Here's one of mine. Hasn't found a home yet.....
The Things We Did
What goes on in your neighborhood recreation center after hours? You'd be surprised. Consider this: I spent a couple of nights recently performing intimate acts upon a life-sized doll in front of a room full of strangers. When I was done I sat down and somebody else rose to take my place. In this way we all got a turn with her. We even paid money for the opportunity. And I'm here to tell you friends and neighbors that I did it and I'm proud that I did it.
Her name was Annie. Resusci-Annie they called her. She wasn't much to look at, but she has helped start more hearts than candy, flowers, Cupid, and tequila combined. Yes folks, C.P.R. classes are going on right in your neighborhood!
Here is what happens, in graphic, uncensored detail: In six hours, over two nights, you'll be lectured by a grinning instructor (the smile comes from knowing what you will soon be doing), write down a lot of numbers (because nobody like a heart attack victim blown up like a balloon), aggressively kiss an immobile, unspeaking mannequin (no worse than a blind date really), take a test (#31: Can victim speak? Can victim use mouthwash?) and get a nifty membership card at the end (no discounts at amusement parks alas). Wear comfortable clothes. Bring a pen, a kiss, and your humility.
My group was taught by an emergency room intern, and no job will give you a more ghoulish database from which to elucidate. So along with the movements and numbers we learned some things about lacerations, blood, boogers, vomit, severed limbs, electrocution, and something horrible called a "fingersweep". I can't say that all of this lightened up the class any, but it did make us very attentive, so maybe there's something to that.
The most important thing we learned was this: You're going to screw it up. You may ace it with Annie, but 6 years from now, when some doghouse-shaped person looks up from his burger and fries and realizes that his pulse has taken the afternoon off, when he does a quick bossa nova and sinks slowly to the linoleum like a Madonna video, when you finally get a chance to ventilate and compress! - you'll blow it. Time and adrenalin will conspire to turn you into an Irish Setter.
So the first thing you do is get someone to call 911. Then you lay them down, tilt their head back and try to remember some of the moves. In reality though your job is to not kill them until the pros arrive. 90 minutes of foreplay with resusci-annie will not enable you to cheat Death. But perhaps you'll be able to annoy Death long enough.
Besides our own inevitable ineptitude we learned other things:
-Practicing the Heimlich maneuver is a novel way of meeting people. -Imagining an artery slowly filling up with fat until your blood decides to just pull over for the night is a great way to start choosing salads. -You can find a pulse just below your ear, below the bicep, on the top of your foot, or seemingly anywhere your hand drops. Its a very vulnerable feeling. -Performing the Heimlich on a child will cause the child to turn inside out. Instead turn the kid over and whap it, like your cleaning the toaster.
I took the class because of guilt; simple as that. Picture a loved one, or any human being (or animal) dying and knowing that you might've been able to save them, Ick. I'll pay $20.00 to shut my conscience up.
Also, you might just be a hero. Fancy that: pictures in the papers, interviews, cheers, parades, perhaps a cash 'thank you', attractive people wanting to ventilate you and have you compress them...
Among those who were there those dark nights in the Rec. Center there is now the silent camaraderie of group embarrassment. After all, we basically were playing Barbies. Now we nod slowly to one another in crowds. We exchange shy smiles across intersections. We do our two-fingers-below-the-ear salute as we pass on the mall. We are invisible, but we are everywhere.
With ourselves we are proud. The world may not understand us or the things we did those nights, but sometime, somewhere, if your heart suddenly hangs out a 'for rent' sign, you'll probably be glad we were there.
Angus McMahan
vesica@cruzio.com
The Things We Did
What goes on in your neighborhood recreation center after hours? You'd be surprised. Consider this: I spent a couple of nights recently performing intimate acts upon a life-sized doll in front of a room full of strangers. When I was done I sat down and somebody else rose to take my place. In this way we all got a turn with her. We even paid money for the opportunity. And I'm here to tell you friends and neighbors that I did it and I'm proud that I did it.
Her name was Annie. Resusci-Annie they called her. She wasn't much to look at, but she has helped start more hearts than candy, flowers, Cupid, and tequila combined. Yes folks, C.P.R. classes are going on right in your neighborhood!
Here is what happens, in graphic, uncensored detail: In six hours, over two nights, you'll be lectured by a grinning instructor (the smile comes from knowing what you will soon be doing), write down a lot of numbers (because nobody like a heart attack victim blown up like a balloon), aggressively kiss an immobile, unspeaking mannequin (no worse than a blind date really), take a test (#31: Can victim speak? Can victim use mouthwash?) and get a nifty membership card at the end (no discounts at amusement parks alas). Wear comfortable clothes. Bring a pen, a kiss, and your humility.
My group was taught by an emergency room intern, and no job will give you a more ghoulish database from which to elucidate. So along with the movements and numbers we learned some things about lacerations, blood, boogers, vomit, severed limbs, electrocution, and something horrible called a "fingersweep". I can't say that all of this lightened up the class any, but it did make us very attentive, so maybe there's something to that.
The most important thing we learned was this: You're going to screw it up. You may ace it with Annie, but 6 years from now, when some doghouse-shaped person looks up from his burger and fries and realizes that his pulse has taken the afternoon off, when he does a quick bossa nova and sinks slowly to the linoleum like a Madonna video, when you finally get a chance to ventilate and compress! - you'll blow it. Time and adrenalin will conspire to turn you into an Irish Setter.
So the first thing you do is get someone to call 911. Then you lay them down, tilt their head back and try to remember some of the moves. In reality though your job is to not kill them until the pros arrive. 90 minutes of foreplay with resusci-annie will not enable you to cheat Death. But perhaps you'll be able to annoy Death long enough.
Besides our own inevitable ineptitude we learned other things:
-Practicing the Heimlich maneuver is a novel way of meeting people. -Imagining an artery slowly filling up with fat until your blood decides to just pull over for the night is a great way to start choosing salads. -You can find a pulse just below your ear, below the bicep, on the top of your foot, or seemingly anywhere your hand drops. Its a very vulnerable feeling. -Performing the Heimlich on a child will cause the child to turn inside out. Instead turn the kid over and whap it, like your cleaning the toaster.
I took the class because of guilt; simple as that. Picture a loved one, or any human being (or animal) dying and knowing that you might've been able to save them, Ick. I'll pay $20.00 to shut my conscience up.
Also, you might just be a hero. Fancy that: pictures in the papers, interviews, cheers, parades, perhaps a cash 'thank you', attractive people wanting to ventilate you and have you compress them...
Among those who were there those dark nights in the Rec. Center there is now the silent camaraderie of group embarrassment. After all, we basically were playing Barbies. Now we nod slowly to one another in crowds. We exchange shy smiles across intersections. We do our two-fingers-below-the-ear salute as we pass on the mall. We are invisible, but we are everywhere.
With ourselves we are proud. The world may not understand us or the things we did those nights, but sometime, somewhere, if your heart suddenly hangs out a 'for rent' sign, you'll probably be glad we were there.
Angus McMahan
vesica@cruzio.com
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SF Bay Area
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