Music Supervision | Stephan Michaels ~ 2nd Wind Productions |

Upon Surviving The Hospital

Stephanotisnumber6 — Sat, 23 Jan 2021 17:23:56 +0000

When unexpectedly availing oneself of the services and amenities accorded by the nearby hospital emergency room, the following etiquettes — albeit eccentric — might well come in handy.

Backgrounder: I am relieved to report that a Sunday evening emergency appendectomy went as well as could be hoped, considering the abrupt and obstinate tantrum thrown by the offending appendage. A great surgeon and capable staff saved me from a painfully ticking time bomb.

The recovery room nurses were equally attentive and personable as I swam out from the haze of general anesthesia. When I first came to, the room was cold and dimly lit. All I could see was a stick figure on the wall, of Jesus on the cross. “Good lord,” I thought, “I’m in the morgue!” “Stephan, how do you feel?’” asked one of the nurses. My voice was deep and gravely. Stuporous and punchy, I found myself singing, “In the morning gonna get my things together, I’ll pack it up and leave this place. I don’t believe your crying they’ll be – a smile upon yer face.” I am told I have the notoriety of being the first person to ever sing to the nurses upon regaining consciousness. And throughout the wee hours they would come check on me, marvel at my vitals, bring me sherbet and tea and brush away my fears.

Ah, but they were gone with the morning sun. I was medicated to the gills and slumbering peacefully when the day shift-show arrived. And this is where “The Unexpurgated Code” comes into play. As JP Donleavy explains in “A Complete Manual of Survival and Manners,” one need be proactive about their care. “To keep hospital employees on their toes and their hands on the right remedy, you must alternate between being highly irritated or generously polite. A little of each following plenty of the former is the recipe.”

I remembered his theory as soon as I realized I’d been parked inconveniently near the staff coffee room. Afforded the privilege of every tidbit of gossip and guffaws the nurses could muster at an early hour, I managed to volley a pained, “Hey, pipe the fuck down out there!” toward my door. Silence. With a whiff of satisfaction, I quickly fell back to sleep, for maybe 10 minutes. Now a new voice had joined the chorus, a haughty male tenor with authority and pomp. Raising my head in anger, I knew shouting at the door again would do me honor, and could reach neither of my shoes to hurl.

I called the nurses station. “I’m terribly sorry to bother,” I softly began in a stodgy English accent, “but would it be at all possible to ask the medical convention huddled outside in the hallway to please show a just a modicum of consideration…. and pipe the fuck down out there!?” “Stephan,” the nurse replied, “I know it’s you. I can see your room number.”

Enter Helga. Where compassionate night nurses Anne and Renee expressed admiration at my level of wellbeing and how I handled the emergency with calm and conviviality, Helga expressed no such amusement. Entering with a faint knock as I was exiting the bathroom and pushing the IV pole ahead of me, she exclaimed, “Spencer, you’re not supposed to be up!” “Yes, well, your colleagues saw to that.” And as I climbed back onto my gurney-like bed, an exposed butt cheek or two popping through the rear of the gown, I turned to ask, “Who the hell is Spencer?” “Please sir, your language!” She pointed to the crucifix above the bathroom door. “Oh, my God,” I muttered. “He’s stalking me.” Helga looked at her chart and then addressed me by my last name. “Michael, I am sorry I got your name wrong.” Things slid downhill from there.

But having now demonstrated Donleavy’s irritation in spades, I tried to employ an ounce of generosity. “Please forgive my being edgy, it’s the medicine talking. I’m not always so foul mouthed.” “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. But I insisted on contrition and continued, “no, that was really fucked up and I’m sorry.”

She didn’t react, but produced a pleated white paper cup with three pills in it. Two brown and one red. “What’s the red one?” I asked. “It’s a stool softener.” I smiled and said, “I don’t need that.” She looked down grimly and said, “Oh but you will; you will.” I paused. I know pain pills can have that affect, but her not knowing my name and her deference to a stick figure above the bathroom door made me leery.

“Look, I’m really paranoid of being poisoned, would you mind trying them first?” At this she laughed. I took my pills, tucking the red one under my tongue as she turned to the dry board on the wall. Popping out the ruby, I slid it under my pillow as she began reading every comment on the board, out loud. I begged her to stop. “Been reading it all morning. Got it memorized.” She said she would see if the doctor was ready to see me. “Please! I need to get out of here. I have a dog to feed!”

The room now Helga-free, I had a few comments of my own. Gingerly off my bed and pushing the IV cart as before, I added some notes…

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My poor and admittedly embellished homage to the late great J.P. Donleavy aside — it was the medication writing — a very gifted surgeon and her support staff probably saved my life. And for that I am very, very grateful.

Stephan Michaels
Hood River, Oregon
January 11, 2021

LUNA

Stephanotisnumber6 — Wed, 15 Feb 2017 01:59:03 +0000

Ladies and German Shepherds,

With the heaviest of hearts, I said a teary farewell to my best friend Luna last week. The grief is simply boundless, but so also is my gratitude to everyone who supported her with good wishes, goodwill and expert care. Last summer, we saved her leg, and her life.

Just a week ago Luna was out trotting along her favorite trail, drinking long and deep from a cold stream and having fun.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgcXndaCHOs

We were able to give her a good quality of life these past few months. She maintained an excellent attitude and defied the odds, but a few days ago the cancer overcame her and she suddenly became too weak to carry on.

Early in the morning of February 9th, Luna got up at 4AM and woke me, walking around the kitchen with renewed energy. We went outside and she walked the length of the big yard through snow a half-foot deep with no great effort. She did her bidness and then walked back but paused at the mid point and gazed out onto the neighbor’s meadow as if she was looking for something. It was cold but I let her look for about half a minute and then said, “come on, girl, let’s go inside.” Luna turned reluctantly and walked up her ramp with ease and I thought, “What is going on here? Is she bouncing back?” Then she walked into the den and collapsed. That was it; she was spent. Luna slept almost all morning and throughout the day. She was never in any pain and passed peacefully at home that afternoon.

I wish I had let her look out over the pasture much longer. My sweet Luna girl knew she was dying and was taking one last look. And I didn’t get that until now.

After she died, I placed Luna on a bed of roses. It had been raining all day. I walked outside
and there was a thick double Rainbow to the east. A Rainbow Bridge for my Luna girl.

Last Night’s Storm

Stephanotisnumber6 — Tue, 18 Aug 2015 01:22:30 +0000

Last night’s storm tore apart the jib sail. Stranded, we picked mussels from the pilings of an old battered pier and made our way up the muddy trail to a lone cabin on the bluff.

Lo! With a well stocked kitchen! Caramelized onion, garlic, fennel, and peppers. Added two cups dry white wine, two cups water, cracked black pepper and a sprinkle of thyme. Magic.

Drank the rest of the wine and snuggled up by the fire until we were rescued in the morning by a pair of Golden Welford Labs.

Get Stuffed

Stephanotisnumber6 — Sun, 05 Apr 2015 18:04:57 +0000

A variation on the Stuffed Fresh Pasilla Chile recipe by California chef Cindy Pawlcyn.

Ingredients

Pasilla Chiles – they call ‘em poblanos in Washington State, but those aren’t as spicy or as flavorful as the pasillas you will find in California or the Southwest. As a rule, the more curved the chile, the hotter. (Note: this is my rule; it might be bullshit.) Ripe Avocados Olive Oil One big sprig Cilantro Sweet Red Onion Sherry Vinegar Cheddar and Gorgonzola. You can experiment with different cheeses to suit yer taste, but start with these. Otherwise, don’t blame me.

Steps

1. Blanch the chiles in a pot of boiling water for one minute on each side. Remove from pot and submerge in cold water. This will first soften them, and then stop them from over-cooking and splitting. Open a bottle of fortified red wine before moving on to step two.

2. Cut the top off the chile at the curve in the bell. Cut at an angle – this makes it easy to fit the top back into the chile after you have finished step three. Remove all seeds and begin drinking the wine.

3. Stuff the chile with grated cheddar and crumbled gorgonzola and pack it tight to the end, without breaking the skin.

4. Halve four or five Hass avocados and cut into cubes of approximately one square inch. In a mixing bow, add 1⁄4 – 1⁄2 cup coarsely chopped cilantro, 1⁄4 cup finely chopped red onion, and drizzle with extra virgin olive oil. Add two tablespoons sherry vinegar. If you do not have sherry vinegar, take a nice swig of red wine and relax. You can substitute rice wine vinegar with just a dash of red wine or balsamic vinegar. Toss the avocado mixture to create the avocado salsa. Do not mush; we ain’t making guacamole.

At this point I highly recommend taking another snort of wine and listening to some tunes. B-Tribe’s Fiesta Fatal fits nicely.

5. Place the chiles on a broiling pan and broil at high heat – or grill them over mesquite charcoal, until the skin is well browned on both sides.

6. Spoon out the avo-salsa into the middle of a plate, just enough to make a bed for the chile. Slice the chile with a sharp knife, a bite size at a time starting at the tip. You will find the bell is also quite tasty. And, if you’re a woos, you can peel off the browned skin.

Note: steam emanating from chile makes it look like it’s racing across the plate.

I sometimes substitute a red & green cabbage pico de gallo with morita pepper for the avo salsa. Secret ingredient — throw a little banana or pear into the pico to make it pop.

Recommended wine pairing: Herman Story ~ On The Road Grenache or Nuts & Bolts Syrah

Desperada Wines ~ The Pursist Pinot Noir or Borderlands Bordeaux and Rhone varietals

Recommended beer pairing: Lagunitas Little Sumpin’ Wild or Anchor Liberty Ale

Recommended Tunes

David Poe ~ God and The Girl Nathaniel Talbot ~ Here in The Fields Anything by Robben Ford

Sara Tavares ~ Balancê Nicola Conte ~ Rituals Luciana Souza ~ Answer to Your Silence

Fall Spawning

Stephanotisnumber6 — Tue, 11 Nov 2014 21:25:27 +0000

Salmon are spawning now in Northwest Washington and British Columbia. Found quite a few making their way up Chuckanut Creek south of Bellingham at sunset. The light was fading and the lens wasn’t all that fast, but I managed to get a couple of decent shots.

A female lays her eggs (below) as the male fertilizes them with ‘milt.’

The one screen left is definitely the male. You can tell by the Jimmy Durante schnoz, called a Kype.

This one may be a little difficult to make out at first. It’s a female digging a shallow nest in the gravel called a ‘redd’ where she will lay her eggs.

The journey back up their native streams and rivers is ultimately terminal. A mystical cycle of life and death that releases incredible amounts of nutrients back into the rainforest.

These guys are resting up, before they brave jumping over the icy drop

and heading further upstream.

Old Man Blues

Stephanotisnumber6 — Thu, 02 Oct 2014 20:30:10 +0000

Back in ancient times, when ice was colder, fire was hotter and drink was stronger (and cheaper) than it is now — yes, the 1970s — I played drums in a fusion jazz band in Los Angeles. Did some really fun gigs at celebrated clubs like The Troubadour and The Whiskey-A-Go-Go.

Always felt pretty comfortable playing live behind the drum kit, but it was just duanting to get up and play guitar and sing recently at The Star Club in Bellingham.

Practiced so long into the wee dark hours, I blew out my voice! Required a couple of cognacs to steady the nerves and resuscitate some of the vocal cords. Truly made a mess of it, but still good to make that happen, eh?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHu1Rhg-KTs

Bear Spray and Dirty Laundry

Stephanotisnumber6 — Fri, 24 May 2013 17:42:14 +0000

I kayaked in the strong current of the deep fiord while Jennifer slept in, and I was startled when a killer whale surfaced only twenty yards away. “Don’t worry,” my guide assured, “these are resident orcas and they only eat fish.”

Elated from the experience, I returned to the cabin to find Jen had concocted a smoked salmon and mimosa breakfast. We spent that afternoon hiking beneath the tall canopy of ancient cedars in one of the provincial parks, fed chestnuts to wild deer, and made love on the soft peat-brown forest floor. We sipped a crisp sauvignon blanc in the beachside hot tub later that same evening, an orca spraying from its blowhole in the misty bay.

The woman who ran the lodge advised us at check-in that the jacuzzi was not clothing optional, out of respect for the other guests, but my free-spirited companion thoroughly disregarded that instruction. Arching her back and heaving her breasts upwards to the sky, Jen reminded me, “This is Canada for Christ’s sake.”

That night, dinner at a cozy little Italian place on the wharf turned into a calamity of errors, like a montage of awkward scenarios from Curb Your Enthusiasm.

For starters, the young waitress woefully overshot the glass and poured water on my lap. I strained to see the humor while Jennifer laughed her ass off. The elderly couple at the next table gave me disparaging looks as I tried to dry the crotch of my trousers with a napkin. Our server then brought out the wrong orders, but maintained she had them right. Famished, we let it go and ate the food she delivered. The meal was excellent, but the portions were so ridiculously huge, you couldn’t help but spill food onto the table, and, in my case, all over my shirt.

“I hope you realize you’re wearing your dinner,” Jennifer scoffed. “Yes,” I said drolly, looking down at my marinara splattered ensemble. “I see no reason to leave any piece of clothing out of the action at this point.”

NBC ‘Food Fighters’ Audition

Stephanotisnumber6 — Sat, 16 Mar 2013 19:19:44 +0000

NBC Television is producing a new culinary game show called Food Fighters. It will pit top-notch amateur cooks against top rated professional chefs.

If they’re looking for a middle aged Irish-Jew… I think I’m a lock. (Hey, I can dream, can’t I?)

https://vimeo.com/61638664

A John Lennon Birthday

Stephanotisnumber6 — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 20:26:14 +0000

On October 9th, 2004, I set out from Snug Harbor aboard the Salish Sea Charter with several researchers from the Center For Whale Research on San Juan Island. I had never seen a pod of killer whales in the open sea, but that soon changed.

As we dieseled into the Haro Strait, we were virtually greeted by a congregation of all three southern resident pods. It sure looked like play as they slapped the water with their pectoral fins, did tail slaps and swam on their sides and rubbed up against each other. They even staged what looked like short races.

Late that afternoon, I spotted a lone orca swimming about a hundred yards off the stern and went back to investigate while everyone was watching the whales on the bow side. Following the one whale’s pattern of submerging and surfacing, I set the shutter and aperture, focused the camera… and he breached! I got the shot. Instinctively, I pointed my camera back in that general direction… and he breached again. I got that shot, too. One of the researchers got a clear look at the orca’s dorsal fin and saddle patch on the second breach, and identified the orca as a 19-year-old male, L-71, also known as Hugo.

Weird. I had just bought a black Volvo wagon and the randomly generated license plate was…

That night, dining on the island at the Duck Soup Inn, someone mentioned it would have been John Lennon’s 64th birthday. I had brought along a bottle of my favorite wine, Herman Story Syrah, and poured glasses for chef Gretchen and the couple at the next table. We all recited our favorite John Lennon quotes before drinking. The notion spread and almost everyone in the restaurant began quoting Lennon and toasting. One patron passed me a note with the Working Class Hero lyric, “… you’re so fucking crazy, you can’t follow their rules.” Another table began a chorus of, “Give Peace A Chance.” My own quote, “Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”

It’s a nice thought. I was certainly in the right place at the right time to take those photos of Hugo, who, sadly, has since gone missing and is now presumed dead. And I wish John Lennon hadn’t been outside the Dakota Building in New York one evening in early December, 1980.

Today would have been his 72nd.

Humbucking

Stephanotisnumber6 — Sun, 29 Jul 2012 21:47:38 +0000

Interesting story on NPR’s Radio Lab this morning on how only we humans see nature in this colour spectrum. The bird sees something completely different. Click “Read more” – which do you like?