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…

| | | | |

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

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.

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.

]]> https://2ndwindproductions.com/dream/2015/08/last-nights-storm/feed/ 0 https://2ndwindproductions.com/writers-rant/2015/05/hopeofamerica/ https://2ndwindproductions.com/writers-rant/2015/05/hopeofamerica/#respond Sat, 09 May 2015 01:03:40 +0000 https://2ndwindproductions.com/blog/hopeofamerica/ Conducted music supervision and a little script consulting on the really cool independent feature Tim Timmerman, Hope of America. When Director Cameron Sawyer saw an old TV interview with me, he offered up a small role in the film!  When Director Cameron Sawyer saw an old TV interview with me, he offered up a small role in the film! 

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

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.

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

]]> https://2ndwindproductions.com/dream/2014/10/old-man-blues/feed/ 4 https://2ndwindproductions.com/writers-rant/2014/01/free-lolita-cbs-seattle/ https://2ndwindproductions.com/writers-rant/2014/01/free-lolita-cbs-seattle/#respond Tue, 28 Jan 2014 18:34:13 +0000 https://2ndwindproductions.com/blog/free-lolita-cbs-seattle/  My first assignment for KIRO 7 - CBS in Seattle, covering the 12th annual Ways of Whales Conference on Whidbey Island. Set the camera up on the tripod and ... the sensor crapped out. No picture.