerful orderly guy just brought it in, sans paper umbrella.

"cheers!" i said as i first tasted the metallic flavor hitting my taste buds.

he looked at me slanticular and smiled: "sure!"

not sure if that "signs of the times" magazine came from him, but it was an interesting angle to see the world from.

moms came earlier and brought me some enchiladas - she smuggled them in wrapped in an old new yorker, so i'm set for now: food and reading. check. (see accompanying photo, live from the scene)

breakfast will be another story. longing for tacos. wistfully remembering the best tacos in ensenada (in hollywood with capt slanty). or those ones actually *in* ensenada. or those ones in mazatlan. or those ones at hotel colonial just south of rosarito with ric. or mi tierra. yah, it's tough in glendale on a saturday night: yearning for even one. small. relleno.

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 9 O’clock update


 This update was originally scheduled for the 11 AM slot, but technical difficulties got in the way, so we’ve rescheduled it for the 9 PM broadcast.

So yah, breakfast was a little sketchy.  What’s the deal with “Belgian Waffles” anyway?  The association of “Belgian” is misleading – they are nothing like Belgian bulldogs.  Here is what I found when I lifted the insulating cover on the plate:  two tiny waffles (suspiciously like frozen waffles and nothing like actual Belgian waffles) with two small turkey sausages on a plate with a piece of miniature purple cabbage the size of a confession wafer, which was the most attractive thing on the plate.

So my mind is going, Ok, we got some kind of post-modern hotdogs here that they expect you to put fake maple syrup on and nom nom nom boy that’s some good eatin’.  It all makes me wonder what Jim Harrison (The Raw & the Cooked) would make of this.

I mean, look, the waffles really do resemble the crypt systems in modern graveyards, which are like the cubbyholes of old post offices but all poured concrete, installed at the same time and capped later to keep out vermin et al.  The other visual association is with “waffle stompers” – vibram-soles on shoes.  Yum!  That’s attractive.  So you got these “waffles.” 
 
And then you got this little cluck-weiner bedded there.  Now I don’t need eggs, and I certainly don’t want a Grand Slam, but jeez… there’s got to be something edible around this joint.

I know that airline food is notoriously terrible, and hospital food is famously terrible.  I get it about the airline food – they have factories where they make about ten thousand meals at once and they’re bottom-lining and you’re trapped in this speeding aluminum cylinder miles above the welcoming earth, so you can’t complain.  And you’re probably hungry, right?  I mean after the long run down the concourse to the gate and all.  So you’re gonna eat at least some of it.

But what’s the deal with hospitals?  Is the quality level of the food meant to make sure you don’t come back?  Are they doing you a favor on some subliminal level?  You’d think they want to take pride in the food – especially since you might want to stay longer in the costly room.

Why no miso soup?  Oh yah, too much salt in the miso.   But you know – and this is no kidding – the staff here is exemplary.  Emma & Francisco & Hector & Kathleen & Lisa & everyone is just super.  And not only that, they laugh real authentic laughs at my attempts at humor.
 
Hector took me down to the basement in a wheelchair, bound for the big stress-test machine that is rather reminiscent of a MRI maw.  And I thought, The basement, huh?  So I says to him, “Hey, Hector – you ain’t takin me to the morgue, are ya?”

And Hector says, “Naw, you ain’t dead.  Why would I take you to the morgue?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  I kinda pictured you  opening the door and sayin, ‘See all those guys?  If you don’t straighten up, you’re gonna wind up here!’”

And he answers, “Scared straight, huh?”

“Scared stiff, is more like it.  If I owned a hospital, that’s what I’d do.”

 So dear dear Lorin smuggled in a nice fat burrito and a six-pack of fake beer, so lunch was double good (as if to disprove my assertions about the food in the graphs above, the spaghetti & meatballs was pretty good – al dente to the tooth-edge!   Not as good as Mom's, but then whose is?).  We had a nice visit, and then off she went.

Now sharing poetry with Lisa, the Echo Tech.  And ain’t that a cool phrase for the moniker…

Reporting LIVE from Glendale Memorial Hospital - 11:30 PM update


So a lot of people always complain about friends who tweet or post about the 'wonderful' sandwich they just had or how great that foot massage feels (while they're getting it), and I’ve never seen the appeal of reporting in from the supermarket line or the carwash.

And then here I am, in the cardiac ward of the hospital on one more Saturday night, and I thinks to myself, "Well, why not?"

So I’m here to tell you that the food is somewhat adequate and too salty (!)...  But the people here are cool and helpful and great in pretty much every respect.

Had a nap for like three hours in the ER after they told me to forget getting any morphine. Like they stopped all attention when they realised I wasn't gonna croak on the spot, so I had all that time to snooze.

Because of that, I was keyed up when we got to the CW... thinking, "Well, my doc says I should get exercise every day, and I just had that nap."

So here I am taking a stroll around the floor, like on my seventeenth lap when this charge nurse pulls me over for speeding!

Yah, I was shocked too. "Too fast?" says I. "How can you tell?"


She points to the monitor on her rolling cart, where my name blinks like a "Don't Walk" sign in two-inch-tall red letters – then swings that accusing finger to the transponder slung against my chest.

"Heart rate's over a hundred," says she, "so get in the slow lane or I’ll run you in, pal." (Parts of this exchange might not be verbatim.  Your mileage may vary.  Contents may have shifted.  Objects are closer than they appear.)

Just got me a nightcap (full liter bag of Saline Light - "Breakfast Of Former Champions!") - Dominic the cheerful orderly guy just brought it in, sans paper umbrella.

"Cheers!" I said, as I first tasted the metallic flavor hitting my taste buds.

He looked at me slanticular and smiled: "Sure."

Not sure if that "Signs of the Times" magazine came from him, but it was an interesting angle to see the world from.
Moms came earlier and brought me some enchiladas - she smuggled them in wrapped in an old New Yorker, so I’m set for now: food and reading. Check. (See accompanying photo, live from the scene.)

Breakfast will be another story.

Longing for tacos. Wistfully remembering the Best Tacos in Ensenada (in Hollywood with Captain Slanty).

Or those ones actually in Ensenada.

Or those ones in Mazatlan: tacos de atun, in a rich tomato sauce.

Or those ones at Hotel Colonial just south of Rosario with Ric.

Or at Perone's on Boulevard Baby Heroes in Tijuana.

Or Tacos Delta near Sunset Junction, where Lucille crosses Sunset.

Or, while we're in that neighborhood,  Casita de Campo on Hyperion.

Or Mi Tierra... always.

Yah, it's tough in Glendale on a Saturday night: yearning for even One. Small. Relleno.