It's Expensive to Be a Man

The Man in the Yellow Hat (Part 2)

2008-02-18T05:29:00.001-08:00

The evening started with the monthy membership meeting for the entire company. This was my first, due to the fact that fire school ran on the same night as meetings, so it was interesting to see the turnout. I guess roughly two/thirds of the station was there, many of whom I've never laid eyes on.

The company meeting was fairly uneventful. There was a brief debate over the responsibility of the officers getting their probies through their probationary periods in expedient order. I suspect this should have served as foreshadowing for me, but I focused more on the various participants of the debate, and some of their rather overt yet inept partisan antics.

I had heard a rumor earlier that we would be getting our new turnout gear after the meeting, so my focus at that point was figuring out how to subtly ask for all my new shit without sounding like the poser that I am. The rumor was true, and a brand new set of Globe pants and coat awaited me - name emblazoned on the back. It fit well, the name was spelled right, and my little world was once again balanced on it's axis of hope, love, and swag.

Since this particular night was also duty crew for me, I just laid out my new gear, turned in my old, and started bantering with all my friends coming out of the meeting. Shortly thereafter, Drillzilla told me to start cleaning the bathrooms. That was cool, but odd. For all of his storied rage and oppressive tactics, Drillzilla never once singled me out for any unsavory task. This probably should have been another clue.

Once I was finished with the bathrooms, my captain told me to stay put in the lobby, and more importantly, stay out of the bay. At that point I knew something was up. There would never be a call to separate somebody from the crew, especially when there was work to be done. That fact was underscored when Homeschool was instructed to stay there with me, presumably for companionship. Two Redhats, given direct orders to do nothing? Yeah, something was amiss.

At that point the Chief came up and asked me what I was doing.

Me - "I was told to stand here and wait."

His face instantly registered awareness: "Okay, generally I would stick around out of morbid curiousity, but I don't feel like filling out injury forms tonight, so in the interest of plausible deniability, I'll be bidding you adieu."

Yep. I was fucked.

The Captain, or Drillzilla - I forget which - came and grabbed both Homeschool and I and told us to get our asses into the bay. Once there, he gave me brief and incomplete instructions as to what was going to happen. I caught a glimpse of the Quint and the Tower, both aerials raised and kissing at the top, but other than that, I didn't see much when I heard...

"GO!!!"

Of course, new gear is about as pliable as virgin cardboard, so my on-the-truck two-minute drill was not particularly speedy. I made it out in fairly decent order though, all chipper and ready for what lay ahead.

First up? 200-lb dummy pull through a series of cones. Not horribly hard - the dummy had webbing attached to it's shoulders and was pretty draggable. The cones, however, were set up in a way that made navigation painful. After about 50 feet - 100 including the turns - I was at the base of the Quint.

The Quint is a gender-confused apparatus - half truck, half engine. It has a 75 foot aerial ladder, and carries several cross-lays and 500 gallons of water. Most crews don't like it because it's slow, and like many multi-tools, doesn't perform any one task particularly well. This night, however, it performed it's only function - fucking with a redhat - just fine.

On the first step of the not-quite-vertical quint ladder I knew I was going to be hurting. My legs were burning from the dummy drag, and my right knee was smarting from some ground-pounding action it got during paintball a few days prior. I managed to make okay time going up the aerial, but I certainly wasn't going to get my name on a plaque.

About halfway through my ascent, I heard a gurgling noise. The quint has a pipe going up the aerial that can attach to a hose at the top. The nozzle that day, however, was directly under me - halfway up the aerial. I braced myself, and about a second later had a deluge of cold-ass hydrant water giving me some chin-music. Thankfully, the nozzle was set on a fog pattern - had it been on straight stream I would have probably been blown right off the ladder. I also suspect they had it at fairly low pressure - nobody wanted to see me die - but it seemed like a lot of damn water at the time.

I got to the top of the aerial, where I was told to clip in by [Spunky], the driver of my engine crew. Spunky is Cheeky's best friend, and they are pretty much the same person. Cheeky is a bit prettier, Spunky would be the tough one. Spunky is the more tolerable of the two by a large margin, but they've both got a rampant case of the Look-At-Me's.

I then transitioned to the Tower ladder, where I climbed down, after unclipping my belt from Spunky. The trip down the Tower was, what turned out to be, my only break. I probably could have performed the descent a bit faster, but I was enjoying the view, and the rest, because once on the ground, more ladder work was in store for me...

The 28-foot truss beam ladder is one of the workhorses on the Tower. It's strong, heavy, it can go to a third story window, and it can be carried by one person; sort of. Not too many folk sign up for the singlehanded 28er throw, but it can be done, and it is certainly drill-worthy.

I pulled the 28 from the Tower, walked it 50 or 60 feet to a nearby building, and raised it. I extended the fly, rolled it, and tied the halyard. Once at the top of the ladder, I was told there were three victims, and that I'd best get to steppin'.

My search and rescue technique was pretty sloppy - I never got down on all fours, I had no light, and I had no tool. I basically walked through a dark room and kicked at stuff until I found some plastic bags. When Drillzilla emitted a falsetto scream upon my kicking one of these bags, I knew it to be my victim. I kicked around to locate the other two bags and headed back down the ladder.

Once I had alighted on terra firma once again, I was told to open up my 'victims'. Inside the first plastic bag was my yellow hat.

The best part was the mini-celebration afterwards. Drillzilla poured a bucket of ice water on me, and my crew, plus another 4 or 5 guys from other crews hung around to congratulate me. It was awesome, and I was overjoyed. My entire crew, plus a handful of others, had spent a good deal of time affixing hoses, ladders, dummies, victims, and aerials for the sole purpose of running me through the gauntlet. It wasn't just that I was welcomed to the group, it was that they trusted me not to fuck up.

Going through this drill, and getting my yellow-hat at the end was the ultimate manifestation of the compliment-sans-words in the fire-service: "We're not going to tell you you did a good job, we're just going to allow you to do other shit. Be happy, this isn't bestowed on just anyone."

Shitchyeah.

The Man in the Yellow Hat (Part 1)

2008-02-07T12:35:00.000-08:00

Last Monday was busy.

But, before I get to that I would like to briefly review the steps I've taken over the past 10 months or so. The steps which - at their conclusion - were executed in order for me to accomplish the goal of becoming a firefighter...

1.) All the preparatory shit. Background check (paperwork shoutout to the man), two hour physical (invasive), county orientation (boring), and station orientation (two times, two stations - one by the Gaynadian, one by Robin).

2.) Preliminary classes. The 22 hour class (entree into the world of fire), CPR (sucked), Blood Borne Pathogens (nurse-voice, twice). Emergency vehicle operations (obstacle course for fire trucks).

3.) The actual fire school classes. Hazmat (Chubby Triumvirate - excruciating pain), First Responder (chick palpation), Fire school (hours of drudgery interupted by brief moments of destructive joy), and Mayday (life-affirming, God-affirming, manhood attesting).

4.) Testing. Hazmat, First Reponder, CPR, EVOC, Fire 1, and Fire 2 all had physical and written finals. All of these were conducted by county officials, state officials, or both. All required a person to know both the material, and the actions required to meet a certain objective. These objectives ranged from having a ladder rendered right-side up, to having a person discontinue choking.

5.) The Probie Pack. Never before mentioned, the Probie Pack was a series of worksheets detailing all that was to be accomplished prior to being accredited at Shangri La. There were roughly 30 pages filled with tasks ranging from learning the tools on the truck to reciting the protocols of the bunk room. A probie could have Firefighter certs from every state in the union, but until the Probie pack was signed - their helmet remained red. I clung to this book with my life, it's laws and lessons were immutable, it was the very embodiment of the soul of the station. It was also in the crosshairs of several yellow and black hatted firefighters who found joy in stealing the probie packs and rendering them confetti.

I write this list not as an attempt to itemize the chores that stand in the way of certification, but rather as a high-level sketch of the events that led up to Monday's final test. Because Monday - my friends - I earned my yellow hat...

Graduation - Part 3

2008-02-01T11:09:00.000-08:00

The role of the historian, in this case a self-appointed one, is to objectively and accurately record the events that he is observing. Under no circumstances should those events be influenced, modified, or otherwise impacted by the historian himself. Yet, I did just that...

When, the entire class had received their diplomas, our lead instructor informed the audience that there would be not one, but two Top Students. Interesting, but not unheard of. The EMT-B class that went directly before us had two, and the fire school prior to ours had two as well. Typically only one was chosen, but electing two wasn't entirely unprecedented.

With all of us baking under the stage lights, the first name was called out:

"Nickleback"

... in response to this, the entire class - and most of the audience - emitted a collective sigh of 'duh'.

The second Top Student award, however, came as a bit of a surprise: it went to me.

The instructors didn't actually justify their decisions, but in my case, I'm 90% certain it was because I am the best hugger.

Now, there were no speeches, just a brief handshake, and a quick wink from the lead instructor, who had a shit-eating grin on his face. I was expecting him to say "Just fuckin' with ya, the actual top-student is Guido." But he didn't. The award was actually mine.

Had I been expected to give a speech, it would have gone something like this...

"Hello, My name is []. I fucking rule. Have a great night, soft drinks and appetizers are available in the cafeteria."

Of course, I had to remain humble, in spite of my inside voice trying to claw it's way through my thorax, and forcing me to suppress my glee. I respectfully acknowledged people's congratulations, and I was appropriately reserved when shaking the hands of the dozen or so officers from Shangri-la that came over to congratulate us. But I doubt my put-upon neutral face was convincing anyone.

At one point, when walking with Nickleback to get our picture taken together, I just had to give him a shove. He laughed innocently. He thought it was a sign of endearment, one that tacitly indicated that our bond as brothers was truer now, more pure. In actuality, it was merely a way for me to ascertain precisely how strong he was, because clearly, I now have to kill him.

I mean, if I'm going to affect the history I'm purportedly keeping, and violate the laws of the journalist-historian, I'm not gonna do it as co-anything.

It's a shame really - I liked Nickleback.

Graduation - Part 2

2008-01-31T06:07:00.000-08:00

In my county, the big certification classes are run on a semi-annual basis, much like semesters in college. There is generally a spring class and a fall class for the Firefighter 1, Firefighter 2, EMT-B, EMT-I, and EMT-P curriculums. Therefore, the county holds two graduations every year, and each ceremony recognizes all of the classes. Several awards are also distilled amongst the graduates.

Tipping back for a second to the first half of this post; I think graduations and awards are important, not just to the Fire Service, but everywhere. A sense of accomplishment, recognition, and certainly competition are key drivers in almost any pursuit. There are the rare individuals who truly don't care if others applaud them or not, but I personally think they are vastly outnumbered by those that do. Paying lipservice to not caring is significantly more prevalent though, and laughing off the efforts of management to pay homage to us is almost an institution. But that is part and parcel with both the event and human nature: we just don't want people to know that we want it.

I'm fairly certain that the reason Bucolic and Cypher didn't show is the reverse of the above logic: they knew the words and applause weren't for them. They knew they barely scraped by, and they knew their fellow graduates resented them, as does any team that is forced to prop up a bitch-ass teammember in order to succeed. So just like most of the firefighters there wanted the recognition without wanting to want it, Bucolic and Cypher knew they wouldn't get it, and probably spent the day trying to rationalize their way out of facing that prospect.

Back to the ceremony.

In Fire 1, there is only one award - Top Student. Top Student is given to the recruit that has the best combination of qualities that the instructors want to see. From my understanding, it will simply go to the person who the instructors would most like on their crew.

Many people in class didn't know there was even an award for Top Student - I was not one of these students. I was aware of the award from the first day I joined, primarily because the Gaynadian was the guy who gave me my orientation. I was also made very acutely aware, after joining Shangri-La, that Shangri-La is pretty used to having their people get the award. Shortly after that I was apprised of the fact that Shangri-La had NOT won in the previous class, and that was not well-received.

Here was the problem: there were at least a dozen candidates for top student, most of whom have gotten ink in this journal prior to now, but will all be detailed here in an cheap attempt to build up suspense for the reader by delaying gratification:

My Short List of Top Student Candidates

(The first 5 have already been discussed in this journal, and therefore get less ink in this entry.)

Product - Unfailing, smart, strong and level-headed. A clear contender.

Ox - Ridiculously strong. Reserved and balanced. Completely sans bombast.

Volvo - A meathead, but a highly valuable one. Unafraid, loyal and reliable. Kinda like a Volvo actually. That is a frightening and ironic simile.

Pixie - One of the most aggressive of the group, her only shortcoming was that she was roughly 1/2 the size of everyone else. She made up for her vagina by working 3 times as hard.

Nickleback - Probably the most technically sound in the class. Also the most fit and best-looking; the fucker. The good news is that Nickleback likes bands like Nickleback, which means that he is very much a resident of Doucheville, no matter how much I like him.

Kitchen - This is Kitchen's first mention here, primarily because - for no apparent reason - I never worked with him in fire-school. Kitchen was a team lead, and an obvious candidate from day one. He is smart, friendly, and built like a brick shithouse. Possibly the only guy save Volvo who would give the Gaynadian a run for his money in a cage match. His nickname is a hair contrived, but my reasoning is two-fold: 1.) His real name is something one would find in a kitchen, and 2.) When I was 18 I was a foreman on a crew of day-laborers, one of whom was named Kitchen - I swear to God. Of course, the Kitchen from my construction years was an ex-convict with prison tats and a 79 IQ, so there isn't that much commonality, but it's gonna be fire school Kitchen's name nonetheless.

Pinto - Another team lead, another first mention. Pinto and Kitchen run together on the Shangri-La rescue side. I was wary of Pinto for the first month or so of school - primarily because he came in guns-a-blazin, jacked up, bossifying everyone... he managed to convert that posturing into real leadership over the next few months, and in so doing made this list. Why Pinto? WHY NOT????

Guido - Team lead, first mention: Guido's nickname came from his crew at Shangri-La. He's Italian, so I guess they weren't shooting for cutting-edge humor so much as just stating the obvious. Guido's crew loves him, and he's probably the most highly respected recruit in my class. Why? He never once talked smack. And, as far as I know, he never made any mistakes. In fact, if there is an ability-to-talkinshit quotient, his would be so high it would be hovering around error. (I'm sure some math jackass is gonna ding me on that... my point is that he never talked smack, hence a zero, hence a divide-by-zero error. Fuck off.)

Photo - Photo hasn't been mentioned before because he used to be quiet enough to make Guido look loquacious. Only in the last month of fire school did he open up - now we can't get him to shut up. He spent half an hour at a party discussing Costco banana ripeness and the obvious impact on food distibution systems, and subsequently the entire well-being of humanity. That being said, Photo was as technically sound as anyone on this list, and he was a big forward-thinker to boot. Photo always had shit laid out prior to anyone knowing they needed it. He also takes pictures.

Me - I kiss inordinate amounts of ass.

Stay tuned - apparently this post has become engorged enough to require 3 parts...

Graduation - Part 1

2008-01-29T07:08:00.001-08:00

I suppose some would expect this to be the final post for this journal, since the intro specifies 'rookie' firefighter. I haven't given much consideration to how this is going to wind down, however, so it will have to continue on until I figure out how to wrap it up.

That, or I'll just change the fucking title and keep writing.

Graduation was held in the middle of the week, 7 days ago. It was the first graduation ceremony - at least the first where I wasn't a spectator - since 1993 when I graduated college. For a few of the kiddies, it was their very first graduation - Farmside, Don, Utah, Homeschool, and a handful of others.

I guess I wish I was one of the lucky few who don't stand on ceremony, or don't care about people acknowledging their efforts, but the fact is: I do care. I care very much that people are aware of the ass-busting that many of us - not all of us - did to make it to the graduation. There is no doubt in my mind that we could have drug our feet through the entire 6 months of class and still graduated, but the vast majority of us didn't. In fact, I would argue that 80% of the class will actually be good firefighters if they choose to continue to hone their skills.

Which brings me to my next point - odds are, the last days of fire school probably mark the peak for most of the students in terms of firefighting competence and technical ability. I wish it weren't true, but not too many of us will be going back to stations that drill us every duty crew. Few will be pulling and racking hose, throwing ladders, doing two-minute drills, and tying new knots on a regular basis. In some houses, skills will go unused, unpracticed, and unrefined for months, if not years, until an actual call requires them. Frankly, by that time, things might have languished to the degree that the firefighter will contribute only to the chaos of the scene, as opposed to the real objective of putting out a fire and hopefully saving lives.

But enough of that - on to the ceremony.

Fit chick Kate, from waaaaaaay back in the early days of this journal, was the coordinator of most of the events during graduation. She, of course, was operating at her normal competent and even-keeled best. In an interesting turn of events, Robin - the newly minted Driver from Shangri-La - is now Kate's minion. Two chicks, both journal-worthy, working in an administrative capacity to support me - and to a lesser extent, other firefighters - in my lofty fire pursuits. I'm certainly pleased with that happenstance.

Turns out, fire school graduations in my county are a fairly recent thing. Firefighters from only 3 years back had sporatic ceremonies, or no ceremony at all. Again, not that we do it for the ceremony, and a piece of paper is not ever going to truly represent what transpired over the previous year, but an event to mark the occasion matters very much. I will argue that with even the most vehement "I don't need no [medals, diplomas, ceremony, acknowledgment, other] to validate me" dickhead. The fact is, some don't care to be recognized, but most do. So shut the fuck up.

The woman who sang the National Anthem had a great voice - definitely hit all the notes. Didn't seem to have a great grasp of pronunciation though. To her credit, she got up on stage, behind a podium, and lit up in front of 300-400 people without accompaniement. To her discredit - if you're gonna sing the anthem of the United States, maybe take a few minutes here and there to make sure you've got all the vowels and consonants lined up correctly.

There were the obligatory introductions, the acknowledgement of prior and current leadership, a color guard, a video, and some of the other trappings of pomp - all in keeping with a traditional graduation. There were also two prayers, and the second one - as Product was quick to point out - managed to slip in a terrorism reference, which was certainly fitting, and I'm sure gratifying for the triumvirate.

35 of the 36 people in my class graduated. The 36th was injured and has to retake the entire course this spring. Not all 35 graduates attended, however... who was missing? That's right, Cypher and Bucolic. They got their black hats (in our county, some stations have yellow for newly minted firefighters, some have black) the night before the state final, and we haven't seen them since. They skipped Mayday, and now graduation. Frankly, I was overjoyed that they didn't make it. They represented much of what I loathe about the fire service, and their absence was the best graduation gift I could have asked for, save one...

May Day

2008-01-10T06:43:00.002-08:00

My posts have gotten a bit out of order lately... lots of stuff has happened, but my lethargy has won the day, and writing has slowly been edged out by things like work; specifically, I've started to work at work, and that really gets in the way of my loafing around time.

So, I'm four posts behind, with only my most recent activities inhabiting my frontal lobes. I'm guessing that some of my more salient thoughts on the days before the State Exam are going to fade into obscurity, but thats okay, because the next few paragraphs are going to melt the eyes of all who read them due solely to how fucking awesome MayDay class was.

Mayday, a class specifically designed to teach how to rescue firefighters, was the best time I've had in quite a spell. It was made doubly so because Bucolic and Cypher decided not to attend - I can only assume because they had already managed to fully master the infinite variables involved in trying to drag 300 pounds of flaccid firefighter down a ladder or up through a floor.

The first aspect of mayday which made it a bit better than standard fire school was that the instructors had apparently loosened up. Two of them in particular - Chip and Dale - played like a pair of schoolgirls the entire time. Now - and this is important - during fire school both Chip and Dale were possibly the most humorless instructors we had. They were disciplined, fastidious, exacting, and demanding, but certainly not fun. We wanted them to be fun. We wanted them to like us, but they didn't; unequivocally. But all of the sudden, in mayday, they turned into a fucking comedy routine.

The next sorta interesting thing was that the instructors no longer treated us like students, which was a bit of a double edged sword; they didn't condescend quite as much as they used to, but they also cut the cord. What I mean here is that there was no molly-coddling, kid-gloving, glad-handing, powder-puffing, sand-bagging, or any other hyphenated term depicting motherly/tender type of behavior. Most of the behavior on the pad during Mayday resulted in some sort of minor injury, and full-on ass-handings were administered on several occasions.

The class was 4 days long; one night of lecture, one night of ladder work and basic drags, and then two weekend days of chaos-creating mayhem.

The trick to saving firefighters is leverage. Unbridled anger helps, but leverage is key. However, if leverage isn't to be had, raw power is an immense asset. A standout in the field of this power-related ass-kickery was Product. He and I had to drag Mamita up a 100 foot hill, and he absolutely schooled me. I had to take breaks every ten feet, and he didn't have to stop once. Now, Product has always been at the head of the class, but I assumed that I had him beat in the strength department. Not so. Not terribly pleased about that either, so I might stab him in the hamstring to curtail his prowess. Ox also was a standard bearer for Mayday, but his manhood was never in question like Product's was.

The key drills that we did were as follows: the Denver drill, the Pittburgh drill, the Columbus drill, window bails, ladder bails, and rope bails. If a city has a drill named after it, bad things happened there. In fact, during the lecture, the instructor - the Dale of Chip and Dale - basically indicated that every life-saving measure we have today cost more than a few lives to develop. I guess we already knew that, but it's still a sobering thought.

Without detailing all of the drills, I'll try to describe the weekend in a Carlinesque rant of adjectives and nouns; this should be read with complete breath control - no pauses:
Dragging, throwing, air limiting, window heaving, body twisting, victim abusing, psyche damaging, instructor meddling, rope burning, forearm smashing, ladder falling, body through a 16 inch gap pulling, torso crushing, Mamita through a hole falling, brutal, pain-inducing, breath sucking, gear stinking, cylinder draining, rope binding, maze crawling, blind leading the blind anarchy.

It was the best class yet. It still hurts to reach over my head, bend to my left, or drop a deuce... but it was amazing. If a person felt that they had the means, I would highly recommend signing up.

Camo-Toe

2008-01-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

When I was 17 I changed high schools; I moved from Colorado to Maryland. During my senior year in Maryland, my class went on a ski trip to a Pennsylvania resort. This ski trip was a banner event every year for the senior class and was highly anticipated by everyone. My friend, Sean, more than most.

Sean was a guy who liked to dance perilously around the edges of the truth, while maintaining an arms-length distance from anything that could substantiate, or discredit, his claims. Skiing was one of these claims.

Four months prior to the ski trip, Sean was explaining to me how he liked to perform backscratchers and daffy's off of moguls on double-diamonds. So much, in fact, that he put "Wild-Man" on the back of his boots. Three months prior, it was really just spread-eagles. Two months prior, he wasn't so much into jumping as he was into skiing really fast. One month prior, he was more focused on working on his form.

On the bus ride up to the ski resort, the lessening of expectations increased exponetially. During the last hour of the bus ride, he was effectively explaining to me how I should allow him at least a day to reacclaimate to skiing, and I shouldn't expect much in terms of form, speed, aggression, or really, anything even remotely good-ish about his abilities.

When we actually got on the slopes, Sean was as inept a skiier as he was a hyperbolator. I didn't really care so much about his abilities, but I didn't buy much of his bullshit from there on in. Once somebody actually engages in a full-on assault of my sensibilities, and they presume that I am dumb enough to actually sign on to their bombast, they are forever measured against a much more demanding yardstick. They will henceforth be hard-pressed to convince me of anything that I can't verify right there.

Enter Camo-Toe.

Camo-Toe is actually the douche-leaning instructor from the 22-hour class. His name was derived based on the fact that wears the eponymous camoflage when he is off duty - and that he is an enormous, poorly-concealed vagina.

Camo-Toe is my new Sean.

What I failed to mention in the 22-hour post was that Camo-Toe loved to talk about the endless amount of awesome from which he drew his power. Strength, speed, street savvy, and my personal favorite - a family name that was admired, loved, and feared in the angry heart of South Boston.

During the 22-hour class, he, at various points of the conversation, indicated that he could man, and advance, a 2.5 inch hose, wide-open, as far as he wanted. He could also climb and descend the 75 foot aerial ladder all day long. His rather doughy physique notwithstanding, he could outperform anybody, at any time, at least when it came to firefightery things.

But these claims all shivered with envy when propped up next to what I learned was his true value, his raison d'etere, the magnum opus of his existence: he apparently owns, operates, and is sole-proprietor of South Boston.

Now, I've got no claims to South Boston. I assume it's an area directly below North Boston. Probably populated by people who take a great deal of pride in where they live - dunno, don't live there. But, I have had the opportunity to meet many people from Boston - and I would guess some were from South Boston. I think that I like/hate them in roughly the same proportions as I do any other geographically specific group of people. Something of which I'm almost certain, however, is that they wouldn't agree with Camo-Toe's claims to being their overlord.

I guess I should actually mention how all this came about.

As duty night on Saturday was winding to a close, Camo-toe showed up to hang out, probably because girls don't want to have sex with him. It could conceivably be because he had some administrative work to catch up on, or some SOP's to review, but I'm pretty certain it was because there is no lovin' at the Camo-Toe abode.

As we were bullshitting, and talking about various things - well, guns and chicks - Camo-Toe had the opportunity to lay this on us:

"Everybody wishes they were a [Camo-Toe's last name]"

A guy from my crew looked at me, and we both said simultaneously: "Nah, we're good."

Camo-Toe then began to explain, in great detail, again how we might be able to survive in this little 'burb, but we'd be dead on the mean streets of Southie. Whereas, in stark contrast, he would be able to rule with an iron-fist, because of the instant credibility his last name attains him.

Really.

I can't even imagine the genesis of this claim. Does he have a cousin that sends him newsletters about his polling numbers in various neighborhoods? Did his parents sit him down at dinner every night, pray, and say "Lord, things ain't that great here, but we've always got Southie. Amen."? Is the Camo-Toe inn where all the town patriarchs come, and sit at the table that Old Euclid Camo-Toe, God Rest His Soul, sat? I guess I just don't get it.

Seriously, there's even a t-shirt that parodies the notion of claims to stardom elsewhere. But I didn't think there were people who actually still acted out the cliche. Perhaps I was wrong.

Either way, I'm not gonna be the one to call out Camo-Toe. Generally I take it on myself to expose oversold claims and exaggerations, but in this case, I just can't. It would take too much, specifically, an 8 hour ride to Boston with a guy who's conversational lexicon is limited to the vocabulary found in a David Duke stump speech.

So, yeah, I'm gonna let this one go.

Duty Crew - And Why I Love Rainbows

2007-12-12T08:02:00.000-08:00

Tuesday night was Duty crew. This tour ( 7 week rotation) I am assigned to the Tower. The Tower is an immense beast of a truck with a 104 bucket ladder on it, as well as all of the implements of a truck company.

I don't think I've delved too far into the difference between truck and engine companies, so I'll take a moment to do so now.

- Engine companies put water on fire.

- Truck companies pull people out of the fire.

Sure, I guess there's more to it than that, but the minimalist in me is sometimes compelled to sacrifice content for brevity.

During duty crew we were instructed to get fit-tested for our SCBA facepieces. This is basically a test of how many particles from the outside air enter the firefighter's facepiece while the firefighter is doing things like nodding, bending over, or talking. The idea is to establish that the firefighters face isn't shaped in such a way that air can leak in when the head is turned, or the face contorted.

The process takes about 10 minutes. It's also pretty dull - more so when one has to watch it a dozen time before it's his turn. The one funny part of the whole drill is the talking piece. Since few can conjure up 60 seconds of soliloque, the county provided a script from which a firefighter can read. Some might ask, "What is the topic of this script?" Well, obviously, we're firefighters, what other topic would be more fitting, more relevant, and more in keeping with our stature than rainbows.

That's right. Rainbows. Every man on my crew read a discourse on rainbows during the fit test. At one point, I finally had to weigh in; "[Newt], I hear your words, but I'm not at ALL convinced you even care about rainbows. Try it again - this time, find your motivation, and make me BELIEVE it."

When it came to be my turn, I chose a different path. Instead of rainbows, I rattled off the one piece of Shakespeare I remember from my Senior year in High School. From the fifth act of MacBeth -
-----------------------------
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow,
a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
---------------------------

I'm still amazed I didn't get my ass kicked right then.

One of the guys from another crew later asked me if I was getting my yellow-hat soon.

I told him yes, God-willing and the creek don't rise.

He simply said "Good".

I was a bit surprised that he weighed in with a positive word, and my quizzical stare must have spurred his next utterance...

"I mean, 'good', in that you'll finally be promoted out of shit-bag status."

That's more like it.

MacGregor, as Metaphor

2007-12-10T06:56:00.000-08:00

Now it's time to move on to another observation, one that I knew existed, but is now more firmly cemented in my mind.

But first, one of my favorite jokes in the world (bear with me, it's relevant):

-------------------------------------------------------------

A man walked into a bar in Scotland, sat down and ordered a drink. Next to him was a leathery old Scotsman, well into the bottle in front of him.

The man asked the Scotsman if there was something the matter.

The Scot replied (in Groundskeeper Willy brogue); "Aye lad, indeed there is. You see this bar here? I made this bar with me own two hands, slowly crafting it in the time-honored way of my forebears. It took me 4 months, but do they call me MacGregor the bar-builder? Noooooo. "

"You know the dock that your ferry landed at the night before? I built that dock with me own bare hands, finely honing each joint so that it would withstand the weather that mother nature unravels upon it. It took nigh a year, but do they call me MacGregor the dock-builder? Noooooo."

"And do you recall the livery stable you passed on the way into town? I stood that stable up in six months, with nary a bit o' help. To this day that stable is one of the finest in all of Scotland. But do they call me MacGregor that stable-maker? Nooooooo."

"But you fuck one goat..."

------------------------------------------

Back to the pad...

During the burn day, my team succeeded in overcoming some early criticism in terms of teamwork, communication, and interaction. I was extremely pleased with our ability to take the criticism, factor them into our next steps, and emerge triumphant. During some of the later evolutions, we performed like a well-oiled machine.

During the evolution when my team was designated truck crew, we were instructed to ventilate, and throw three ladders: two 24s, and a 12 foot straight ladder. Bucolic was sent to ventilate the first floor, Utah and Mamita threw a 24, and I threw the 12 and another 24.

When throwing the 12, I used a method called an unsupported throw. This basically entails raising the ladder in one motion, from shoulder to wall. It requires strength, speed, and a firm planting of the butt on the ground. It's not terrifically easy to do on concrete, because the butt tends to slide. But I did it, and it was textbook. Everybody watched, but nobody commented.

I then proceeded to throw the 24. Again, a textbook throw, somewhat complicated by the fact that I needed to position the ladder so that it could be rolled into the 2nd floor window once the fire was out. A member of the triumvirate started to critique the throw until I explained to him my reasoning, at which point he agreed that it was perfect.

Once Lowenstein gave his begrudging mark of approval, and the evolution was complete, I went to lower the ladder. At the second-to-last rung, the dogs stuck, and the ladder wouldn't budge. I stuck my hand inbetween two rungs to shake it, and the dogs released. This was abruptly followed by my own release - of a string of incindiary curse words - when the ladder slammed down on my hand.

Chad, who was, of course, one of the observers, let out a laugh, as did anybody else watching. Their concern for my hand only lasted as long as it took them to ascertain that my manhood was the only thing that was damaged.

After I had finished taking down all the ladders, I already had classmates innocently asking me what happened. This particular tact is one used by everyone as a way of saying "We've already laughed once in your absence, please tell your side of the story so we can enjoy a second round of guffaws."

No mention of the perfect unsupported throw, no mention of the complicated single-man 24 raise. No, my inept ladder destickifying was the only topic considered.

Next up was my turn on the knob (The knob is the nozzle, but the cool kids call it the knob, and I am they). I flaked the hose in a swift fashion, and took to my 30 second drill with a vehemence only know to those that have some dignity in need of saving. With the small exception of my hood pulling out from my collar, I was out of the gates in good order. Bucolic and I drug that bitch into the first floor and doused the fire with a delectible quickness. I was triumphant, and I was vindicated. Or so I thought.

Upon my return to the engine I was expecting praise, high-fivin' white guys, plaudits and requests from others to sit at my feet while I wax academic on the subtleties of my greatness. What I got was a solitary comment from Product: "Wow, good job, if you can get [member of the triumvirate] to follow you into every fire and stuff your hood back in your collar you'll be a great firefighter someday."

So, I've come to learn an important lesson: in the fire service, compliments are tacit, criticism is overt. Good deeds and jobs-well-done are quickly obfuscated by mistakes.

The upside of this notion is that I tend to respond better to negative feedback than postive. So, much in the way that MacGregor will never again seek the warm, sweet caress of his mutton-bearing brethren, my catching my hand between two rungs a second time is highly, highly unlikely.

Fire - Again, with feeling

2007-12-10T05:45:00.000-08:00

The past week was an exercise in thwarted anticipation. Not one, but two burn days were cancelled due to weather: the first because of 50 mph winds, the second because of snow. I know, the first thought in everyone's mind is - and should be - "Don't fires sometimes occur even when the weather is bad?" The answer is yes, and our collective vaginas are still smarting from all the heat that we've been taking at the station, but the fact is, the county makes the call, not us.

So, considering the foiled efforts early in the week, the weekend burns were looking dismal - not because we expected bad weather, but because none of the students had actually put water on a fire yet, and the days get incrementally more complex as the class moves on. Sunday was supposed to be a coordinated attack day, but we hadn't even achieved an uncoordinated attack, so instructor trepidation was a bit high in the AM prior to the first burn.

The day started with about two-dozen igniters, instructors, passers-by, and hangers-on all showing up to participate in some fashion. The igniters - a breed of pyros who have sworn an oath of heat and vengence - spent about an hour stacking pallets and hay in order to achieve the very bestest fires, and then lit them. Two of them were Landfill and the Gaynadian. Given their perma-grins, it was clear that this was how God intended.

The class was triumphant. Eight scenarios were run for each group (the class was split, Group A running in the AM, Group B running in the PM). The first four scenarios were simply going up the stairs and dousing a fire, the second four included two engines, a truck company, and a RIT team (Rapid Intervention - read: a rescue team lying in wait for a mayday call).

Each Group had four teams, and they cycled through each scenario with a different responsibility, so everyone had a chance to hit a fire, pull a line, throw a ladder, and perform RIT-like tasks.

At the end of the day, no victims were left unfound, no fires were left undoused, and no ladders left unthrown. It was a success. I know this because the instructors didn't say anything. The lead instructor told us we did well, all the others were silent. If the group of twenty-odd onlookers couldn't conjure up any unmitigated criticism, then the class pretty much spanked the day like a dominatrix does a 90 pound submissive.

One thing I did learn at the hands of Lowenstein, who was my team's officer, was that intonation and demeanor have a huge impact on the team's flow. This should have been intuitive for me, but his reinforcing it from an instructor's viewpoint made a great deal of difference.

During one of the drills, I needed more hose shucked up the stairs in order for Mamita and Utah to hit the fire. I screamed to Bucolic to get it to me, and Lowenstein, directly behind me, said "Lower your voice, and ask for it calmly." I did so, and it came. Simple as that. Afterwards he told me this: "Yelling into the facepiece works against you in two ways: first, the louder you yell, the less sound comes out and the more garbled it is, resulting in the message not being received. Second, and most importantly, your tone sets the stage for team interaction. When you yell, people think there is something wrong, or they are doing something wrong. Either way, the results will be unfavorable."

Lowenstein continues to teach in a way that gets his message across every time. His ability to make a point, and make it stick, all while not overtly criticizing the recipient, is remarkable.

Lowenstein, also to his credit, called out Bucolic twice. Once, Bucolic, whose bandaid was coming off of his thumb, asked to go get some tape to hold it on. Lowenstein said "I would just suggest you suck it up, considering that you're supposed to be a firefighter and all." In the same conversation, Bucolic pulled out a can of Skoal citrus flavor chewing tobacco, and regaled the crowd on how awesome it was and that it tasted just like bubble-gum. Lowenstein, in his dry and sacrosanct tone said "Yep, definitely what you want in a chewing tobacco is a hint of bubble-gum."

So, in short: good fires, good teamwork, good learning opportunities, and Bucolic once again called to the carpet for his somewhat bizarre mannerisms. A good day.

Fire

2007-12-03T07:27:00.000-08:00

Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire

After that lead in, I would expect most to understand what happened on Saturday, but for the sake of clarification, we set some fires. Two cars and the burn building to be exact.

But fret not - loyal 25 unique readers - we put them out too.

As I've come to learn, fire is hot, and firefighters are not quite as ensconced in flameproof goodness as one might expect.

It was damn cold Saturday morning. We were all geared up out of the gates because there is nothing more cozy than turnout gear in the cold. That's not facetious, by the by, turnout gear is as good in the cold as anything Columbia or Mountain Hardware can churn out. Of course, it weighs about ten times as much, but that doesn't really seem to be a concern.

We started at 7:30, and we spent half an hour taking blood pressure, pulse, and respiration rates for each student and instructor. Anyone who was too high had to sit out. I utilized my finely tuned First Responder skills by taking some of my cohorts' vitals and signing off for them. I think it's safe to say that people were a bit elevated going into their first fire.

The class was divided in half, as per usual, and sent either to the fire side, or the skills side. Skills included the standard line-pulling, and ladder throwing. The fire side was simply going into a fire and watching it burn. And burn it did.

I believe I've insinuated that firefighters are drawn to fire the way a crack-addled hooker is drawn to a slowly moving BMW, so I don't think I need to explain why the instructor/igniter to student ration was about 2 to 1. The fireground was so overpopulated with certified firefighters wanting in on the action that I considered riding piggy-back on one while another toted my SCBA. My legs were fatigued, and excess labor can always be put to good use.

After a brief lecture on making sure out gear was correct, and not moving around too much, we all went in an kneeled down. Doors were closed, regulators were put on, and the fire was lit.

We sat in a 1000 degree room for about 10 minutes. It was about 600 degrees at our level, which was hot enough to remind us why we were there. The thing that really stuck, however, was how the gear worked.

We've been told countless times about how the layering of the gear provides the real heat protection: and outside flame-resistant layer, a middle vapor barrier, and the inside liner. If those three are properly worn, a firefighter can go into a 1000 degree room and be relatively comfortable. However, if the three are pressed together, well, it's the difference between being near a hot stove and touching one. The latter is markedly worse. So any movement at all was followed by a very quick and visceral object lesson on where the gear was being compressed: elbows, knees, wrists, and shoulders. Well-played, instructor-that-told-us-this-10-weeks-ago-only-to-have-the-lesson-solidified-in-a-super-heated environment, well-played.

After the blaze was put out, and we were freshly schooled in the concepts of conduction, convection, and radiation, we did more drilling on coordinated attacks; only this time, remarkably, we didn't totally suck.

One highlight from the day was when my team - Utah, Bucolic and me (Mamita sat this one out with some bruised knees) - went into a pseudo-fire, put it out, and then ventured on to become the secondary search team. Instructor Ned himself, of First Responder fame, assumed the role of victim and lay down in a previously searched area.

My team, to their credit, did not take my lead when I started dragging him out by his ankles. Utah had the good sense to pick him up by his shoulders, while Bucolic and I grabbed behind his back and legs. The doorway proved to be tight (three firefighters in full gear plus a victim > door opening) but not egregiously so. We got Ned out in pretty good order, all the time abiding by rule number one in fire school - Do Not Injure An Instructor. I could tell Ned was extremely pleased with our efforts because he didn't utter a solitary word about the rescue. High praise indeed. Thank you Ned. Tacit compliment received loud and clear.

All in all a good day. Bucolic only managed to make us look stupid twice, Mamita's bruised knees were only a temporary condition, and the entire class began to actually look like they had learned something over the past few months.

At the risk of sounding overly optimistic, I'm inclined to think that we might someday be capable of putting out a fire.

Tell Me About the Rabbets George

2007-11-26T05:51:00.000-08:00

No, that is not a typo.

Last Friday's duty crew started at 6pm, the day after Thanksgiving. Everybody was in good spirits, if not a little bit heavy-footed. I was excited to be on the Tower again, because it's still new to me, and it's just a really cool truck. And comfy.

Homeschool was there, as per usual, being his diligent self by checking out the engine and performing all of his tasks as if he had a copy of the SOP tattoo'd on his forearm. The kid is undoubtably competent.

We began to discuss all the things we needed to practice prior to our practicals the following week: the one that neither of us had any hands-on experience with was forcible entry. Extrication notwithstanding, neither Homeschool nor I had ever broken in a door or window, and that was cause for concern, especially for me because I was riding on the truck, and the first duty of the truck crew is to force entry into structures.

My pleas for practice were quickly answered when the tones dropped and a call for forcible entry assistance came out. Some officers in the county needed to get into a house. Reason unspecified.

On the way to the call, I asked the Lt if I could actually do the forced entry. He, in officerly fashion, indicated that he would determine my role during size-up.

Once we arrived, I grabbed a light and a little sumpin' called the Rabbet Tool. Sounds sexy? It is. A rabbet is a door stop that is built into the frame of the door. Typically they are found on commercial steel doors, with one-piece jambs. Residential doors generally have a wooden strip nailed into the jamb which acts as the stop.

The rabbet tool looks like a grease gun, with a long cylinder and a pumping handle. Only, instead of a hose ejecting grease, it's got a pair of jaws that separate upon pumping the handle. The hydraulics are manual, but the thing is still inordinately powerful.

The Lt indicated that I would be allowed to do the job, so I jammed the rabbet tool in between the door and the jamb, the other firefighter on the truck pounded it in a few times, and I started pumping. It took about 10 seconds.

Once the door was opened the cops went in. There was a bit of drama inside, but it didn't involve me, and is therefore inconsequential.

Annnnnnnd scene.

To summarize, I got to do a real job, on a real call, with real results. Was it a simple job? Yes. Could anyone on the crew have performed the task? Yes. Do I sound like Donald Rumsfeld right now? Yes. In spite of all these things, it was still me that did the job, and that just makes me all a twitter with joy.

Duty Crew, a Rubber Chicken, and How Much I Suck

2007-11-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

After a day's worth of extrication, I had to rush my ass back to the station for the remainder of my 25-hour Saturday shift. 25 hours? Yep. The weekend crews sleep in an hour, so the incoming crews don't have to be there at 6 AM. This allows them to leisurely squeeze one off before they have to get their gear on the engines.

I arrived at 5pm. My assignment for this tour (tours begin on Sat, after two weeks of downtime) was the tower. The tower is a truck with a damn big ladder. Oh, and a bucket, it's got one of those too. Oh yeah, and more ladders, and pike poles, and lights, and fans, and tools galore. One thing it's missing: water.

Truck crews provide four main services: forcible entry, search and rescue, utilities (the turning off of), and salvage/overhaul. What they don't do is put out fires. So, this was new to me.

The officer from my last duty crew was there, but the training officer, who was riding in the engine, was the alpha-dog of the crew that night. He took an immense amount of joy in yelling the dreaded 2-minute drill "GO!!!" on multiple occasions when the other Red Hat (Homeschool) and I were furthest from the apparatus. I screwed something up each time, but it wasn't awful. He did, however, take great joy when watching me clap my hands to my head (indicating that I was done with the drill, and ready to be checked out) only to find no helmet there. That kinda sucked.

In anticipation of the next drill, I left my gear in a more 2-minute drill-ready fashion; boots, pants, coat and gloves on the ground. Unfortunately, instead of a 2-minute drill, the training officer [Drillzilla] decided to give us something more engaging. He actually sounded the tones in the station, came out yelling at us to gear up and get in our respective apparatus; me on the truck, Homeschool on the engine.

The drivers then pulled out of the station and stopped. What the fuck? Drillzilla came yelling and told me to get a ladder and throw it on the B-side of the station (A/Adam side is the front, B/Baker is the left side, C/Charlie is back, D/David is right. Presumably the Pentagon would have a side Edward, but I haven't inquired.) Since I thought this drill would be 2-minute-ish, I had my facepiece on and was about to go on air. When he told me to throw the ladder, I knew not to, but I kept the facepiece on anyway. Stupid, stupid boy.

I was blind with fog after about 20 breaths. And my brilliant scheme to lay out my gear outside the truck resulted in my not having gloves. They were safely laying in the station where I left them when I hopped on the truck. That garnered the applause of all the onlookers.

I then stood at the back of the tower waiting for Homeschool to come help me pull the 28-foot truss-beam (heavy-ass) ladder. Oops... no dice. This was to be a solo-effort, or so said the screams of Drillzilla. Summarily (and loudly) admonished, I pulled the ladder singlehandedly and took it around to the side of the station. It was hard, but not impossible. Of course, being blind didn't help, but I managed to get the ladder up and tied off with something akin to competence.

That is, until Drillzilla pointed out that it was backwards.

And that the halyard knot had no safety.

And that I failed to look all around me before calling 'Clear Overhead'.

In all fairness, Drillzilla did explain afterwards that his intention was to school us aggressively so we can do all of our tasks under duress. I had a ton of excuses for why I was so ridiculously inept, but the fact was, I just plain sucked. For all the skills I thought I had mastered, the one that escapes me is the ability to do anything under pressure. And frankly, without that, I'm pretty useless.

We then went to dinner, where Drillzilla was quick to seat the Red Hats at a separate table. He was enjoying himself, and I applaud that. It's not everyday that a grown-man gets to engage in pledge hazing, and I think Drillzilla took true delight in making us aware of our circumstances.

Later on, I went so far as to call it hazing; good-natured of course, but hazing nonetheless. Another seasoned guy, [the Reverend] then grabbed a rubber chicken, and turned to me and said: "Oh, c'mon on now, this stuff isn't hazing, it's just training..."

"THIS is hazing!!!" He then beat me with the chicken.

Clucking hilarious.

Extrication, or Why Breaking Stuff Makes Me Tingle in My Nether Regions

2007-11-19T06:50:00.000-08:00

Spreaders, and cutters and combi-tools OH MY.

See how I'm building on the theme of my waning heterosexuality by paraphrasing Dorothy lines from 'The Wizard of Oz'? I find the juxtaposition of that, with the fact that I was shredding cars on Saturday to be a keen dicotomy.

When I say shredding, I mean it in the most violent, car-hating, sadistic, halligan-wielding way possible. My hands are still not closing properly I beat so much car ass. All cars, in fact, should tremble in my presence henceforth. Because I am the car destroyer. I've found my calling, and it is that.

I'll go back to the beginning.

Saturday morning was a mite chilly... but things warmed up dramatically when three car carcasses were drug onto the gravel lot next to the pad. The class was split into three groups and the students grabbed a variety of hand tools to begin what was to be a very vigorous whooping.

The concept behind the hand tools, and one of which I'm a huge proponent, is to teach the manual methods before we got into the more sophisicated and efficient hydraulic ones. When I was a roofer, steel-worker, and autobody shop employee, I was always taught the old-school methods before any power tool was put in my hands. It gives neophytes a lesson in the physics of the activity, and a better grasp of the necessary force required. Only then should they be allowed to unleash the power of some of the sickest tools ever begat by humankind.

First off - glass. Popping windows is fun. There is a little spring loaded window punch which, when pushed against the glass, retracts and then springs forward, shattering the entire pane. When the windows go, they go completely. It's pretty neat - first it's there, and then it's not. Simple and effective.

The windshield requires a bit more activity on the part of the firefighter. Since the windshield has a middle layer of tough plastic sheath, we had to either saw or chop our way through. Awesome.

Next up - the hood. We learned how to find the hood release cable and twist it, which would open the latch underneath, assuming the mechanisms were intact. But, if they weren't, we had to be a bit more inventive. We first jammed the halligan pick end through the hood and pryed up both corners in order to get an imaginary nozzle into the engine compartment to put out an imaginary fire. That was pretty easy, not a lot of resistance on the corners.

However, breaking the hood latch was manly fare. And the task was mine. It took a classmate a few swings with the flathead axe to embed the halligan underneath the latch, and then I laid into that fucker. When it finally gave, I fell forward into the engine compartment... but the satisfactory CRACK of the latch giving way was worth the imaginary burns I would have sustained had the engine actually been ablaze. Pause for ovation.

Then it came time for the doors. Ralph Nader, for all of his flaws, did an enormous service to the door-staying-shut community with the Nader bolt. This thing is un-fucking-breakable. We had some strong-as-shit mothers beating on that thing like frenzied coal miners, but to no avail. We ripped, pulled, hammered, pryed and tortured that door, and in the end, we got it off, but the Nader bolt was unaffected. All the metal around it looked like it had been chewed by a industrial strength wood chipper, but the bolt itself mocked us mercilessly.

When the hydraulic tools were finally pulled out, I was aroused. I had to manage my own Nader bolt there for a bit. The anticipation of nine months of testing the hydraulic tools on the engine during truck check-out had culminated in so much anticipation that that was my adrenaline's only means of egress. Whatever... I'm pretty sure I'm not the only firefighter enjoys hydraulic porn.

There are several hydraulic tools in the extrication quiver: a spreader, an O-cutter, a combi-tool, and a ram, all with various sizes to match the job:

The spreader looks like a pair of pliers, with the teeth on the outside. The point is jammed in the opening, and the teeth grip each side when the jaws open. If performed correctly, one or two jabs will do the trick.

The O-cutter, or just cutter, is a roundish set of shears that look a bit like a crab's claw. They perform the task like scissors, but the tips come together first upon closing, so as to entrap whatever is to be cut. Pretty evil. I love seeing form meet function, especially when the function is one of rote and unmitigated distruction

The combi-tool does both jobs, but doesn't do either as well as the tools built for only one purpose. Since it is built to both spread and cut, it's strength is reduced in both cases. The upside being that it is much more adaptable and can be used to cut or spread without switching tools. I'm a fan. Even at half-strength it is just plain abusive.

When it was finally my turn, I used the combi-tool to good effect, tearing a door off it's hinges in about 45 seconds. Sure, some may ask "Really, 45 seconds? You timed it you fucking poser?" The answer is yes. Yes I did.

I was also allowed to cut the B-post (The second post. The A post is the post going to the roof from the hood, the B-post is the post behind the first set of doors, etc) on the car with the O-cutter. Later I got to push up the dashboard with the spreader.

All of these tasks underscored my need for more time with the tools. For practice, sure, but I am now courting them. I must make them mine. I must have them. The power of the tools was inordinate and lovely to behold. Elegant and angry, I have a new love, and her name is Hurst, and she is a case-hardened bitch capable of things that no mortal should witness.

If loving her is unnatural and wrong, I don't want to be right.

Shangri-La - Driver Testing

2007-11-13T07:33:00.000-08:00

After a firefighter has been in the mix for several years, apparently they get an itch to drive. Their departments generally get an itch for them to drive too, since drivers are always in demand, and having a deep bench allows for more flexibility in staffing. Drivers also get black helmets, and any identifying mark indicating "I > U" in the fire service is highly sought after.

Thus, last Thursday, several Red Hats occasioned to participate in a driver practical, certifying none other than Robin, of 22 hour class fame.

A driver in our county is called a DPO (driver pump operator). As some might be able to extrapolate, the DPO both drives the engine/truck, and operates it's pumps. They also perform about a dozen or so other tasks of varying complexity, all it a frenetic pace.

Chad (Gaynadian) recruited all of the Red Hats from Shangri La to help out with Robin's certification. This was a coup on his part because he managed to ingratiate himself to management by providing free labor, plus he allowed the Red Hats an opportunity to ply their trade by pulling, racking, and flaking shit-tons of hose. He's not the most masculine fella in the world, but sometimes our Gaynadian thinks stuff real goodly.

The DPO check-out process is pretty involved, but it doesn't involve much driving. Most of the driving skills had already been established over the course of the prior year. Probationary drivers, much like probationary firefighters, are saddled with the menial tasks of those that are certfied: truck check out, fueling, and maintenance. They will also take the wheel on non-emergency calls, tooling around town, or on any sort of drive that doesn't have a crisis at the destination. Presumably, Robin was adept at this; all we saw, however, was her driving a hundred yards, parking, and then going about the business of extracting water from a source. The operations outside of the driver's seat were the primary concern for the test that night.

I don't think I've given much of a description of Robin other than her inkedness, but size-wise, she's not terribly big, indeed, she is very, very small. As I believe I've mentioned, most of the things on a fire engine are big, or heavy, or both. Oddly enough, this deterred her not one bit.

Over the course of multiple revolutions, she pulled hundreds of feet of 4 inch supply line, carried fifty pound rolls of same, wrapped hydrants, opened hydrants (one which was notably resistant), charged lines, drained lines, and managed the pump panel like she had designed it herself.

During this time, the Red Hats were pulling the attack lines and calling for water, which Robin promptly supplied. Since much of our training is done in stages at the training center, most Red Hats don't get the opportunity to see how things are supposed to go at a fire, henceforth I learned a great deal watching Robin.

In stark contrast to most of my experience thusfar, the objective of the DPO is to get water to the firefighters quickly. That means using the water on the engine itself. When the first engine arrives at the scene, the DPO will lay out a supply hose at the hydrant, but they don't attach it. What they do is scurry back in the engine and drive closer to the fire (unless the hydrant is in front of the objective). The DPO then hops out and flips on the pump and gets ready to charge the attack line. Concurrently, the Red Hats are pulling the attack lines - and in this case, the blitz line ( a 200 ft length of 2.5 inch hose). When the Red Hats called for water, water came. Like magic, only not.

Once Robin had the attack lines flowing, she then proceeded to hook up to the hydrant and establish a longer lasting water supply (I think... I was manning the business end of an attack line, but I'm pretty sure this is how it happened). If a second engine had arrived, they would perform that task for her, but for the purposes of that particular drill, it was on Robin to execute the entire process.

Other drills included:

- Supplying the Quint (a truck that has an aerial ladder, as well as it's own water supply) with water.
- Setting up a ground monitor (water gun) and supplying it with water.
- Receiving water from the 2nd in engine
- Charging the bumper line (an attack hose, located where? On the bumper dumbass)
- Running foam from the bumper line (no foam actually, just the steps. Foam isn't very friendly to the environment, and we at Shangri-La respect and love our Mother Earth)

For each one of these evolutions, the Red Hats were either pulling or racking hose. On one notable occasion, when I was the nozzle-man on the bumper line I tried to pull the 100 foot hose more than 100 feet. That resulted in a very violent stop, which in turn resulted in applause from the onlookers. I like to adhere to the law that states that even if something is made to be idiot-proof, the world will always build a better idiot. I am, indeed, that idiot. No matter how time-tested, late-model, matured or kiln-hardened a process is, it will never be so simple that I cannot find a flaw. Or, more to the point, there is no process into which I can't insert operator error to sensational effect.

At the end of the trials it was clear that Robin had been schooled diligently and had achieved an economy of motion that is reserved for those who have performed a task enough times to completely shear off any unnecessary movement. There was no redundancy, no backtracking, no mishandled execution and few if any missteps. To my untrained eye, her performance was immaculate.

That being said, when I test for DPO I'll totally kick her ass.

Duty Crew 5 - Search and Rescue - and some Man on Man action

2007-11-13T05:25:00.000-08:00

Duty Crew 5 was a 24 hour shift. I had always heard that these shifts were fun, and Sunday certainly solidified that notion.

The day before in fire school was search and rescue, definitely one of the high points of class as well.

The day before that I did legs in the gym - dumbest. move. ever.

So, I wake up Saturday for class and my legs are barely moving. After throwing down some coffee and cereal, I head to class. It's cold, early, and my motility is that of a cold-blooded creature in a refrigerator. My Adenosine-Tri-Phosphate isn't firing correctly, my ass feels like it's been hit with 40 tetanus shots, and my feet seem soldered to my ankles. An image of any zombie movie would not be far from correct.

S&R is fun, but it ain't easy. Crawling on the floor, on air, swinging a halligan bar, and calling out for survivors is actually pretty invigorating, but not just a little taxing. Luckily, after a few revolutions of S&R, we moved on to ladder rescues.

A ladder rescue is, like, the second to last resort in terms of getting a victim out of a fire. The last resort being defenestration (Gaynadian word. Actually, we don't defenestrate, but it's still an awesome word).

In most rescue situations, the firefighter would walk or carry the victim through the front door. If that isn't possible, he would get them out a first floor window. If the entire first floor is untenable, then 2nd floor rescues come into play.

It should come as no surprise that people would prefer jumping to burning. I certainly know I would, even if the jump was 100 stories. A quick splattercide is imminently better than the rapid heating process. Unfortunately, conscious people in a fire are bad decision makers. They tend to impede the progress of extending ladders by say, jumping onto them in mid-air. Or crawling out on them before the firefighter can get there. Ladder rescues try to take this into account, but as any instructor will tell us, there is no telling what a scared person will do. One thing that seems fairly certain, however, is that people don't jump sideways. So, that's where we throw the ladder.

Once the ladder is up, we roll it under the window. Then, if the victim is concious, we scurry up, and try to help them down. A live victim assist isn't too bad... it's sort of an upright, squeezy, shuffle down the rungs with the victim between the firefighter and the ladder. A bit unweildy, but not terribly technical.

If the victim isn't ambulatory, or is unconscious, we do something different, and by different, I mean, extraordinarily unnatural. Well, unnatural in a public setting. Certainly Jerry Falwell wouldn't approve of it in any circumstance.

Basically, the unconscious victim rescue involves the firefighter standing on the ladder as per usual, but the victim is facing outward, with one leg over each of the firefighter's shoulders. This can be done with the victims legs over the firefighter's legs as well, but either way, it's pretty damn intimate.

As I was watching (and videotaping) Product take a dummy down in this fashion, there was no end to the jokes that were running through my head. The comedy came two-fold as Product continuously had to adjust the dummy's position with neck thrusts, which would have rivaled even the best porn star's attempts. Unfortunately, when it came to rescuing classmates, it was me that was chosen first to lower [Don], a senior in high school with an impish grin that announced to everybody precisely who the wife was in our brief marraige.

As I descended the ladder with Don, his legs on my shoulders, my face squarely in his crotch, I'm quite sure the entire class was clear on this as well.

The rest of the class was a blur... there was some roof ladder action, some climbing, lowering, entry, exit, rescue, S&R and hose-dragging. But frankly, the image of Don was superimposed over everything.

After class I went home, nursed my legs, drank a beer, and grieved for my lost innocence - and heterosexuality.

Learned Helplessness

2007-11-05T05:30:00.000-08:00

Learned helplessness is a concept that I learned about a few years ago. Simply put, when an animal, or human, is placed in circumstances that they deem to be outside of their control, they will give up their fight or flight mechanism and succumb to whatever force or situation that is subjugating them.

In the case of dogs - a study was done where they were shocked in a manner that made them feel incapable of averting the shock. They eventually gave up and subsequently developed signs and symptoms of clinical depression. Even when they were no longer constrained, and could avert the shocks, they didn't do so; they remained helpless.

The cool thing about the study was this: some dogs never capitulated. No matter how dire their circumstance, no matter how unsuccessful their attempts at relieving the shocks, they never gave up.

Hark, is that a metaphor calling? Yes. Yes it is.

On the pad there are several groups of people. I'm reticent to try to label each category because the sub-genre's of personalities and motivations are far too complex to aptly summarize. For the purposes of this post, let me leave it at this: there are those that do, and those that don't.

Those that do make up the vast majority of class. They are the people - skilled or no, capable or no, strong or no, efficient or no - that consistently strive to better themselves. Obviously, as in all efforts, some are better than others; but the foundational truth is this, most fight the good fight; whether or not they are winning is largely secondary, because victory is eventually attainable to all. They are the dogs that don't quit. They are the dogs that stick it out in spite of repeated failures. Fuck the shocks - these dogs will tug at the end of their chains indefinitely.

Those that don't are a minority, but the visibility of their inaction is omnipresent. When called upon to do something, they are so visibly distraught that it would seem that they were plucked out of a nursing home and told to grab an attack-line and conquer a California tempest singlehandedly. Their feigned helplessness is akin to the first group of dogs - there is nothing constraining them to failure - they fail because their desire to overcome has been squashed. When they run out of excuses, they just look at their perceived oppressors with wide eyes and expressions of "Well, what are ya gonna do?"

So, the overarching question is this: What ARE we going to do? How does one go about reversing learned helplessness? How do we, as a class, turn this mindset around and let these tools know that it's within the scope of their abilities to actually perform the tasks at hand, and thrive in an environment that allows for failure, rather than graduate to an environment that punishes failure very, very harshly?

Dunno. Perhaps if we examine the root of the problem...

My conjecture is this: A 20-year old that has experienced constant failure, or at least, the illusion of constant failure, will likely give up in any circumstance, even if what he perceives to be a failure is only constructive advice. I don't know the history of the individuals in question - but I do recognize the symptoms of a person who has experienced so little success that they've largely given up the hope or desire to obtain it.

Slingblade had a similiar affliction, but he celebrated his lack of ability. It was almost as if he were proud of his status as the class fuck-up. He certainly wasn't displaying signs of depression as his repeated failures mounted. He also, in spite of his yeoman efforts to the contrary, actually learned a few things and eked out a certification. (Still not entirely sure how that happened, but it's unimportant, since he's not allowed to step foot in his station.)

The handful of helpless in fire school, however, seem to have no intention of learning, and seem almost vexed at the idea of somebody wanting them to. To them, attendance, and a facade of participation, is all that is necessary to become a firefighter. The sad reality is - their ploy might just work.

Resolving this is kind of delicate, and I'm not exactly a finesse player. My idea of a pep-talk generally involves threats and terribly unsubtle criticism, so I probably am not the best person for the job. The instructors are bound by so many rules that they can only wait until the final test day and hope that the helpless are weeded out. But even that might not be possible, because the instructors are judged on how many they can push through the cirriculum, not how many sandbaggers they can axe before they reach a point where they can do real harm.

No, it's really on the class to turn these fucks around. I'm just not sure if we can undo the damage that the world has wrought on their fragile minds.

Then again, perhaps 'undo the damage' is the wrong approach. Perhaps 'inflict more damage' is the direction we should be evaluating.

Why use complex and subtle when brutish and quick could be employed? After all, I am a minimalist.

Shangri La - Duty Crew 4

2007-10-31T05:43:00.000-07:00

Duty Crew 4 was largely without incident. We did get a call at 3 am for a fire alarm at a day care center. We moved with a quickness, and got there in a hurry, but there was no accompanying fire, so it was more of a glorified drill.

What did I learn in this drill? Several things:

- Always grab a flashlight, or get one for my coat.
- Figure out what tool I'm going to grab before I get to the scene. I had the water can, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be an axe man. The heft and balance of it just makes me feel warm inside.
- Learn why the hell I keep snapping my coat one button off, requiring me to undo it each time. This never happens in 2 minute drills, but has happened every time on the engine. No idea why.

Anyway, it was a good night. I even got a few hours sleep. I partially attribute this to the pillow I brought for the first time. Okay, I wholly attribute it to the pillow, because if anything, the environment was worse for sleeping than ever before. One guy was snoring to some insane demon beat the likes of which Rob Zombie would re-mix for a "House of 1000 Corpses II" soundtrack. Another guy had a beeper/alarm that went off every two minutes; 'beep-drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr'. The vibration would last about 10 seconds, and then it would stop, only to revisit the iteration in another 120 seconds. I think this went on about an hour before the owner turned it off, or talked it out of it's insistence on inflicting that kind of emotional pain.

There were also some engine drivers meandering about the county that felt compelled to call in about stuff. Not sure what, but it was being routed to my bunk room. No tones. No emergencies. Just stuff. "Engine 623 checking in for duah de dah do, flippity do dah, bleh." "Check Engine 623, duah de dah do, flippity out. Oh two forty-two."

The amazing thing about these distractions was that they were perfectly spaced in such a way as to prevent the most sleep possible. Just as I was finally drifting into my happy place - where instructors bring me cookies, concrete floors massage knees, and women's turnout gear is comprised solely of mesh and spandex... 'BEEP drrrrrrrr!!!!!'. And then the next time, when I found myself in a cool meadow, with no hay to make me sneeze, and ladders made of bamboo... "ENGINE 612, foghat lunchbucket peg mess, ho!!!!!". And then I would again slowly drift into a dreamstate where SCBA weighed 6 ounces and fit into my pants pocket when..... "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZSNORT, Crunk, killlllllll, gouge, gurgle, choke!!!!!!" It went like that all night. I don't think there was any point during the evening that had 30 consecutive minutes of uninterrupted bliss.

No biggie though, Fire House isn't for sleeping, it's for fire-puttin-outing.

Work is for sleeping.

Shangri la - Duty Crew 2,3, and the First Practical

2007-10-25T06:58:00.000-07:00

My second duty crew was abbreviated and uneventful, but fun nonetheless.

Duty crew at Shangri La runs on a different schedule than most stations: the nights change every week, with the first 'tour' being a full 24 hour Saturday, followed the next week on Friday, the next week on Thursday, and so on until Sunday is reached, when the crew does another 24 hour shift. This means that I have three duty crews every tour that will overlap with class. My second duty crew was one of those times.

Class ended at 10:30 PM, and when I finally got to the station, it was just two guys throwing a football in front. I didn't wait for an invite... we thew the ball around for a few hours, and then went to sleep.

My third duty crew was more involved. We received no calls that night, but made up for it with about 5 hours of training. We threw ladders, buddy-breathed, pulled attack lines, laid supply line, did SCBA checkout, tied knots, and racked about 1000 feet of hose. Most of the time I was PPE (personal protective equipment) clad which meant that by the end of the evening I was covered in both sweat, and a very heavy patina of exhaustion. Shangri la was beginning to live up to it's reputation as a station that drills the shit out of their people.

I also talked to some of the other members about classes they took, and things they had done. The braggadocio was still there... the difference was, with these guys, it was believable. Two had actually been in the Pentagon on 9/11. One had partaken in a grueling smoke jumper class that involved oxygen deprivation in a way that made my sphincter, well, sphinct. Turned off cylinders, smoke-filled rooms with inoperable regulators, and the worst: having to rely on others to come save a student who had his air shut off. It was some hairy stuff - graduate courses in the cirriculum where I am still in the remedial class. Pretty telling insofar as me finding out how little I really know.

The only problem I have with duty crew is this: I can't sleep. I could cite numerous reasons - snoring, tones, hard beds, shuffling crew mates, and being deprived of my normal sleep aids - but I think the main problem is that after doing so much stuff, I'm am just too jacked up for rest. It's fine until about noon the following day, at which point I require an Americano every hour to keep my eyes open.

The last bit was the culmination of the week: the Module 1 practical. We had our written test two days prior, but the practical was where the students were actually on the hook for demonstrating their skills. The tests were on ladders, pulling an attack hose into the building, tying every tool known to man, and performing a very thorough SCBA checkout.

Most did well. Some failed one or two segments. Cypher, true to form, set a new low by completely walking out of his knots test due to an utter lack of ability. How he managed to learn nothing in six weeks I'll leave to posterity to discern, but it was evident that he will amount to nothing more than a frame upon which a fire-related t-shirt can be draped.

Which leads me to a discussion point: how is it that the guy who has a veritable stable of firefighting t-shirts and paraphenalia so completely bereft of any skills that even encroach upon firefighting ability? He can do nothing. He could do something - he's not physically or mentally challenged in any way (as far as we know) - but his inability to grasp, practice, and perfect even the simplest functions lead me to this question: "Why choose firefighting when you clearly don't want to be a firefighter?"

Respect? Nope. Anybody with a modicum of perspective will recognize him as a poser/d-bag the second they lays eyes on him.

Chicks? Couldn't be. Even the most hopelessly daft firefighter groupie wouldn't angle in Cypher's direction when there was another target within 15 miles.

A future career in firefighting? Not if he wants to put this school on his resume. No instructor that has met him would recommend him for anything other than pegboy (look it up, I'm not referring to the band).

So, I'm guessing that his reasoning is merely this: he needs t-shirts, and no respectable band will allow him to adorn himself with their logo. I suppose Abercrombie or the Gap would take his money, but that's predicated on the assumption that mall security would allow him to sully their halls.

Shangri La - Duty Crew 1, and other stuff

2007-10-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

I ran my first duty crew at my new station, Shangri La, last Thursday. I learned several things:

1.) Putting on gear inside the truck is immeasurably harder than doing so on the pad with no obstructions.

2.) Finding a place to rest a drink while putting on gear inside the truck complicates the process.

3.) French Fries don't taste that great after being on the floor of a fire engine.

4.) Landfill, despite his girth, is as agile and quick as a cat. He also doesn't seem to appreciate french fries in his boots.

First off - we ran three calls, with an aborted fourth call. The first was a fire in our 3rd due, meaning a long drive to the scene, every minute of which I took to get my gear on. I was horribly, horribly slow and inept, and I'm quite sure that fact wasn't lost on my crew mates. At one point the driver whipped around the corner fast enough that a cross-lay (a 1.75 inch hose, which lies crosswise, as opposed to lengthwise, on the truck) flew out of it's bed and started to drag along the street. Landfill saw it, yelled at the driver to stop, got out, unhooked 150 of the 200 feet, and pulled the rest in the window. So we rode to the call with 50 feet of hose in our laps. It wasn't an ideal strategy, and I'm pretty sure everyone was hoping that our colleagues in the other engines didn't see it, but it was the best solution available.

The next call was a fire alarm. As I learned, 'fire alarm' does not mean 'fire'. Kind of like 'car alarm' doesn't mean 'car theft'. Apparently, most fire alarms are false, which, in retrospect, makes sense. That didn't stop me from bumbling through the gear-getting-on process again though. I learned at the scene that everyone else was aware the fire alarm was set by a painter who had covered some of the detectors with tape - not exactly an emergency.

I'm sure the endless-rookie-mistake portion of this program is going to last quite awhile, but it does make me weary.

The third call was an EMS call. The ambulance arrived at the same time, so I picked up the defibrillator, and then put it back down again. Red Hat contribution - check.

The aborted call did require me to get me gear on in the truck yet again, and I did it much better the last time, only to learn that the call was cancelled.

The best part of the night, oddly enough, was hanging out with Landfill and having him explain some of the endless minutiae of the fire service; how the officer has a Z-pole by his seat to gouge a hole in a floor, ceiling or wall, how medic units are dispatched based on what certification an individual has, how the dispatch tones vary for each company in the county, and how the heirarchy of the station worked; it was quite an education, most of which will take a bit of time and exposure to actually absorb.

All in all, a great first night. As with all learning experiences, the true education lay in all that I screwed up, rather than all I did right (nothing, I think). The crew, however, was gracious and helpful, and didn't seem to mind terribly that I was incapable of the simplest of tasks. I guess red-hat fuckeduppedness is a common occurrence. They, unfortunately, did not occasion to ask where the first volunteer fire department was in the US; the answer to which, I totally knew.

On to class:

This week has seen ropes and knots, ladders, and smoke detectors.

Smoke detectors = boring.

Ropes and knots = fun, if not a bit slow-paced. Learning how to tie a good knot is very satisfying. Tying one around Bucolic's neck is even more so. I suspect the instructors would frown on class-lynchings in most cases, but I reckon they might make an exception in Bucolic's case, since he has, indeed, gone over completely to the dark side.

Ladders are more interesting that most would think. In the course of growing up in the suburbs, I had more than ample opportunity to hoist a ladder or two. I also worked on a roofing crew, a demolition crew, and most notably, a steel crew; all of which used ladders extensively. None of which, however, showed me how to raise them in such a variety of ways.

Throwing a twelve foot straight ladder is a breeze, no challenge there... but throwing a 24 foot two-section ladder single-handedly takes more practice. Even more so in the wind. It's pretty do-able though, and if it's done right, the firefighter looks damn competent.

If not done right, well, I think all can agree that a ladder clamoring to the ground is a great way to demonstrate one's need for more instruction. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm willing to bet that it will.

Slingblade, Yet Again

2007-10-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

****I started this post about 3 weeks ago... just got around to finishing.

Since this past week has been mostly lecture I've got few data points from which to promulgate new ideas.

So I'll be promulgating some old ones.

Slingblade -

I've never relayed this story before, but I think this is a good time. The story, unfortunately, happened primarily in my head, becuase I wasn't quick enough on my feet to verbalize my disdain, but I still needed to get it down on paper, or in some sort of media.

One day, way back in First Responder, Slingblade was doing something idiotic and I called him a [horribly insensitive word that combines both a euphamism for sex as well as a slang term for a person with a mental handicap]. I'm not proud of this, but it was as close as I could come to killing him without actually committing a crime.

Slingblade's retort? "Hey, I invented that word. That word is mine, you can't use it."

All of the above actually happened. From here on out is what occurred in my head since then.

Me: "Nooooo, Slingblade, you didn't invent that word. You know how I know? Because paramecium didn't invent the word paramecium. Village-Idiots don't refer to themselves as Village-Idiots. Insane people don't know that they are insane, and [insensitive word]'s certainly aren't capable of coining the term [insensitive word].

To this, in my mind, Slingblade's eye's glazed over, and he shuffled on through the crowd trying to develop a story to cover up his next fart.

Fire School - Hoses and Appliances

2007-10-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

For the first time since beginning this epic adventure through the fire service, I'm forced to make this remark: I sucked this week.

Hoses and appliances are basically all the things that move water, or things through which water moves. Hoses are generally, 1.75, 2.5, 3, or 4 inches - appliances are all the things that go along with hoses; nozzles, valves, adapters, ends, etc. Nothing terribly complicated.

I have flowed water through hoses many times - it's a shit ton of fun. Exhausting, but fun. What becomes less fun is when I'm dragging the charged (full of water) hose, on my knees, up the stairs on a concrete floor.

But, before I get to that, let me step back to something I failed to mention last week.

At noon on consumption day 8 team leads were chosen. Directly after that, the classes counted off in eights. I was chosen as Team Lead 5. My team subsequently grew to four members:

Me
[Utah]
[Mamita]
[Bucolic]

Utah is seventeen. He's also a Mormon, hence the name. The label won't stick, I hope the class renames him because I didn't put much thought into this one. Utah has the capacity of doing stuff so right, so often, that no flaws are readily apparent. This is great for the team, but it's crap for trying to assign him a name that quickly and ironically wraps his personality up in two syllables or less. Utah is vying for Eagle Scout. He's also a damn strong recruit - smart, apt and a hard worker -Utah would easily slip into the lead role if I were to get taken out by a stray coupling or errant pick axe.

Mamita is a Peruvian girl who also happens to run out of my new station. She's has proven to be quite capable on the fire grounds. A lot of guys are quick to try to overcompensate for a seemingly weaker girl, but Mamita definitely doesn't need that help. We put her on nozzle all day long on Saturday and she never complained. She walked the hose into the burn building multiple times and managed her portion of the program with a ton of panache. She's also great at racking hose. (I'd insert something completely inappropriate regarding the term 'racking hose', but she's really good at it, and that matters a lot.)

Bucolic. Well, Bucolic has potential. (If some have noted a marked change in tone here, that was by design). Bucolic rides in every day with Pixie's partner from First Responder. We're going to call him [Cypher], not because he's all matrix-y with cool gadgets, but because he is, by definition, a zero. A placeholder. A nil. A non-entity. (Look it up - it's not a compliment). Bucolic, unfortunately, seems to be taking on some of the traits of Cypher. Laziness is one of them. Excuse-making another. After being late or absent four times (out of seven classes), and managing to miss every single quiz (four so far), he still has yet to acknowledge he's part of the problem. But, I'm not giving up on him just yet. He's strong, young, and he seems like he CAN do stuff, even though he tends to err on the side of NOT doing stuff. Either way, I hope to help put him on the right path, because like I said, he might have some potential.

On to my shitty day.

Actually, the day was fun, just not for me. I felt helpless in my role as team lead. The role, by the by, is really just an organizer/spokesman/logistician - an administrator mostly. However, the leads are allegedly chosen based on leadership qualities. We were told that the team leads were not to try to discipline, or otherwise admonish their teams, which pretty much precludes us from being actual leaders. Not that a leader is defined by his/her ability to punish, but they are defined by their capacity to get people to move towards an objective. I think whatever ability I have in this area will likely be hampered because people just don't have to listen. That, and the fact that I don't really know what to do yet anyway. Utah and Mamita are of no concern - they are both hard workers and great team players - frankly, they don't need a leader, they just need a team. Bucolic needs prodding, and I have a feeling that he'll take less and less kindly to it as the weeks wear on. The team can certainly supply the encouragement, I think, I'm just worried that he'll slowly digress into asshole-dom along with his toolshed partner Cypher.

Either way, it just wasn't a banner day. I found a weak link in my team. I found a dozen weak links in my leadership credentials, and I determined that my ass is severly out of shape.

The day was also remiss of humor almost completely throughout. The only shot I was able to fire over the bow was during one of the drills when we took an uncharged line off the engine, did a 30 second drill, and then advanced it into a decidedly non-burning building. After going in on our knees for 50 or 100 feet, I stood up, and walked back out. A recent Fire I graduate yelled "Never turn your back on the fire." Me, not knowing who he was, replied "I put that motherfucker out, hence, no fire upon which to turn my back." He thought that not a bit funny. I did notice that he watched as I doffed my gear so he knew who was backsassin' him. I'm sure that'll come back to bite me eventually.

There was one, very notable upside to the day, however:

As I believe I mentioned on consumption day: Chad has a chair. It's a chair with the Canadian flag on it, because, as I believe I mentioned, he's a Gaynadian. The chair has become a bit of a centerpiece for the class. More specifically, it has become the flag. As in, capture the flag.

The chair made it's way to the 3rd floor window of the burn building (the students still don't know who took it... we just know it got there... somebody is very sly)

It then made it's way to the roof (very sly indeed)

As Chad went to retrieve his chair, Lowenstein got on top of one of the engines, fired it up, and aimed the deck gun at Chad (this is typically frowned upon, what with the deck gun being able to pour out about 300 gallons per minute of water, but Chad was four stories up and 100 feet away, so wetness was the only possible outcome).

When Lowenstein dropped the hammer, wetness did ensue, but it wasn't Chad's. Apparently the pins on the deck gun had not been replaced properly, and a torrent of water shot up from the engine and drenched Lowenstein. In the span of 20 seconds I would submit that 100 gallons of water shot out of the hole that was supposed to lead to the deck gun. It was amazing.

Chad, having done nothing but watched from afar, assumed a sanctimonious stance at the top of the burn building and began to laugh his ass off. The class was simultaneously scattering and issuing shouts of glee. It was a great way to end the day.

Lowenstein, even with his catastrophically failed attempt, did nothing but endear himself more to the class. He proved not only that he was willing to have some fun, but he also showed that he could laugh at himself, a trait not common amongst the triumvirate.

Having had a few days to digest all of these events, I guess the day wasn't that bad. I learned a lot about what not to do.

Fire School - Days 5, 6 and 7

2007-09-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

Class this week was all lecture - 15 hours of lecture over three days. Two-thirds of the triumvirate were teaching the vast majority of those hours. The Monday and Wednesday classes were short enough to maintain something akin to mental harmony during the long and dry lectures, but the nine hour Saturday lecture was too much. Something had to be done.

Saturday classes are 8am to 5pm. On practical days, this is fantastic, on lecture days it's a sentence.

From this pain was born 'the contest'.

But first, a few of the highlights from Saturday.

The three subjects on Saturday were for both Fire 1 and Fire 2 students, which meant two things: 1.) There would be 70+ students in the classroom, and 2.) One of these students would be Slingblade.

Slingblade never fails to deliver something new, even though it is generally something that accelerates the downfall of western civilization. This time, he came to class with his station shirt covered in a white spattered substance. On a break we made all of the requisite jokes - white stains on a shirt cannot be ignored, nor can they be tolerated. None of this was out of the ordinary, in fact, it was so common that it wouldn't warrant comment, except for this: Slingblade chose Product as the person at which he feinted aggression.

Slingblade sidled up next to Product and did a sort of jerky, arms back, neck forward, eyes bulging, no-contact, torso-thrust. It was a move I haven't seen since sixth grade. Product responded with a down-dressing the like that is rarely seen outside of a Principal's office. I was dumbstruck. I was so shocked by Product's soliloquy that I had nothing to contribute. He simultaneously derided Slingblade's demeanor, teammanship, intellect, and competence. It was perfect.

Slingblade slinked away unnoticed as the onlookers soaked in the display.

Back in class, Slingblade then pulled out his knife and started playing with it. One of the triumvirate actually asked him if he was insane. The knife, of course, was the one I gave him for passing the First Responder finals. This simple act of idiocy on my part will likely result in my conviction for accessory to negligent homicide.

Who gives a razor-sharp tactical blade to a borderline sociopath? Me. That's who. Because I'm a fucking genius.

A couple funny quotes were heard in class as well:

Triumvirate: "Anybody in here a police officer?"
Me: "Well, my wife and I role play every once in awhile."

Triumvirate: "...and what don't they have in the west end of the county?"
Product: "Intelligence?"

There were also three clever phrases that might make the final compendium:
- Surround and drown (denoting a defensive position taken once the fire is unwinnable)
- Smells and bells (describing the common residential call that is generally a stove fire)
- Try before you pry (turn the doorknob before you knock down the door)

The above mentions accounted for maybe six minutes of fun, and that is an extremely generous estimate. Enter 'the contest'.

During the first three hours of class, five of us; Stitches, Homeschool, Product, Ox, and I; were keeping track of stories told by the triumvirate. The total count for the three hours was 51. 51 stories over the course of 3 hours. Just plain DEMOLISHING the old record of 22.

At lunch the contest emerged - a simple office pool - one dollar for one number. The number closest to the number of stories in the second half of class would win***. We had twenty people play. The only reason the whole class didn't participate was because we only had time to tell twenty people. Had we been able to inform the entire class of the pool I'm sure the pot would have grown to fifty dollars or more.

I can't claim that the contest increased attentiveness during the second half of class - but that will be my explanation if I'm ever called to the carpet regarding such a blatant disregard for classroom decorum. At least three different people fell asleep, and there were constant side discussions and inside jokes being shared. However, while they weren't necessarily focused on the lecture material, the bet participants took a keen interest in the rolling tally. Various individuals, knowing the rough count, would start to pay very close attention to stories once they encroached the number they bet.

About ten participants, myself included, were passed early on: counts 11 through 30 were knocked out pretty quickly. I bet 27.

Once it went into the 30's, things got much more interesting. The triumvirate became aware of the time, and that they were losing their audience. This meant fewer stories. It also meant a quicker lecture. The various participants saw this trend and tried to alternately slow down, or speed up class, depending upon their bet. It was beautiful.

Product's bet was 36. When the triumvirate hit 36, with 12 slides to go, we knew we had a problem - Product was one of the judges.

Two months ago, after hundreds of stories from the triumvirate, it was clear that the definition of 'story' required interpretation. Some stories were obvious, some were subtle, and some were debated, but none were counted until all judges agreed. The first time we did an official count it was Volvo, Product and me. We came to the conclusion that any anecdote relayed in the first person automatically counted. But, we also included things that were added purely for effect, things that were obvious hyperbole, or things that were added just to counter someone else's story.

It was clear that counting was not as simple as we had originally thought. So a group of judges was formed. As I mentioned before, for this class, it was Product, Ox, Stitches, Homeschool, and me. We stipulated during the bookkeeping that our rule was final, and our decisions were not subject to appeal.

As it turned out, the judges broke out much like the supreme court: Ox was our Scalia, a strict constructionist conservative who was slow to allow anything; Stitches was the Kennedy/Ginsburg (more like the Ninth Circuit Appellate Court), who wanted to allow everything just to see where it took us; Homeschool was fastidious and machine-like, the Sandra Day O'Conner of our group, and Product and I were the swing votes, debating the merits of each case that threatened audit.

But, had Product won, the whole system would have been subject to more scrutiny than it could have withstood.

But much like Slingblade, the triumvirate never fails to deliver. The count of 36 grew to 39 in a clutch play involving two early career stories and a reference to a plane crash. All was well.

As one of our fellow classmates walked away with his ill-gotten gains, it occurred to me that future games weren't just possible, but highly desirable.

- Questions in iambic pentameter
- Student stories told in haiku
- Buzzword bingo.
- The classic contest from Super Troopers, where the word 'meow' has to be injected into questions and answers. "How would we go about scaling a roof ladder meow?"

For future generations, know this: there were those that came before - an insurgency - that fought against an oppression vast enough to suck up a Saturday needlessly. They wielded the mighty sword of insubordination in a way that both killed time, and created a blueprint for further audacity. These dissidents were not successful in overthrowing the tyranny that shrouded them in darkness, but they enabled the brave few to enjoy a few moments of bliss on an otherwise dreaded day.

These insurgents may not live on forever in the hearts of those they helped, but they will probably live at least a few days in the memory of the twenty bucks that [Stonewall] probably used to fill up his motorcycle.

*** The origins of this contest go back a few years. Quite candidly, it was just as hilarious then. (Shout out to KR and TP)

Juxtaposition

2007-09-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

Here's a little something that I haven't written about - I'm transferring stations.

I'll be posting this after the fact, because I'm not altogether sure how all of this will shake out, but I feel obliged to offer up some explanation.

First, let me say this: this decision wasn't easy. In fact, it took roughly 5 months to derive. All this time I've been jotting down thoughts in this journal I've also inadvertently been keeping score. I say inadvertently because there was never an explicit checklist of reasons to leave or join a station, yet looking back over the archives of this journal it's almost neon in it's conspicuousness.

It came down to this: The best times I've had in the fire service so far have been the times that I haven't been at my station. In fact, the lopsidedness of my experience has been so overwhelming that I'm almost reticent to list it here. But I will - for posterity.

I do what I do for the kids. God bless 'em.

The station that I originally joined is small, which is a good thing when evaluated in a vacuum: more exposure to leadership, more latitude, more responsibility, and a more tight-knit community. In reality none of this shook out: I was very far removed from any decision-making, I was given no tasks, I couldn't get my crew to train, and my Lt. didn't learn my name for three shifts. I could go on, but this journal is actually a fair accounting of my experience at my station. I'm guessing I would have lasted about 6 months after fire school before quitting if I had stayed there. If it's not fun, and I'm not adding value, and I'm not learning anything, and the people aren't engaging, then my presence there just wouldn't have been necessary. Half of the crews use the station as a hotel in which they can escape their families for a night every week. I traveled for work for 8 of my 13 years in I.T. - being away from my family is a downside, not an upside.

For more background, justification, and vindication, peruse the following posts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.

All caught up? Those seven entries were the ones solely based on happenings at my station - as opposed to those that happened at other stations, or at the county training center. They represent the unhappiest, boringest, lamest, unfunnest, unfunniest, no-material-havingest, no-friends-makingest, Lt-Being-Laziest, crews-not-being-staffedingest period during my time since joining. Those seven entries also, for the most part, sucked. Why? I only write when I'm interested. The only interesting things happening during those times were decisively bad.

After making my decision I talked to Robin who happens to be the membership chair at my new company. This company [henceforth referred to as Shangri-La] also happens to be the company that sponsored the 22-hour class, the EVOC class, and many of my First Responder practices. They are also heavily represented at any event at the county level. Burn day? Tons of Shangri-Latians. Practical? Heavy Shangri-La turnout. Victims needed for EMT training? Huge infestation of Shangrilese. Current fire-school class? Almost half Shangri-Lamoans.

The station's reputation is sterling within the county, and its crews are peppered with highly-trained, highly motivated people. I'm sure there will be drawbacks to the station, there is no real Elysium out there, and tools and ass-rams seem to turn up no matter where I hide, but my confidence is high that the ratios will be much more favorable at Shangri-La.

By-the-by, Chad (Gaynadian) runs on Crew 1 out of Shangri-La. As does another up-and-comer, who I'll call [Landfill]. Landfill has a true nickname, as does Chad, but both are as well known as their actual names, so I can't use even those. Landfill will have to do.

Some might ask themselves if the Gaynadian influenced my decision. Well, the answer can only be a qualified 'no'. I say qualified because, frankly, he had a ton of good points, and some were not on my original list... so his lamentations, pleadings, and proclamations of love must have had some sort of impact, despite my objective approach to the decision.

Being a man of science, engineering, math and philosophy I had to take a methodical approach in my decision-making for this switch. I had to line up the pros and cons; apply a weighting system that took into account the impact on myself, my family, and my community; and analyze the results thoroughly before rendering my decision. The dispassionate and clinical process was disciplined. It was measurable. It was repeatable. It was flawless.

Just kidding - I joined Shangri-La primarily because their t-shirts fucking rule.

As - what some might consider - an attempt at giving my old station one last shot at redemption, I went to the first Red Hat meeting to occur since Chad departed. This meeting coincided with my fifth month being a Red Hat at a station with no Red Hat program. While there is no county-stipulated Red Hat program mandate, I think the issue is pretty self-evident; a rookie is not going to thrive in an environment where there is no infrastructure to support him.

The meeting was run by the newly appointed Red Hat trainer [Mo]. The Red Hat meeting turned into a one-hour Mo show. I wasn't clear if we were there to understand our mission going forward, or if we were there to more firmly grasp how fucking awesome Mo - and anyone associated to him - was. Presumably, my being his Red Hat would make me awesome by proxy, but I guess my losing that proxy-awesomeness will have to be the opportunity cost of going to Shangri-La. Because the meeting did not sway me from my path. I was Shangri-La bound, no matter how legendary Mo's skills.

Throw 40 pounds and 20 years on Mo and he'll be qualified to join the Triumvirate.

There might be 50 ways to leave your lover, but breaking up with a 250 pound fire station chief is a bit more daunting. Since I'm an enormous pussy, I did it over the phone. In my defense, I did ask him to meet me at the station, but since he wasn't going to be able to make it that night, I went ahead and served the news phono-y-phono. By generally accepted laws of manhood, I should have to surrender all usage of my testicles for the next 90 days. However, since I still had to do a face-to-face to turn in my gear, I gave myself a pardon.

I scheduled with the Chief to turn in my gear after class on Monday. He indicated that he'd be at the station. When the time came, he was nowhere to be found, but his second was there - Quartermaster Keith. If there was any one way to absolutely confirm the veracity of my decision, it was having Keith there to pick up my gear.

Me: "Hey."

Keith: (In his nasally, perennially-irritated pitch) "Whaaaaaaat?"

Me: "I'm here to turn in my gear."

Keith: "So turn it in."

One thing I can say about Keith, he's a consistent asshole, which is immenently better than PAH, who hovers at amiable about 90 percent of the time just to fly into the stratosphere of violent anger with no forewarning.

Irrelevant - I'm out. PAH, Keith, Hemmorhoid, Ernst, Mo, and Jordan are no longer factors in my existence. I expect I'll run into them from time to time in the field but they will register very low on the list things for which I give a shit.

About time.

CresceNet, I Pray Thee, Depart

2007-09-25T17:42:00.000-07:00

Oh CresceNet, thou spammeth me with thine Portugese prose. Although Spanish it may look, from the text 'Brasil' I did see, and I knoweth thy Brasilians speak Portugese.

I beseech thee, stay the fuck off my blog. Even thoughest I don't speaketh nor readeth Portugese, I can derive this phrase "20 centavos por hora".

While your women art thy hottest in this life or next, I still pray thee fuck off, and comment never again.

Fire School Day 4 - Consumption Test - Epilogue

2007-09-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

Chad (Gaynadian) was quick to inform me that we did, indeed, have a student get an ambulance ride after the day's festivities were over.

So, now I face a dilemma; do I revise the post to accurately reflect the fact that we did have a casualty, or do I change the rules by which my braggadocio was bound?

Shit, like there was ever a question.

Of course the post stands. That cat was rolled out of there after class was over. My ex post facto ruling states this:

Any casualties sustained after class is officially dismissed are not counted towards total class casualties, and therefore do not factor into class bragging rights, street cred, or other plaudits, explicit or implicit, forevermore, amen.

So fuck it - we rule. If a person were to disagree, I would merely direct them to the aftorementioned ruling.

In the following lecture, Product and I discussed the trials of the consumption test, and we - as gentlemen sometimes do - became rather boisterous in our desire for a rematch. Our thinking being that if we did so well in the abridged test, we might, as a class, smoke the full test as well. We decided to put the question out there to management.

Lowenstein: "In two weeks you'll forget the consumption test ever happened. You won't give a shit about it. You'll be fighting fires. I can assure you that you won't trade a burn day for a consumption day."

I love Lowenstein. I love Fire School. I love the big fucking bruise on my knee.

Fire School Day 4 - Consumption Test

2007-09-24T05:22:00.000-07:00

The run-up to the consumption test day can only be described as unnerving, and possibly harrowing. The triumvirate, in keeping with their history, managed to spend at least 20 minutes in prior classes saber-rattling and explaining to us in vivid detail how they keep an ambulance on the pad during consumption tests, and how they never fail to use it at least once.

Not today bitches.

Nobody in my class failed to complete the course, and nobody quit trying. One guy puked, one guy got overheated, and a few took a long time on some of the strength sections of the course, but everyone finished. It was a good day. And the ambulance never moved.

Just go ahead and call it a day Rescue Fred, we won't be needing your services.

In all fairness, consumption test day has been in years past, pretty gnarly, and historically many people don't finish. Many would succumb to cramps or heat exhaustion, some were bested by their claustrophobia, and a few just gave up. Our test was a hair easier than prior tests, with one or two activities removed, but it was still pretty demanding.

The day was broken up into two halves: the morning was the agility (consumption) test and the maze; the afternoon would comprise 2 minute drills, a follow-the-hose drill, and some buddy-breathing.

The agility test was made up of five parts:

- a stairclimb with a 50-ish pound hose pack (called a highrise pack)
- a 135-lb tire drag
- 20 chops with an axe
- climbing another set of stairs and raising/lowering a hose-roll on a pulley
- raising/lowering a 36-ft truss-beam extension ladder.

All this was to be done while breathing air on SCABA (for those catching up, SCABA = Self Contained Awkward Breathing Apparatus). The objective was to get used to working while breathing through the SCABA as well as knowing what it feels like to run out of air.

For the record, running out of air feels like shit.

The Gaynadian was kind enough to be the guy who was there for me when I sucked dry. He made sure that I had breathed every last particulate from that tank before he pulled off my regulator. In his defense, that's exactly what he was supposed to do - watching my eyes bulge out of their sockets was just a fringe benefit for him. In keeping with the stature of an instructor he kept his composure on the outside, but I heard his twisted, black little heart laughing on the inside.

The maze was also a treat. Not as complicated as the maze at my station, this maze was a damn sight tighter. Volvo and Ox (formerly Cooler), both being of considerable mass, hated the maze. Volvo actually pushed his SCABA in front of him. Ox kept it on, but showed - for the first time ever - a bit o' the enmity upon completion. He was very, very mad at the maze. He quickly resumed his Ox-ish calm shortly thereafter, but I wouldn't have been shocked to see him drill a halligan bar through the side of that fucker.

Like the agility tests, the entire class made it through the maze. I suspect peer-pressure played a role, but the instructors, Ned specifically, were very encouraging to those that struggled. [Reggie], the lead Fire School instructor was also there to spur people on. We haven't seen much of him yet, but all indicators point towards him leaning in the Ned, Chad, Lowenstein direction - and away from the triumvirate - in terms of veracity and credibility.

There were a ton of other instructors on the pad that day; Lowenstein, Ned, Chad, Robin, and about 5 others. Each was manning a different post, shouting words of encouragement, or pulling classmates aside and explaning how their difficulties could be overcome. As per usual, the triumvirate were over the top in their proclamations, drama, and addresses, but it was nice to see them being a bit less, um, triumvirate-ish on game day.

At the risk of waxing poetic, sounding obsequious, or otherwise straying from my normal tone of dissonance and sanctimonious distain, the day was packed with viscerally-charged emotions; fear, pain, anger, joy and frustration. All of the senses were heightened, and subsequently all sensations were more acutely registered. Success was celebrated, failure was shared and applause, nickname-creation, shouts of glee, and laughter were all had in abundance.

It was a banner day. From what I understand - it only gets better.

Fire I - Days 2 and 3

2007-09-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

I feel the words building inside me, I can't stop them, or tell you why I say them, but as I reach the top of the bridge these words come to me in a whisper. I say these words as a prayer, as regret, as praise, I say: Lowenstein, Lowenstein.*

Instructor [Lowenstein] looks like a cross between State Trooper Ramathorn (Bottom right in the picture) from 'Super Troopers' and Deputy Junior from 'Reno 911'. He's the kind of guy from whom a person wants to learn. Funny, but not overly so, insightful, respectful, and self-aware, he doesn't pound his chest in front of the class and explain from every angle how incredible he is - in fact, on at least four occasions he underscored his shortcomings.

More Cowbell? Nay sir... more Lowenstein. I believe he was sent to deliver us, all of us, from the Triumvirate, and re-bestow in us the thirst that compelled us to be here to begin with.

The only truly funny thing that happened during class while Lowenstein was teaching was when one of the Triumvirate came in, and lay down coquettishly on the steps in the front of the auditorium. Instructor Lowenstein asked him if he wanted to contribute something, and the chub-tri member said "No, I just keep hearing about your tangents and stories and I wanted to come experience them for myself."

I'm not qualified to build an analogy powerful enough to underscore what a ludicrous projection this was, but in keeping with tradition, I'll take a crack at it.

(Okay, I'll be honest - I've been working on this analogy for a week and I've still got nothing. I was going to do a Keith Richards/Snoop Dogg analogy, a Chappelle/Pauli Shore allegory, and a Rumsfeld/Michael Brown/Alberto Gonzales riff, but nothing came close to hitting the mark. The enormity of this incongruity, this fluxation in the fabric or reality, this travesty of rational thinking cannot be described through words. Only those who experienced it can truly understand the magnitude of the contrarianism and the sheer audacity of the statement.)

Lowenstein's namesake was simply a psychiatrist, played by Barbara Streisand, who helped a man through his problems. She also had an affair with him, but the analogy falls short there, as I don't plan on actually engaging in coitus with Instructor Lowenstein. He does, however, represent salvation for all of us... and we love him dearly. So who knows...

The lecture was my third or fourth on PPE, so there was nothing new there. The following class had two-minute drills, where I did set a personal-best of 1:37.

Next up: consumption tests...

* "Prince of Tides"

First Responder - Finale

2007-09-18T15:00:00.000-07:00

'Denouement' is French, 'finale' is Latin, as is 'penultimate'. I guess the theme that ties the last three posts together is twofold: they use funny foreign literary words, and each of them is used incorrectly.

Penultimate means next to last. Of course, the post with that name was two posts ago, meaning that the post should have been named pen-penultimate. In all fairness, I wasn't expecting to have another post in First Reponder, but Slingblade's transgressions compelled me to put one together.

Denouement means conclusion. Again, the denouement post would have been the conclusion had dumbass not cheated off me. Now I need another conclusion, so I'm calling this one 'Finale'. I could use Epilogue, but that would indicate that I'm talking about events that transpired after the story was complete. The story isn't complete, so that would be yet another misuse of French. Not that I'm opposed to misusing the French, on the contrary, I encourage it, but in the specific case of word usage I must refrain.

On to the Finale.

The fallout of the county finals was a bit unexpected - more than a few students failed the exam. Passing was 80% or above, and three students missed by one point. For all of them, failing with a 79% was very frustrating. However, two days later they did a retake and passed with a comfortable margin.

Boomhauer, on the other hand, did not miss passing by one point, nor did she pass on the retake. Boomhauer was not allowed to go on to take the state final. More on that in a second.

The state testing was held at a nearby high school. We were told, in no uncertain terms, that we were to be at the high school no later than 6:45 - number two pencils and ID in hand - in order to test. If we were late, we would not test; full stop.

At 7:30, as the proctor was giving instructions to the class, Batman showed up at the door and was summarily turned away. He departed, shaking his head and looking like he had been wronged in a way that only a Dickensian scholar could adequately describe.

I genuinely felt bad for both Boomhauer and Batman. I struggle with this because at the end of the day, neither of them chose their respective DNA strands. I will tee off indefinitely on people who have homegrown personality traits that run contrary to what I find acceptable - they chose to be that way and they will hear about it. However, some just aren't equipped as well as others genetically. It took me several weeks, maybe even months, to figure out that neither Boomhauer nor Batman were saddled with a lot of extra cranial capacity. They both had experience, they both piped up in class, and while both possessed an abundance of the aforementioned personality traits, neither would be deemed to be intellectually slighted by any yardstick that I would apply.

However, as it turned out, neither made the cut: one didn't pass and one didn't listen. I discussed this with Chad and I told him of my heartfelt angst. His reply was this, verbatim: "While it sucks for them as individuals, it's awesome for those they aren't going to kill."

Huh.

Can't argue with that logic. I weep for Batman and Boomhauer no longer.

On to the State finals.

Slingblade came in farting, beatboxing, burping, and pretty much remained constant in his ability to cut a large swath of pain and disgust through any room in which he finds himself. I took particular note, however, on his maintaining no more than a 3 foot distance from me at all times as I mingled throughout the room.

When it came time to sit down, I found a seat that would only allow one solitary person, with no possibility of Slingblade sitting next to me. Watching him find another seat was like watching a game of musical chairs with one guy still walking around 10 minutes after the music stopped.

He eventually found a seat, another single, and summarily knocked over a bunch of stacked chairs. This led to Nickleback pointing backwards directly at him, without having to look - his confidence at 100% regarding who the offender was.

We again split the class, half went to take the practical, half left behind to take the written. We went to the practical. We did okay: gunshot wound to the leg, bruise on the head. The victim and instructors were so stoic that it threw me off my game a bit, but my only major oversight was forgetting to do the detailed assessment after everything was found and fixed. If we didn't pass it was because of something that I totally missed, and didn't realize I missed it.

The written was okay as well. Not as easy as we were told it would be, but certainly not grueling. However, Slingblade was sweating bullets - prior to taking the written - when we walked back after the practical.

Slingblade: "Man, I hate this test."

Me: (Innocently) "Why, you got a 91% on your last test, I'm sure you'll smoke this one too, it's the same material." (All the while, of course, I'm curtailing my cruel thoughts and laughter.)

Slingblade: "I don't know, something feels different this time. I'm not as confident." (Yeah motherfucker, something is different, you can't cheat off me.)

Me: "Welp, good luck."

Volvo, Product, some dude from Product's station who hasn't been named yet, and I quaffed a few beers after the test. They were yummy.

Epilogue:

After checking the state website for three days in a row I finally saw my name pop up as a First Responder under my station. I then went checking around. The following is the fallout (the website has a disclaimer that says it shouldn't be used to verify test scores, but it's the only source of information I have at the moment):

Me - In
Slingblade - No dice (Meaning, he passed the practical with me, but failed the written)
Product - Nope
Farmside - Nope
Volvo - In
Homeschool - In
Nickleback - In
Cooler - In
Pixie - Nope
Pixie's Suck Partner - Nope
QC - In
Boomhauer - Wasn't allowed to test
Batman - Will be allowed to retest, assuming he shows up on time
Stitches - In

Unfortunately, in the case of both Product and Pixie, their respective partners proved to be too much of a burden. Both Product and Pixie were at the top of the class in terms of skills and written tests, hence, they were cursed with some of the weaker partners; Product had Farmside -the nice but not-super-academic kid - and Pixie was just stuck with a donut.

So, today ended up being a bittersweet occasion. Most of the people - those whose futures seem destined to coincide with mine - did well. The two - Product and Pixie - who did not pass will smoke the retake and move on like nothing happened. It's disappointing but not something any of us are going to dwell on. Too much fire-y goodness lies ahead.

Fire I - Day 1

2007-09-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

I was just thinking to myself the other day "Whatever happened to the missing 2/3 of the triumvirate?" One has been around for virtually all of first responder, but the other two have been conspicuously absent. Since they travel in a pack, I knew they would eventually reunite for a Greatest Hits album.

Today was the day.

The beginning of Fire I - a day which Volvo has been mentally undressing for weeks now - started with the message on the overhead "You can die" with the number '106' underneath (number of firefighter deaths this year). I'm sure the message was meant to be poignant and powerful and make each and everyone of us search our very core for the answer to the question "Should I really be doing this?". For me it just conjured up a tagline I heard a few years back; "Death is still the number one killer in the US." Yes, we can die... I'll go you one better - we WILL die. All of us. I'd bet my life on it. I'm sure their reference was specific to the fire service, but I can't allow that ambiguous shit to slide.

Either way, I don't think it had the impact they wanted it to. They followed with a memorial-esque tribute to downed firefighters, and some words on how we're all one big family. They then proceeded to critique every single recently publicized firefighter death.

"They shouldn't have been doing that." "If I were their battalion chief, heads would have rolled." "That captain would have been fired, or thrown in jail." "That instructor was outside, he should be shot."

I'm pretty sure if I were one of the firefighters being discussed I wouldn't want my legacy to be one associated with a pair of armchair quarterbacks saying what I did wrong, or how my captain, a member of my supposed family, should be thrown in jail. But it didn't stop there, fabled institutions such as FDNY were derided for having actual line-of-duty deaths; "If they were as good as everyone thought, they wouldn't have any deaths."; or Phoenix, "They didn't listen and they failed every drill." The flaws in the the triumvirate's logic were large enough to be seen on the surface of the sun by the naked eye, but that leads me to my point: it doesn't matter.

The triumvirate's power rests on two premises (premii?): 1.) they are old firefighters, and 2.) there is no one around to contest their stories, facts, assessments, conclusions, observations, hyperbole, theories, admonishments, or statistics.

The first is pretty obvious: they feel that they are bastions of incontrovertable knowledge because they managed to live through 30 years of the fire service. This fact is no doubt to be heralded as quite an accomplishment, but I think if all the variables were lined up in a definable pattern, we'd learn pretty quickly how that came to pass. I'm guessing it's a mixture of luck, technology, observance of rules, but most of all - a volume of fires significantly lower than their brethren that didn't pass the 30 year veteran mark. But like I said, I could be wrong. No way to verify their countless stories. Which brings me to my second point:

There is no way to verify their countless stories. Volvo quit counting at 8, but it was only one hour into class - which meant they were on a record setting pace, and they hadn't even gotten through the first chapter. The bullshit was flying at us so fast, and from so many directions, that I actually got whiplash from exchanging knowing glances with each and every student from Hazmat and First Responder. They touched on all the classic standbys: terrorism, other statistically irrelevant dangers, victims with guns, stupid medics with syringes, foreigners with diseases, heroes and villians. I wouldn't mind so much if they would footnote these topics with "these things will very likely never come up in your entire existence as a volunteer, but, we talk about them to illustrate the point that you need to be ready for everything." Instead, they iterate, reiterate, permutate, and regurgitate the same stuff in the hopes that they can energize us with the fear of the 1 in 1 billion chance that we'll be on the front line in the War on Terror.

The upshot was that they would skip altogether slides that didn't give them a lead-in for a story. There were dozens of missed points that were glossed over in order to hear the next tale of alleged competence/heroism/tragedy. That would be swell, except that we're expected to know this material, not just what the triumvirate was up to in 1987 when Scott packs were first introduced into the fire service. Great material - pretty sure it won't be on the test.

I began to think of the entire day as a showdown between two cranky old guys in an old folks home, bored out of their minds, and then presented with an opportunity to filibuster in front of an audience, held against their will. No fact checking, hyperbole is readily accepted, and logic and methodical deduction cannot be held against either. It was the perfect forum to get across any agenda, any concept, any idea with absolutely no accountability and no one there to raise a contrarian point.

"If a teenager dies, the state owns his car - his parents might get it back, they might not." - Check.

"A member of the triumvirate claiming to run 3-4 miles a day." - Check.

"Most old firefighters dying of pancreatic, kidney, stomach, colon and other cancers due to the smoke they inhaled in fires." - Check.

The two showdown contestants battled for hours with one-upsmanship, you-shoulda-seens, and it-was-so-much-tougher-back-whens. It was a grueling competition. Product, being the pragmatic guy that he is, mentioned that it would have gone a lot quicker had they just both just unzipped their pants and whipped out their respective attack lines. One measuring stick would have ended the duel right there. I'm pretty sure Product just wanted to get out of class early - but who knows, maybe he's into older guys.

Oh, one thing I failed to mention, the third member of the triumvirate wasn't there, at least physically - in spirit, however, he was on every powerpoint slide. Quite literally, his initials were at the bottom of the most vain, self-serving, and transparently arrogant slides I've ever seen.

A picture of a 'speaking bugle', the item that 'connotes respect and leadership' with his name at the bottom.
A picture of him looking stern and a skosh less rotund (probably the late 80's), in flattering light and angle, with a caption indicating his position of power and his all-knowing stature on the pad (the area around the burn buildings.)
Quotes and diatribes on various aspects of leadership, competence, and excellence. All implicitly ascribed to him.

One positive point of all of this activity was that it allowed us to hone in on what I can only assume to be the budding class sycophant. A noodge that wasn't in First Responder, he was happy to draw a big target on his forehead and tacitly shout "Hey, now that Slingblade isn't around anymore, I'd like the position of class pariah/idiot."

I guess I should explain a bit. Typically, the pattern of a new volunteer is to go to Hazmat, move on to First Reponder and then matriculate to Fire I. Some, due to scheduling or late entry, do Fire I first. Subsequently, there were a few new faces. Sycophant was not in our FR class, so he is presumably one of the above. Slingblade was also one of the above, only he started last semester, so he won't be in our Fire I class.

Except...

Another curveball was the fact that this will be the first time that Fire I and II are taught in the same cirriculum, meaning that people who have already taken Fire I will be sitting in some of our classes to get their Fire II creds. Any examples? Of course - my boy Slingblade. So, Sycophant won't supplant Slingblade as class pariah/idiot, he will merely supplement his efforts.

One backlash of this coupling of Fire I and Fire II was readily apparent: the instructors already know half the class, and have developed relationships with them. This, of course, means that constant jibes with the prior classes leadership will be incessant throughout any class that is populated with the graduates of the former Fire I class.

Chubby Triumvirate Member 1 - "I'm not mentioning any names, but a ladder did break last spring."

Random Fire II Student - "Hey, that wasn't my fault!!!"

Chubby Triumvirate and all Fire II Classmates - "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA... shit... whew, that was hilarious."

Awesome. Three months of that won't suck at all.

Oh, one last thing - Awkward-Boy is back, in all his glory. That's almost enough to make it all better. Well, that, and the term 'plug-monkey', which was mentioned during the history lesson. A plug-monkey was a child that sat on top of the fire plugs in the days of yore so competing fire stations couldn't find water supply. Briefly Googling the term resulted in no relevant hits, so, much like 'KimShu', it might be another phrase of dubious legitimacy and origin. However, legit or not, if that moniker doesn't get ascribed to somebody in class then I will lose hope in all that is good in this world. The assonance, alliteration, and sheer tongue-roll-offitude is perfect.

My new mission is to find the plug-monkey.

First Responder - Denouement

2007-09-11T07:07:00.000-07:00

See how I use that French shit in the title? If that doesn't convey the fact that I had a High School experience just rife with the classics, then I don't know what does.

However, even though I know the word that stands for 'resolution to a complex series of events', my situation is unresolved. Illumination to follow, but first...

The county finals were held last night. The final was in three parts: a 100 question written, a trauma station, and an AED (automatic electronic defibrillation) station. The class was divided in half: half stayed in the classroom and took the test, half went to the stations to do the practicals.

Slingblade and I took the written first.

I beat the written test senseless, picked it back up, bitch-slapped it, dropped it to the floor, kicked it in the ribs, waited for it to stop squealing, stomped on it's throat, and then did it all over again. Evidently studying has it's benefits.

We got to the practicals and we did okay there as well. Slingblade managed to fuck up only about half of what he touched. I was the lead in both stations and he was the assist, yet he still managed to apply oxygen flowing at 0 liters per minute, effectively killing my cardiac patient. He also couldn't get a BP during the trauma. I can live with that, but considering it was just about his only task, it would have been nice to see some fruition there. Meanwhile, I had basically dry-humped the victim from every angle at least 4 times making sure that I hadn't missed anything. When we went over our alotted time by a few minutes Slingblade was good enough to mention that I could have moved quicker on the blood sweep.

I honestly can't convey in words the ridiculous level of audacity that had to be conjured up by Slingblade to offer me advice, but again, the ape-child is a bottomless pit of surprises.

After Ned pulled us aside to let us know we passed the practicals, he also showed us our written grades. Me a 98%, Slingblade a 91%.

I immediately forgot my acrimony with Slingblade's debrief comments as I was quickly overcome by the astonishment of him getting a 91%. A 91%? My hours and hours of practice and study with that troglodyte actually paid off? I was legitimately thrilled. Slingblade pulled through, not just barely, but with flying colors.

I was so happy that I presented him with a folding knife I bought for him on the off-chance that he didn't blow it. Because I figured a kid like Slingblade didn't get a lot of upstrokes in his life, he should see some acknowledgement for his success.

Me - "Hey man, I got you this knife because I wanted to congratulate you on passing. Good job."
SB - "Uhhhhhh"
Me - "Seriously, take it. Everytime you look at it, think of how your hard work paid off."
SB - "Uhhhhhh"
Me - "But, whenever you think of farting, spitting, burping, beatboxing, saying the word 'disgusting' or some other stupid shit, I want you to pull the knife out, open it up, and stab yourself in the leg."
SB - "Ha. Hey... funny (commences beatboxing)"

So, I guess it wasn't the exact response I was looking for, but I was still happy.

In the interest of maintaining continuity, I must analogize for a moment.

Slingblade is a train wreck. He's a mass casualty incident. Upon entry into the First Reponder class he left a wake of astounding devastation wherever he went, with metaphorical bodies lying amidst twisted metal, severed dreams and severed limbs...

When Ned assigned him as my partner I knew triage and intervention were needed. And, after a week of practice and study together, I thought I actually saw improvement. The ground around him was still littered with the corpses of potential friendships, the respect of instructors, and the possibility of becoming something of a competent firefighter... but it seemed like there were fewer of those bodies than there were before. At one point I even mentioned to Slingblade that he seemed almost human.

Much like Chad (Gaynadian) who just sent me a video of his most recent exploits during an extrication from a vehicle, I take great pride in thinking that I left the scene of the crash just a little bit better than I found it.

I was still basking in the warmth of my astounding win when I went outside to enjoy the light rain that was falling, washing away my doubts about Slingblade's abilities, cleansing my prior thoughts about him; my world was becoming pure again. (Not really... he's still a complete fuckstick, I was just trying to set the stage for the next sentence)

Then a classmate enlightened me to my naivete: Slingblade cheated off me.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that the guy I've been calling an idiot this whole time played me. Irony - she's a capricious bitch.

The best part is, prior to this knowledge being dropped on me, Slingblade was actually deriding another classmate who had missed passing the test by one point. He was talking about how he paid attention and they had not, how he had studied and they had not. At the time I found it annoying that he was celebrating his victory at somebody else's expense, but I just mentally jotted it down as yet another item that I had to discuss with him regarding appropriate human interaction.

In retrospect, his riding a false wave of victory and celebrating a win that he didn't earn is so infuriating that I wanted to apply an occlusive dressing over his nose and mouth. Either that, or give him a brain stoma.

Back to the unresolved situation I had mentioned earlier. I'm not going to turn the asshat in because I didn't actually see him cheat. I'm quite confident he did, but I didn't see it. I'm also not gonna be the guy who is tattaling on his classmates, even those he despises. There is also the little-known fact that I actually stole a trig test when I was 17 and never fessed up - so the hint of hypocrisy compels me to keep quiet as well.

However, I still have to go through state finals with him. So, do I call him out before and let him know that I know? Or do I let it slide until after we get through the State practical? He will be advised that he's no longer to talk to, look at, or stand next to me - I just need to know when to do it. I tend to try to resolve these things as they come up, but in this case I might need to hold off until he has no more opportunity to screw up my qualification process.

Comments and suggestions are welcome.

First Responder - Penultimate

2007-09-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

County Finals are tonight.

Slingblade is my partner.

That's right, slingblade.

Ironic juxtaposition? Cosmic retribution? Dunno. Maybe. All I know is that my fate is now tied to a kid who twenty-four hours ago was beatboxing during class and holding his shirt over his nose pretending not to be the one who 'dealt it'.

To step back a bit:

Ned told the class a few weeks back that partners would be assigned a week before finals, that way they could work together on assessments and refine, tweak, and otherwise hone their interaction. There were a lot of dreamteam pairings, most notably (***Names are all subject to change based on classroom input, reversals, or better suggestions):

Volvo and Homeschool -

I've already mentioned Volvo a few times, but Homeschool is a great kid, 16 years old, and perfectly smart and capable. He is also - in stark contrast to many of his contemporaries - respectful and able to carry on a conversation without the word 'like' appearing between every preposition, conjuntion, participle, adjective, or clause. I had the pleasure of teaming with him on a few assessments and it was effortless. Homeschool will be one of my counter-points when I engage in the requisite 'youth of today' discussions once I hit my 40's.

Volvo and Homeschool will spank the test like an underfed submissive.

Nickleback and Cooler -

Nickleback is a pretty good guy and quotes Borat and other equally funny cinematic figures to humorous effect - seems a decent fellow on the outset. On the other hand, he likes the eponymous Nickleback, he has sideburns, a tongue-stud, and he is a touch too good-looking. I could stomach the latter three, but the former goes to a massive character flaw and calls into question all that is good about him. As I had enumerated earlier in one of my many diatribes about Awkward-Boy, Nickleback sucks. Someone with Nickleback as their ringtone is going to have to give a good fucking explanation as to why that's the case, otherwise - well, dammit, I hate to say it - but a verbal onslaught and constant deriding will be in order. I won't be able to bring myself to dislike Nickleback (the firefighter, not the band) but I can sure as hell give him shit for his taste.

Cooler so far has not one damn idiosyncrasy that I can find. He was apparently a bouncer at one point in his life - hence the label. Other than being smart, having a shaved head, and looking like the only guy in class that would last in the ring with Volvo, I got nothin' on him. Maybe I'll go wipe a boogie-snot on his car window, tell him Slingblade did it, and then see what events transpire. Sometimes a man has to be proactive.

Nickleback and Cooler will smoke the test like a Philly blunt full of seedless/stemless.

On to some of the other teams.

As evidenced by my introduction, not all of us were as lucky as the aforementioned four.

First, and most notably, Pixie.

Pixie is paired with [Don]. I don't have a nickname for Don because he's just not fucking worth the trouble. Pixie, unfortunately, is underwater. During practice she is spot on with anyone as second - if she can lead during the finals then she and Don might squeak through. If Don leads, well - take 2 Buttercup.

The second worst pairing is the poor bastard that got stuck with Boomhauer.

QC and Boomhauer - QC stands for Quiet Competence. QC is a 45-50ish guy who has mastered the First Responder skills. He has remained quiet in class and has merely gone about the business of studying and practicing. He is so clearly in command of the material that the only flaws I found in his assessment were things like 'call out the vitals louder'. As compared to 'you never checked to see if the patient was alive', which was pretty much the level of shitty to which Boomhauer had devolved. That didn't stop her from yelling at me for every critique that I threw out, which, of course resulting in me just giving QC commentary.

QC and Boomhauer might squeak through if Boomhauer remains catatonic and childlike and only does precisely what she is told. If she has to apply any brain function then QC might find himself re-introducing himself to the testing personnel a few weeks from now.

Slingblade and Me - What can I say, Ned loves me enough to exact tough love. He thinks so highly of me that he paired me with the only known case of a person who can - at the same time - be in a vegatative state and beatbox.

Product and Farmside - Farmside wears a John Deere hat and fairly spews gamete every time a truck bigger than a half-ton drives by. Farmside, while not likely on the short list for the Westinghouse Scholarship, is a damn nice kid. He's even gone so far as to study a bit. Unfortunately he's got some stagefright and might pose a bit of a problem for Product when under the scrutiny of the evaluators. I'm pretty sure Product can drag him through to successful fruition, but it'll be a yeoman effort.

There are a few other teams, most of them fairly well-rounded. The lopsided pairs were put together puposefully in an effort to ensure a high pass rate. Secondarily, it served as an effort to surpass the world record for greatest backhanded compliment ever.

The test is tonight... stay tuned.

First Responder - Reflections

2007-08-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

It's becoming apparent that despite a county and state certfication, first responders are pretty much there for one purpose: a show of force. We don't - and upon graduation we won't - know shit. Half of the assertions during class revolve around the instructors imploring us to put on a good show for the victim's family.

Of course, in my imaginings that has me straddling a patient giving compressions and yelling "LIVE DAMMIT... LIVVVVVEEEEEEEE!!!". Cliche, perhaps, but dramatic, and one of the things I'm learning is: lots of drama in the fire service. More on that later, maybe, or maybe I'll just blow it off and move on... depends if I can come up with any examples to support my theorem.

As I stated before, I really look forward to class, even in light of the fact that it will not prepare me for true EMT work. The instructors are great and despite us being completely feckless, we are learning a lot. Some people might think that First Responder training is just learning how to press gauze on a wound - those people would be right - however, there are a LOT of steps that lead up to pressing the gauze on the wound; the most important being the job of making sure the patient doesn't stop breathing before you press the gauze on the wound. A close second to that is actually finding the wound upon which the gauze is to be pressed. Sound simple? Not when it's in front of sadistic paramedics watching one's every - fucking - move.

So, the following is a workflow that I constructed to detail the exact steps and decision points in the patient assessment that we'll need to know in order to pass First Responder:

Seem complicated? It's not. It would look roughly the same if it were a flow for making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, assuming a decision point had to be explicitly called out for things like 'Is the Peanut butter bleeding'? 'Strawberry or Grape colored skin'? 'Toast Crispy'? Oh, and if there is a helper, it would detail what that person needs to do while the bread is toasting or while the lead is extricating the knife from the drawer.

Simply put, all of the steps are perfectly logical, practical and in all other ways irrefutably ordered - but for some reason, when I'm down on the ground beside the patient I always forget something. Either that, or I do something so ridiculous the instructor is appalled at my ineptitude. For instance:

Chad: "Uh, I know the book says to check my chest, but the knife sticking out of it should be a clear indication that things have gone awry."

NAB: "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" (She did this in the wake of me putting an AED on somebody and not checking to see if they had a heartbeat. Apparently that's the sound a patient makes when they are conscious and receiving 150 joules of energy through a diode on their chest.)

Chad: (During the blood sweep) "Nope no head injury... just the knife in my chest."

After three and a half solid hours of of practice one evening things came into focus a bit better. I was paired with Volvo most of the evening, which was fun. We repaired a gunshot wound to the leg. We didn't do too badly either. We probably could use some more splinting practice, but overall it wasn't bad.

At this rate I should only kill one or two patients before I get my sea legs.

Makin' with the labels

2007-08-28T08:09:00.000-07:00

As I indicated in my last entry, there are a lot of nicknames being bandied about for some of the more notable personalities in class. There is also some other random mental offal for which I need to find a home, but that is going to get pushed yet again.

On to the nicknames:

So far in class I've only got two (they also aren't used by anyone else, so I guess they don't really qualify yet): Product and Volvo. Both funny guys, I truly think that enough hilarity happens on any given day that our fire school class could leave its mark on the county for a long time. Maybe I just have delusions of grandeur, but I'm pretty sure we will, even if the instructors pretend to not notice.

Meanwhile, back in the land of on-topic-edness:

Bubble-Boy: Aptly named for his inability to communicate or interact with other humans, Bubble-Boy by consensus will be renamed as 'Sling-Blade'. Other suggestions thrown out: Stinky and plain old Asshole - both were applicable, but neither resonated quite as much.

Boomhauer: A fantastic case study in human nature, Boomhauer exactly depicts the type of idiosyncrasies that one would develop over a lifetime of limited human interaction. First off, in a departure from her namesake, Boomhauer is a chick. Second, she works in a job that keeps her on the road and away from people. Third, "Dang ol freg lats ta tal ta da ward in nasal cannula man." She speaks to her desk, and the silence that surrounds her incredibly sporatic outbursts is so perfectly uncomfortable it's almost like there is a director in the back saying "NO, it needs to be MORE quiet. I want a palpable sense of discomfort and her words must echo on the walls of unresponsiveness. Now, do it one more time, with FEELING."

Stitches: Product again came up with this one. (Like I said, New Jersey guys just have a knack for nicknames - I'm guessing it's what they think about when they are looking in the mirror, putting shit in their hair, and polishing their gold chains.) Back to our hero Stitches. He is a guy who just had quadruple bypass surgery. By 'just', I mean he had chest-spreaders sticking out of his fucking thoracic cavity as recently as 3 months ago. In two weeks he is going to be in a class that demands physical agility, shoulder-strapped supplemental oxygen devices, and 80-100 pounds of gear. Oh yeah, and fire. Volvo suggested 'Daredevil' as his name, which is indicative of his actions, but certainly not of his capabilities, so it was summarily dismissed. Stitches also laughs a lot, so there is double entendre there as well, making it even more brilliant. I did make it clear to Product that just because Stitches laughs it doesn't mean the joke is funny.

Batman: We stumbled across Batman and his nickname on day one. Turns out he had already been thusly named. Why? Well because of his bat belt, dumbass. Fully ensconced in rescue gear, Batman is prepared for any emergency - but only if 'prepared' means equipped with the accoutrements but not the skillset. I think perhaps we should call him Robin. Same belt, but still in his apprenticeship.

Pixie: This name has not been socialized amongst the crew just yet either... but I intend to float it tomorrow. Pixie doesn't have a Pixie haircut, but she should. She's actually talking about getting a mohawk, which is cool in it's own right, but frankly, Pixie should have hair like this.

She should also have wings.

There are still others, many of whom I like, but for whom I just haven't developed an appropriate name. I'm sure if I enlist the help of Product we can knock that job out in an hour.

First Responder - 5th Week

2007-08-28T05:37:00.000-07:00

Possibly the funniest night in a string of funny nights, Monday's class started off with everyone outside coming up with nicknames for the various personalities in the classroom. I guess I shouldn't have opened with that thought... because it's going to require an entirely separate entry. I'll leave it at this: gangsters aren't the only people from New Jersey who can come up with good pseudonyms.

Things started trepidly as we found out that one of the triumvirate was teaching. In the wake of the awesome instruction we'd been getting, a member of the triumvirate was always a bit off-putting for me. This time it was Mr.Kimshu, who if given the choice, would be my begrudging selection if forced to choose a chub-tri.

Today was not unlike any of the others, and upon the fourth or fifth use of the 'deep kimshu' idiom I actually had to ask:

Me: "Is Kimshu like poop?"
CT: "Yes, only worse."
Me: "So it's not kimchi?"
CT: "No, it's not, I like kimchi."

Well, I guess my prior assertions were wrong. Of course, upon researching kimshu, or kim shu, I found nothing other than some people's names and a river in Russia. I guess it's possible that Google just hasn't caught up with the Chubby Triumvirate and their uncommonly vast lexicon, but I think I'll err on the conservative side and say that he doesn't want people poking around the phrase too much. I think this is because they'll eventually figure out that its etymology came from 'deep kimchi' and he just got it wrong originally but refused to acknowledge a mistake. Much like our Yokel in Chief and his pronunciation of 'nuclear' (no, it's not nukyuler).

Whatever, I'm pretty sure I've beat that one to death.

The CTR (Chubby Triumvirate Representative) also set a new record. Twenty-two stories in three and a half hours. Unbefuckinglievable. Mind... we had three ten-minute breaks, so it was really less than three hours. Twenty-two stories in 180 minutes. Product kept count and Volvo and I reminded him to tally when he was focused on joke-formation or disdain-verbalization. The number doesn't include four separate occasions when the CTR alluded to a skill and/or technique to which he was partial, or the way what it were done like back in tha day. We even subtracted one story because it came on the heels of us actually asking a question that led him down the path.

Moving on.

Far and away, the funniest thing said since I started class was this:

CTR: "So when a patient thinks they are going to die, there is a good chance they'll die. Back in [some fucking place] I had this patient who told me to call a priest. We got to the hospital and the priest was there, and he did that thing that Catholics do to other Catholics."

Product: "He molested him?"

It took me at least a minute to get the tears from my eyes.

The second funniest comment came from Volvo, but this one will require some background:

In taking a patient's history a first responder needs to get certain information, the mnemonic is SAMPLE, which stands for:

Signs and Symptoms
Allergies
Medications
Pertinent Past History
Last Meal eaten
Events leading up to the injury/illness

When discussing resuscitation for the quadrillionth time the CTR said:

CTR: "The first time I gave mouth to mouth the patient vomited right in my mouth... I just puked myself and kept on going."
Volvo: "Well, that's good though, because right then you got your answer to the "L" in SAMPLE.

Sweet.

The rollicking good time had several key contributors, even some of the quieter folk were throwing in offerings to the gods of funny. The Kimshu CTR is known as a funny guy, and most of the class finds him funny. I myself find his material a bit dated. Nothing wrong with that, it's just not my cup of tea. However, because he's predictable and a hair repetitive, he doesn't seem to know when he's offered something truly delectible. For instance, he didn't realize the potential for this softball he threw out late in class:

CTR: "I don't expect many of you actually know where the suction unit for your piece is?"

Me: "Um, at home with the kids I suppose."

All in all, a produtive day. New friends, new nicknames, and bonding while sharing jokes at the expense of others. This is so much fun I'd do it even if it didn't subtly inflate my image in front of family and friends and give me unearned street cred amongst my peers.

First Reponder - 3rd Week

2007-08-21T10:41:00.001-07:00

There is no one common element that would thread together the happenings of this week , except for this: First Responder is fun.

Volvo doesn't agree. He's tired of chest compressions and arm palpating, he wants to break shit and set things on fire - presumably he would put those things out afterwards, but Volvo is a different breed, there's a good chance he'd burn stuff just to watch the shiny-shiny.

First Reponder is fun because the instructors are so markedly better than the triumvirate. Instead of 3 fatasses prancing around spouting thinly-veiled epithets, dogmatic political doctrine, and furiously trying to one-up each other, we've got a cadre of well-qualified instructors who are extraordinarily well-suited for the classroom. They've got finely tuned senses of humor, a firmly established direction in terms of making the class understand the fundamentals, and above all, they can pace and lecture in such a way that the clock doesn't evolve into a final refuge for all of us on the other side of the podium.

Ned, the lead instructor has squarely established himself as the king of training. He is always on point and never wavers in his knowledge. If he doesn't know the answer, it doesn't need to be known. He does have a dorky-ass helmet though - sort of half firefighter lid, half-hardhat - not sure how to address that.

Nurse-Voice - well, what can I say, I've come around on Nurse-Voice. Her competence is actually shining through as well, which of course infuriates me because I have to reassess my original convictions about her. There is nothing quite so inconvenient as a person who makes a turnaround and forces others to unravel and reassemble all previous judgements.

[Bud]. Bud is the gayest straight man I've met since Chad. Maybe it's a fire service thing. Bud is a large paramedic type, and a rollicking-fun instructor who has no qualms with any subject matter. It would take a library of psychoanalysis to fully document Bud and his sense of humor, but I think a fair and brief summary would be this: Over time Bud has developed the thickened skin of the oppressed and put-upon, and he's now in a position of power, and is unwavering and fearless in his meting out of praise, admonishment, and physical critique. The hilarity that ensues is so welcome that I'm seriously considering going straight into his EMT-B class after Firefighter I is complete.

I'd truly like to detail some of the quotes and witticisms that were unleashed during class, but the written medium just wouldn't do it justice. Suffice it to say that Bud covered territory from shoe size (with the obvious correlation to other parts of the anatomy), to girls' pooping, to sexual positions, to the stupidity of Republicans, to homophobia. He called a student out for having 'penis issues' when he wasn't aggressive enough in his palpating of another student. He wouldn't allow hats and sleeping was rigorously denounced early on; again, to humorous effect.

The beauty of Bud is this: gay or straight, the guy is unabashedly direct. This is discomfiting to some and extremely gratifying to others. The young-ish members of the class don't know what to do with the aggressive, rolling innuendo and sardonic licks that are flowing nearly continuously. They have looks on their faces much the same as I did in 1992 when I first heard Dennis Leary's "I'm an Asshole" on the radio when some dumbass radio intern mistakenly inserted the uncensored version. Like me back then, the kids didn't realize that verbal onslaughts like Bud's existed in the context they were experiencing them: the classroom, rather than a sitcom or website. Moreover, if the villification of the Republican party is gonna ruffle someone's feathers - like it did to a few of the 17ish fellas that grew up farmside - then an anal sex joke is probably going to knock them into the kingdom of catatonia. It's pretty fun to watch.

There are some full-on grown-ups that also seemed a bit put-out by the going's on, but not many. Bud's ability to castigate and embrace at the same time is so finely tuned that nobody stayed offended for long.

So, I'll do with Bud what I do with everyone I find humorous: I'll steal his best material and make it mine, in hopes that when I use it no one will recognize the source. Maybe someday I too will be so funny that people will mistake me for gay.

Bubble-Boy

2007-08-16T05:47:00.000-07:00

Where... to... start....

First Responder class has been nothing but fun. Great instructors, fun practicals, and engaged students have all made for a very enjoyable two weeks. With the amount of compelling things going on the tarnish on my former enthusiasm may be polished up a bit...

Maybe.

As per usual, there is always something. And that something generally takes the form of a person. That is certainly the case this time, although I can't tell if this special someone is going to be the bane of my existence, or someone that I can revile so much that he actually presents an outlet for my rage - in which case his value would rocket into the limitless.

This is not unexpected, to be sure, because if 30 people are thrown into a room - as they are in First Responder - the probable conclusion would be that I would dislike, or at the very least, avoid, 24 of them. This class, however, has done remarkably well insofar as I have liked virtually every single person with whom I've interacted. The fact is, it's a cool class. Chad (Gaynadian) , who was helping out with some practicals, remarked: "This class has great energy." Granted, he sounded like Yoko Ono, and I was tempted to ask him if he was reading crystals or tea leaves, or if his Beatle-destroying vagina was aligned properly with his chakras, but he had a point - it's a good crew.

Back to the aforementioned something; his name is going to be Bubble-Boy, at least until I can come up with something more suitable. Bubble-Boy is 17, and is so titled because he is so poorly socialized that his intellectual and interactive demeanor is more in keeping with one confined to complete solitude than with a kid in an American High-School. He's a wolf-boy who stumbled out of the woods after 15 years of no human interaction straight into the most sardonic, invective-laced atmosphere this side of open mike night at the Improv. He is so ill-equipped for conversation and light-hearted banter that one must envision parents that ripped out all but 4 pages in the dictionary and only allowed coloring books in the ol' doublewide. His mindset is so limited, so stunted, so enormously narrow, that as far as I can tell he can only muster one descriptor to summarize any given situation.

Before I continue, allow me to say this: I don't hate ignorant people. If education is not available, or if one grew up in an environment that precluded open-minded thinking, then ignorance is the most likely outcome. It's not the individuals fault. Nature and nurture, combine in most cases, making an average, or even above-average intellect strikingly malnourished in the absence of challenging thought and concept. Only great minds can breach that threshold of institutional oppression and recognize that there is more to know. Bubble-Boy is not one of those great minds. (Please note: I was given all of the blessings of a privileged upbringing and high-end education and I'm still a fuckup, so the pendulum swings both ways.)

Should I afford him quarter for the obvious gaps in his upbringing that allowed for his ridiculous existence? Yes.

Will I? Of course not, asshat.

On to the documented transgressions:

After a particularly long lecture, several of us adjourned to the bathroom. While standing at the urinal a classmate let go what can only be described as a frustrated emission. He then volunteered that the air biscuit had been threatening escape for at least an hour. I responded with my own contribution to the bathroom's rapidly degrading air quality. My accomplice then remarked that the infuriating aspect of all this was the fact that during the lecture, the sphincter was working at full capacity in order to avoid any embarrassing leakage, yet when we hit the appropriate venue for release, nothing substantial came out. I submitted that after extended research I found that there was a stand-up, sit-down component to it, and that nothing short of sideways lunges would expel the offending gases.

Bubble-boy then came out of the stall and said "Disgusting."

Me: “Farting in a bathroom is disgusting?”
BB: “Yes. And talking about it is even worse… especially the part about sitting down… that’s disgusting.”
Me: “I see. Perhaps you could share with us the locale that you find most appropriate for launching pipe bombs.”

BB: "It's not... it's that... you just shouldn't talk about it."

When robbed of topics revolving around women, Lindsay Lohan, and alcohol, I'm not sure if there is anything OTHER than farts to talk about. I guess we could have dabbled in some of the tenets of free speech or Keynesian economics, but there just wasn't time permitting.

On a separate occasion I was discussing a scene from the Showtime series 'Weeds' where the ne'er-do-well uncle explains some of the intricacies of masturbation to his novice 11 year old nephew. The hilarity of the scene had several people talking and offering fanzine-esque contributions to the conversation, which henceforth created an atmosphere of joy and gleeful comraderie. Upon hearing this, BB responded:

"That's disgusting"

Me: "Beating off is disgusting?"

BB: "Yes"

Me: "Wow. You're 17 and you think rod-polishing is disgusting? I think perhaps you need to work on your issues with repression, because my guess is you'll be squeezing off a round fantasizing about that plastic dummy within the next few hours."

BB: "DISGUSTING"

Me: "If you say so. I personally think it's awesome. Doubly so because God kills a kitten every time somebody rubs one out, and I hate cats. "

BB: "DISGUSTING!!!!!!"

As a sidenote: The topic of masturbation is a fantastic tool because it so quickly divides a room. Some are so scared of the topic they'll abscond in mid-sentence. Others will jump in and say "Dude, I swear, I shined it on the drive over here." It's a real time saver if you want to draw a definitive line between the nebbish and the conversationally fearless.

The last entry in my case against Bubble-Boy is less funny, but infinitely more telling. We were working on a plastic dummy, similiar to the Rescusi-Annies, only with exposed lungs, stomach, and a workable mouth and nose. The point of the dummy was to practice our ABC's - Airway, Breathing, and Cardio - unwaveringly in that order. Nurse-Voice, who was working that station, would tell us what was happening to our dummy, and we would address it with oxygen tanks, oral-pharangeal airways (ORA), and suction. It was excellent training because Nurse-Voice created quite a sense of urgency with her rather caustic approach and we were able to truly feel how the various instruments handled and reacted. We were also able to gauge how we handled and reacted when Nurse-Voice turned her wrath upon us. Trial by fire... or at least trial by growl.

During one of the bouts with the ORA - a device that is stuck down the throat to open up the airway - a marked pop was heard as the ORA was spun in the mouth of the dummy.

BB: "That's disgusting."

ME: "Are you fucking kidding me? It's a dummy. This is First Responder class. That sound was plastic on plastic. When you shove something down a real person's throat an audible pop is the absolute BEST case scenario considering the phalanx of possible results." (Damn right I used the word phalanx)

Nurse-Voice: "He's right, I've never seen anybody NOT vomit when being rescusitated, a lot of nasty things happen when you bring somebody back to life." (Nurse-Voice had my six - Chicks SO dig me.)

BB: "It's still disgusting."

After another hour or two of these dizzingly profound insights regarding many other assignments of disgust, I actually began to feel sorry for BB. For awhile there I truly considered taking him under my wing; helping him study; perhaps giving him a little guidance as he sashayed into a world where people's axons, dendrites, and synapses exchanged messages on occasion; I even went so far as to... nah, I didn't. BB has joined Awkward-Boy on my list of people that may have to be fragged in my pursuit of fire service glory.

Monikers

2007-08-09T22:00:00.000-07:00

After Hazmat class wrapped up it was clear that there were going to be a lot of new faces and new idiosyncrasies to sort through. Unfortunately, I don't know if I have enough terms, phrases and colloquialisms to effectively manage this process.

To date, my primary means of discerning between good and bad has boiled down to two words: poser and douchebag. I actually don't have any words to describe the good in people - I guess that probably says something about me... kinda like how the Eskimos have 47 words for snow. Whatever.

'Poser' is pretty simple: a person who spends too much effort on form and too little on function. I'm fairly certain - and this is supported by nothing other than my stream of consciousness - that the term poser is based on bodybuilding, where people literally posed to display their massive ripped shredded 6-weeks-to-20-inch-bicep bodies. The question is why. Well, I think that's fairly apparent: a strong physique is indicative of athleticism and fortitude... only, ironically enough, in the bodybuilding community, it's not. Building muscles for the sake of building muscles often results in injury and dilapidation. Hence, posers have become a bit of a standing joke: looking the part without acting the part, they are just a bunch of people in banana hammocks with a preternatural tendancy towards exhibitionism and small genitalia. The term is perfectly befitting of many that I encounter in the fireservice - unfortunately, it's overused, and therefore must be retired.

Similarly, 'douchebag' can no longer be used, but for different reasons altogether. I've unfortunately had it all wrong this whole time - I've been using it to describe people whose demeanor is unsavory in some fashion which henceforth results in me wanting to avoid proximity to that person. Well, considering the enormous dearth of people that I actually like, this criteria is fundamentally flawed, and must be reworked. After some research I've discovered that the criteria for a douche is actually quite exact, and not at all what I formerly thought it to be. For further information, go to http://www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com/ and look at the definitions. In the interest of time the short answer is this: a douchebag displays some combination of vertical hairstyles, white-boy gang signs, tats, open collared shirts, gold-chains, glasses, unnecessary-musculature, and spray-on tans. There is also an attitudinal component that is somewhat unexplainable... but it doesn't matter, because nobody fits that description in the fire service.

So now I'm screwed; my two key descriptors are defunct. So I begrudgingly consulted the urban dictionary in order to ascertain new words to provide a vehicle for invective. (Urban dictionary was the source for my FTW confirmation, which, oddly enough, was on it's homepage today). Here are the results:

ignoranus: ignorant asshole. Funny, clever, and very applicable; but a bit too cute for our purposes here

scrote: short for scrotum. Applicable. Might get some airtime. Probably already overused.

At this point I determined that this process sucked, and I quit. Urban Dictionary is a giant dumpster of bullshit and completely unusable. I'm going to have to rely upon my own wit and cunning. Shit.

Well, I'll begin anyway. Perhaps something will come to me:

There are only a few notable personalities so far, rather, only a few who I've spent enough time around to either like, or be annoyed with...

Product: Product is named thusly because he has gel in his hair, or some sort of something that makes it shiny, hard, and lustrous in a way that I can only hate. In days prior, I would have automatically written him off upon initial introduction. This is because a guy with product in his hair screams to me the same message that the vibrant yellow of the Golden Poison Dart frog conveys to all whom it encounters: RUN AWAY. However, I've mellowed in my later years and I understand that some cling to gels, mousses and such not because of an innate character flaw, but because some chicks actually like it. I haven't met one myself, but I can only assume they exist, since little product-laden, spiky-haired grommets continue to sprout up everywhere I go.

That being said, Product is actually a funny guy. That makes up for a lot of shortcomings. I will still, eventually, ridicule him in front of the entire class for his choice of hairstyles, but that's for a later post. The clincher here is that I am a man who is meeting his prejudices head on, and conquering them, one by one. Personal growth is what I'm all about.

Next up; Volvo. Volvo is a tough-talking former Marine who happens to drive a Volvo. Contradictory? You betcha. Upon being called out he fessed up that his ex-wife got the truck. I then preceded to tell him he was a punk-ass bitch and he deserved to drive a Volvo. He then preceded to tell me that he was formerly a hand-to-hand combat instructor at Quantico, which, of course, firmly cemented him in my never-to-be-fucked-with-again log. Actually, that's not entirely true. We continued to give him shit because he had apparently taken his meds that day and was quite amiable. Well, actually, I'm not sure if he's on meds, but on at least two occasions I've seen a visceral change in his eyes that conveyed the same message as the aforementioned frog: RUN AWAY. It quickly passed, along with an explanation about how I wasn't the first person to mention the fact that he looked mentally unbalanced. I found that quaint, and quaint, in this journal, gets ink.

There are a few others, an assortment of potentially interesting, and potentially loathsome individuals, but they'll have to wait, for until they do something of note, be it good or bad, they'll get no mention here.

First Responder

2007-08-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

First Responder is EMT-lite. In the world of people who go out to people who need help - as opposed to the world of people who need help going to a destination that helps them - there are two flavors: ALS and BLS. (That could possibly be the most poorly crafted sentence ever written, and therefore, must remain the entree into this post.)

ALS is advanced life support, and is made up of paramedics, and well-trained folk who have mastered pulmonary and cardiac resuscitation technique and can quite literally bring people back from the brink of death, and deliver them intact to the hospital.

BLS is basic life support, taught to firefighters who, in the case of someone seizing and falling down at their feet, won't appear completely inept prior to the arrival of people who know stuff.

First Responder is BLS, and the first course in BLS is... that's right, CPR. This was my third time. If accreditation begat life, I'd be the Johnny Appleseed of resuscitation.

Next up? Bloode borne pathogens. Ooh, ooh, and better yet, taught by none other than Nurse-Voice. It would have been boring, except that she kept so closely to the script that she followed during my first BBP class that I thought I was watching a hologram. Down to the syllable was her lecture, honed to the finest of points, and perfectly, inescapably verbatim to the class I took 3 months ago. Uncanny. The only difference was the large classroom was better suited for the volume she still can't seem to control.

One of the triumvirate taught the second half of BBP, which made me dream about the days that it was taught by nurse voice. How bad does a lecture have to suck to make people want yelly-girl back? I can answer that: it has to suck so bad that eyelids were drying out and falling off from overexertion due to their inability to fight off the narcolepsy brought on by the representative from the triumvirate. Even the knife-fight-eager humor that was being volleyed back and forth in response to all STD related questions could not quell the pain of the lecture. Even the best syphillis joke can't compete with the triumvirate - its power is all consuming.

Since the class had a bunch of new faces the triumvirate rep felt the need to repeat many of his former jokes/observations/anecdotes. The Fed Ex theory returned, as did the deep-kimshu comment. He also added in a new one; doctors are incompetent and they have no idea what they are doing. He had alluded in a prior hazmat class that ALS responders couldn't perform basic tasks, and were therefore idiots, but the incompetent doctor thing was new to me. I guess sticking around until the end of class really pays off. Had I left early I would never had known that all doctors were stupid and couldn't diagnose even the simplest of problems.

All in all, a pretty unnecessary repeat of classes already taken. I guess a refresher is nice every now and again, but much like a concert that opens with Creed- the first set was annoying, the second excruciating, and if we don't move to the main stage soon the bleeding in my ears might become permanent.

The Chubby Triumvirate Part III

2007-07-11T14:39:00.002-07:00

Part III

Story time doesn't end at the matriculation from kindergarten to 1st grade.

To be fair, I knew going in that a large percentage of any fire school lecture is going to be comprised of "you shoulda seen" stories from a long time ago in a station far, far away. However, the phenomena is not without it's interesting aspects, and it is certainly worth examination and perhaps a postulation or two on why it exists.

First off, let me get this out early: I hate blowhards. I personally feel that a person should have to physically verify every single iota of braggadocio that comes from his or her pie hole. Acceptable sources cited can range from newspapers, to personal references, to photographic evidence - but lacking that, the person best be able to give me some indication that they are capable of doing the thing they are expecting me to believe, otherwise, they'd better just up and do it right there. (This has backfired on me in the past - most notably when a 300 lb friend did a full sideways split in front of me. I shit thee not... he looked like a obese wishbone on the eve of its demise.) If a person can't meet these criteria, they are condemned to languish in the depths of my disdain forever.

It's easy to avoid this fate by not talking smack. However, if one is compelled to flights of self-aggrandizing, they should just assume I'll start disliking them directly afterwards. Primarily because I find it presumptuous that someone would think that I'm dumb enough to buy their line of shit. "Really, 5'4" 298 lb, bald, zitty guy? She was smoking hot? And only had eyes for you huh? Yes, I am that dumb... please do tell."

The triumvirate truly believe that by way of their being chosen to teach the class, they are automatically allotted full credibility and the class will mentally march lockstep with whatever story they decide to throw into the discussion. They even take it a step further - they continue to traipse down the path to delusia even when given the opportunity to pull the ripcord and bail out of the enormous pile of horseshit they've shoveled upon themselves. This doesn't stop at stories, but continues with any correction thrown to them as a lifeline back to the land of credibility.

For instance - one of them said "That's what I call being in deep kim shu."

A classmate replied: "You mean kimCHI, right? The Korean side dish?

"No, it's called kim shu." (It's Kimchi)

Another moment had the same instructor telling us that Fed Ex was the reason that one well-placed hazmat incident would shut down the Eastern seaboard. Why? Everything would come to a halt because nobody had anything in inventory due to just in time manufacturing. Apparently, Fed Ex invented it. I think that would vex the engineers at Toyota from whom the management style of Kanban was born in 1950. I didn't bother telling him that - arguing that point would be like explaining evolution to Pat Robertson.

The list of examples grew so long that I started to chart it in my notebook. There were so many little events where each instructor attempted to tacitly establish themselves as an unerring source of information, be it formal instruction, or a tangential story which may or may not have illustrated a point. Only instructors were allowed to correct other instructors, and even then it was only the lead - a fourth instructor who appeared intermittently - who could issue any correction that was universally accepted. The triumvirate would fall all over themselves in order to appear the most viable (or rather the 2nd most viable next to the lead).

In the final assessment, the class was not horrible, nor unhelpful. The triumvirate did the job they needed to do. They also provided entertainment - if only the painful variety. I'm sure this won't be the last class where the instructor's knowledge is suspect, I just hope that at some point I have enough cred to get away with calling them out. Leaving that shit out there just wafting around waiting to alight on some naive recruit's head can no longer be tolerated.

The Chubby Triumvirate Part II

2007-07-11T14:39:00.001-07:00

Part II
Profound political insight and erudite consideration of both foreign and domestic policy? No need to look any further, we've got it here

Seriously, screw the Wall Street Journal, if someone wants some keen and original thinking on the current state of the nation, come on down to fire school. The subtle, not-so-subtle, and highly dramatized political invective that is bandied about in Hazmat class is so abundant I'm beginning to wonder if I've found my way into some right-wing dystopian hell.

Now, to step back a bit - my state is a conservative one. Our history is grounded in patriotism and our legacy is peppered with presidents, national icons, and historical figures that quite literally formed the foundation of our country. I'm proud to live in my state and I'm proud of it's history. I'm even amenable to a few of the concepts that are put forth by our more conservative members of Congress.

However, I do find it amusing when I see people - the triumvirate - who think that parroting neo-conservative, hawkish, xenophobic views on the world constitutes patriotism, and are therefore in keeping with the thinking of our founders. Much like dieters who take 8 Phen-Fens when 1 was prescribed, taking a conservative view, and making it 8 times more rigid and vehement does not serve to make it more effective, no, quite the opposite, it's kills the body it's trying to reform.

Given the conservative nature of both my state and county, well, suffice it to say, there is a lot of violent agreement in the classroom regarding certain topics that would be polarizing elsewhere. I keep my mouth shut because I've found that even valid points find quick and painful deaths when confronted with overwhelming opposition, no matter how ridiculous that opposition. I don't feel like being ostracized just yet, so I'll continue my pattern of quite mouse behavior.

Consider these little nuggets:

While discussing biological agents: "With the number of foreigners entering our country, you'd better be damned sure you're wearing a mask when you go into a potentially contaminated scene. No telling what these people might be carrying; tuberculosis is very common in other parts of the world". (Of course, my first thought upon hearing this was: "Yes, a similiar sentiment was probably rattling around in the head of the Pueblo Indian as he was dying of smallpox brought by the Europeans)

While discussing terrorism: "The Islamists hate us. If you go inside a mosque, you'll see writings about how all the women should just be pregnant all the time and the men would need to convert or die. I guess I'd just have to die." (Presumably, the mosque(s) in question are bent on world domination. My mental response to this was: "You've seen these mosques? You can read Arabic? Farsi? That's fucking impressive.")

While discussing blister agents: "Saddam Hussein used this stuff on his own people. That's right folks, he used a WMD. Now I don't know if he still had them at the start of the war, but he did back in the day". (This, of course, is true, so my response would have to had been more considered: "Sure, and he did a lot more than that when he was allied with the US."

While discussing liquid flammables: "A hybrid using LPG (liquified petroleum gas) blew up the other day. You think about that when you get it in your head to buy a hybrid car. They blow up." (This one barely needs to be mentioned, but my response would have been: "Yes, they use fuel that ignites, as opposed to the non-flammable fuel used in normal cars.")

While discussing MSDS (Material Safety Data Sheets): "I think MSDS's should come with every product bought or sold, even toothpaste. Especially if it's from China, they don't care what kind of stuff goes into their product." (Response: "I wonder if the citizens of Bhopal India got MSDS's from Dow Chemical?)

Lastly, and this one I did respond to, was one of the triumvirate talking about being able to check handguns and ammunition onto planes. "Yes, I can check my gun and ammo on the plane. I have to have the key, and a secure box. However, I think it would be better if I could take the gun on board with me, I'd feel a hell of a lot safer."

My response was (and this one was out loud) "I think I speak for all of us when I say that we feel much safer knowing your gun is NOT with you on the plane."

The Chubby Triumvirate Part I

2007-07-11T04:35:00.000-07:00

Finally back in class, I'm quickly learning that fire and rescue skills are just the beginning of what can be gleaned in the various curricula offered in my county. Indeed, my new education has so illuminated this fact for me to the degree that I'm inspired to disseminate this information to the viewing public.

To that end, I will embark now on a 3 part series entitled:

"The Chubby Triumvirate"*

or,

"Shit Taught in Hazmat That is Completely Unnecessary, Yet Overwhelmingly Entertaining."

Part I

"Sensationalist, reactionary and pedantic talk of terrorism doesn't stop at the White House"

or,

'Local Sheriff Suspects Al-Qaeda or Teens' **

The Hazmat instructors are colorful. The beauty of the colors, however, is debatable.

There are 3 instructors, and all are short, chubby caricatures and are so similiar in stature that they are almost permutations of each other. Of course, I have the deepest respect for their experience and valor, but damn if they didn't let themselves go. These three will henceforth be called the Chubby Triumvirate. I haven't learned how to discern one from another so when referencing them I will do so individually as well as en masse. The Chubby Triumvirate is both singular and plural, like deer, beer, or fish.

The class started Sunday morning. I showed up 3 hours late, as is my way. Making a prompt and punctual entrance dilutes the brand. People can't expect me to be beholden to arbitrary time constraints. Showing up late also allows the instructors some time to gain some traction, as well as understand that they are there for me. The sooner they absorb that point the less painful this will be for everyone. (Actually I had just gotten off a plane - they knew I would be late and were not terribly nonplussed).

What I found in my first class, and what became even more pronounced in the second class was this: terrorists are evidently a big part of why I'm here. Either that, or the war on terrorism is given more consideration in a beginner Hazardous Material class than might be warranted. I'm leaning towards the latter, but I guess it's conceivable that I, with my 7 hours of hazardous material training, would represent the first line of defense against a guy with C4 strapped to his chest.

Terrorism gets mentioned more in Hazmat class than 9/11 gets mentioned in a George Bush stump speech. We watched videos of dummies with satchel charges, suitcases with C4, cars with fertilizer and diesel fuel, and other incredible things blow up again and again. We saw pictures of skin after exposure to mustard gas. Faces imposed (and superimposed) on the screen included: Osama Bin Laden, Saddam Hussien, Timothy McVeigh, the Unabomber, and that Japanese guy who released Sarin gas in the subway.

Now, I'm just a simple guy. I don't claim to know the entire hazmat institution inside and out, but I'm pretty sure this type of information is unnecessary at my level. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for videotapes of shit being blown up, but the constant reprisal of 'terrorist threat' and 'not if, but when' might be a hair sensationalist even for a guy as starved for entertainment as me.

This observation is compounded when viewed in the context of my county, which I think its safe to say, would not be a priority one target for a terrorist. That is unless that terrorist's objective was to kill off a bunch of poser-douchebag executive wannabees driving low-end Mercedes and huffing cell phone minutes like their conversations were tantamount to The Rapture.

Ahem, I apologize for that little diatribe - slightly disenchanted with the corporate world today.

On the other hand, perhaps it's me, and I should adjust my views on terrorism to think of it as a real threat, as opposed to a statistically irrelevant risk that is over-sensationalized by an opportunistic White House in order to rally its base. But, unfortunately, that will be difficult for me, because I'm a man of numbers, at least I am for the sake of this post. The chances that I'm involved in cleaning up a gas leak outweigh my mopping up the aftermath of a terrorist strike about 1000 to 1. If it's all the same to the triumvirate, I'll go ahead and focus on the fundamentals and save the terrorist response training for sometime after I've learned how to wash my gear.

I did get a 101 on my quiz though. Maybe I should be fighting those fuckers after all.

* I prefer the former because it has nicer assonance.
** The Onion, Aug 18, 2004

Fifth Duty Crew

2007-06-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

I'm reluctant to post about my fifth duty crew, mainly because it would read just like duty crews 1, 2, 3, and 4, but there was a brief moment of humor this time, so post I shall.

I arrived a hair late, again, due to some jackass turning his truck over on the highway. It's that type of compassion and caring for other human beings that drove me to want to be a firefighter in the first place. My zeal for humanity is unfuckingfathomable.

The engine had been pulled out but it was shut off. I asked Ernst if they had checked it out.

Ernst - "Yep, we checked it out."
Me - "But it's off, how'd you check the hydraulics?"
Ernst - "Well, we went through all the compartments to make sure everything is there."
Me - "Oh. Do you mind if we start the truck so I can check things out the way we're supposed to?"
Ernst - "I guess, but we really shouldn't start that chainsaw and K12 every shift, that'll tear up the motor. The day shift starts them in the morning, so I trust that it'll run if we need it tonight.
Me - "I guess that means you've already talked to the day shift and they said they fired them up?"
Ernst - "Of course."

Okay, so most are thinking that wasn't funny, but it was. See, Ernst DIDN'T ask anyone about firing up the tools. He doesn't do it. He didn't check out shit. He never checks out shit. The best part is - He think's I'm buying it. That's why it's funny.

See?

Whatever, nothing is ever funny once it has to be explained.

So we went to eat, again. Hemorrhoid and his mom were there. His mom runs on the rescue side of the house and seems to be a relatively well-adjusted woman. The only explaination that I can think of that would explain his being a total asshat while she remains relatively unaffected has to be that she accidentally bludgeoned the soft spot on his head when he was a child. That, or his surrogate mom is Marge Schott. My confusion was pretty obvious, until I witnessed her paying for his meal, which means she too must have some sort of late onset retardation. If Hemorrhoid were my son, not only would he pay for his own meals, his every bite would be painful due to the swollen mouth chewing it; similiarly, my typing this post would be agonizing because of the horribly disfigured knuckles I would have from our extended 'discussions'.

During the drive back to the station I asked Ernst (with barely masked sarcasm) "So, what sort of training do you have planned tonight?"

I only relay his response for the sake of accuracy, because, in the high-falutin' words of the well-heeled, it was a fait accompli:

"We're not training. I'm relaxing tonight. I don't sit behind a desk every day, I work with my hands, therefore I don't have the energy to train. I blah blah blah blah no. No way I'll blah blah blah. Training is blah blah. "

He then followed up the discourse with, "Of course, if there's a structure fire, I'm all over it. I'll douse that thing stat."

I do not know how to fight fires, however, I soon will. I assume that, at one point, Ernst did know how to fight fires, but I don't think he gets to keep the priviledge of the present tense on that verb until there is some display of ability in the present. I just cannot intellectually allow someone to talk so much, and act so little, without categorizing it in my mind as bombast.

This is actually a bit of an issue for me, and I've downgraded many an aquaintance based on it. People love to talk about what they've done because they believe that their historical successes ensure future victory - or even more annoying, they think it convinces others that they are capable of future victory. Bullshit. Just like they say in the world of finance, "Past performance is not necessarily an indicator of future results." The only indicator of current or future success is what one is capable of right now.

The good news is that the occasion of a proving ground will eventually present itself and the veracity of the claims will be tried in the court of action. I think most would agree that there is nothing quite like the call to action for drawing a deep line of demarcation between those that can, and everyone else. I hope to be a member of the former, I'll quit if I'm a member of the latter.

On a final note, I ran the maze again with Chuck and Hemorrhoid watching. This time, I was using air, carrying an axe, and had a washrag stuffed in my facemask to blind me. The last part was a bit gratuitious, since pure darkness is all that can be expected in the maze.

I started off on a cylinder with 1000 psi left. This sucked for a few reasons: 1.) 1000 psi equals about 5 minutes for me. 2.) A full cylinder is 4500 psi, and when it's depleted to 1000 the mask starts to buzz and vibrate like a cheap massage chair.

So there I was in full gear, axe in hand, blind, and buzzing like a consultant that won't answer his fucking Blackberry. Perfect.

I made it about halfway through when I sucked dry. I called mayday and they came and switched my cylinder. I then had to find my way back to the point I left off, recover my axe, and finish the maze. I did so in about 4 minutes. Not bad considering that I've really been given very little guidance on how to actually go through the maze. I've also not seen the maze, which I understand to be quite an advantage.

I did learn one technique going through this time. There are a few places where turning around is impossible, and tucking into a hole almost chokes me out. My helmet got caught in one of these places, and instead of holding my breath and contorting to get it through, I just slammed it down until it broke free. Not terribly graceful, but it worked. The chinstrap left a little rasberry on my jaw. Pretty cool. It would look badass except for the fact that it's the color of my mom's lipstick.

After I got out and doffed my gear they brought my axe out. I had left it on the steps once I had finished.

Chuck: "One absolute rule that can never be broken: you are ALWAYS responsible for your tool. Don't make that mistake again."
Me: "Yeah, that might be a problem, because there have been a few times when I was VERY irresponsible with my tool."

A Moment of Repose

2007-06-13T21:04:00.000-07:00

Reading over the last few posts it occurs to me that my demeanor, and content, have both taken a definite turn towards the sour. This has also been pointed out to me in the 3 comments I've received (oh, yes indeed, my reknown is tough to grasp). I want to make it clear that my enthusiasm for this endeavor has not waned, nay, it has burgeoned under the duress of challenge. It has been forged in the gauntlet of public scrutiny and it's blade honed by the quizzicle stares of colleagues not comprehending my valiant and constant struggle for honor and sacrifice.

Nah, I'm just fucking around... but I really have been a hair angry lately... so allow me to explain.

Chad fucking quit the station and signed up somewhere else. This, of course, is in the wake of all the bullshit that PAH caused. No resolution was forthcoming, so Chad took the opportunity to bid adieu to the station and seek his fortune elsewhere. I can't blame him, but since it negatively impacts my existence, I still must refer to him forevermore as a punk-ass-bitch. Actually, I'll still call him Chad, reader's should just now be aware that 'Chad' is an alias for punk-ass-bitch. He also pronounces 'schedule' wrong, which futher underscores the need for his new nickname.

Despite Chad's sound reasoning for leaving, I'm now without a Red Hat trainer. Coincidentally, I'm also without fellow Red Hats. This, of course, means that the only training I'll be getting is that which I beg for. This is uncomfortable for many reasons, but the primary one is this: a trainer who doesn't want to train is not terribly effective. I don't think I need to expound on this, nor do I need to give examples.

I believe I stated, very early on, that this journal would trace my steps through this process. It would quantify and qualify both the good and bad, and hopefully depict events with a somewhat even-handed approach. My objective is to neither deify nor demonize the fire service, it is to journal it from a new but committed eye. I didn't join up thinking that firefighting would magically turn my world into a utopia of happiness and zen-like balance, but I did expect the good to outweigh the bad. So far it has, but for that trend to continue, some shit's gotta change.

The good news is this: Hazmat training starts in a month, and from there it's first responder, and then Fire 1. If nothing else I can at least build a metaphor on spilt toxins symbolizing the slow and pervasive influence of dialectic materialism in sub-saharan Africa. That, or conjure up some gas leak jokes.

Fourth Duty Crew

2007-06-08T19:59:00.001-07:00

We had an event to go to tonight, so duty crew started off with us shining up the truck and looking dignified.

After the event we went to dinner and got back at around 9. At that point, Ernst indicated that he wasn't planning on doing any training that night. This of course, came as no shock, but did present an irony (irony might be a bit strong, but it was a contradiction, and that's close enough given the week I'm having) based on something that reared up earlier in the week.

Ernst was having a discussion with some other firefighters when some story of a crew on a rescue engine (read: fire engine with saws and ropes and shit to pull people out of cars, rivers, holes, etc) was relayed to them; the upshot was that the crew didn't know how to operate something on the truck.

Ernst's disdain was palpable. His ensuing sermon on knowing the truck and being able to do one's job was vehement, scathing, and not just a little bit self-righteous. He went so far as to say the crew should either quit, or not ride until they were checked-out on everything.

If there is still some question on the irony:

Duty Crew 1 - Ernst couldn't show me the Stokes basket and webbing (called an MLF- [hehe, I know, MLF!!!) because he didn't know how.

Duty Crew 2 - During an actual call Ersnt didn't think the supply hose had the correct coupling on it, and was fretting about how I would hook it to a hydrant. (The supply hose, of course, did have the right coupling on it. Much the same way that the axe has a sharp end made specifically for chopping things, the supply-hose has a coupling made specifically for hooking up to a entity that provides supply.)

Duty Crew 3 - Ernst couldn't figure out why the hydraulics weren't running (engine was revving too high)

Duty Crew 4 - Argument ensued about steamer cap size again. Ernst insists they are 5 inches. They are 4.5. Might be a bit trite sounding now - probably more significant when water is flowing at 150 psi.

Still curious as to the irony? Okay... The fact is, any one of the above mistakes could be made by anybody in the fire service. There is a lot to know, and hence, a lot that can be forgotten, or distorted. There is also a lot of new stuff to learn.

How does a company keep their members fresh, current, well-informed, and finely-tuned? They drill. They train. They practice.

All the time.

In contrast to that, Ernst sits. Ernst bullshits. Ernst actually spends time watching TV in the company of Hemorrhoid. Not that I would expect Ernst to share my sense of delectable awe at his being culpable of the crimes he so angrily decries, but I would think something is tingling in the back of his head letting him know that I'm not missing the hypocrisy. Mayhaps not. Self-delusion is as rampant in the fire house as it is everywhere else.

During Ernst's repose, another Red Hat and I ran through the maze. Hot, and very, very close quartered, the maze is a semi trailer with 3 stacked tunnels running lengthwise up each side of the truck. Down the middle of the truck is an open corridor. Several tunnels run back and forth between the tunnels on the sides as well. An instructor will drop trapdoors, close lids, slide walls, and throw down netting all in an attempt to stop the maze-runner from finding the one path out. Oh yeah, it's also pitch-black darkness.

Sound tough? For claustrophobics, it's impossible. For people uneasy in confined spaces, it's do-able, but not fun. I was actually fine with the confinement. I had some difficulty with finding my way out, and I missed the correct path a few times, but other than that it was merely an effort in spacial relationships (my ass + scba + turnout gear > 2x2 tunnel), heat tolerance, and breath control. It was actually fun in a dark, blind, angry and smelly sort of way.

At one point I had about 1 second of anxiety - but it didn't really have time to sink in. I was able to logic it away because I knew I had to write about it and I didn't want anyone to think I was a pussy. That and the fact that I knew I was in a truck, with only 1 inch of plywood between me and freedom.

My next thought, however, was a bit more sobering: would that capability disappear in conjunction with the appearance of any real danger? How level-headed would I be in a 2x2 tunnel with fire beside me? Or toxic gas around me? Or another guy not there to pull me out? In that particular area I am 100% untested. There isn't really a class for that - a bumper sticker maybe - but not a class. But hey, in the lyrics of the immortal Kurt Cobain, "Who needs actions when you've got words?". Since smack talk seems to be the currency of choice at the station, perhaps I won't ever need to bring any real sack to the table.

During the night there was one call - and it was a false alarm. The good news is that I haven't missed the truck yet and I haven't held them up. Baby steps man. Baby steps.

Third Duty Crew

2007-05-31T21:06:00.000-07:00

I actually did something tonight.

We got a call around 10pm for a car crash; right down the street from the station. I was in the bay bullshitting with another Red Hat when everyone came pouring out of the lounge with the sense of urgency that spelled only one thing - fire engine ride. I even stopped midsentence - which I'm loathe to do - and put on my pants.

Given all of his static carriage, Ernst was a veritable beacon of single-minded action. He was issuing addresses and tasks to Chuck and Steve as they made their way to the engine and he was clearly in his zone. I shed a little tear of pride as I rushed to don the rest of my gear.

We had been practicing the two-minute drill earlier, so one would think that I would have been geared up and ready before anyone else - not so. I did manage to get my coat on but that fucking SCBA fought me like a prison-bitch.

The call turned out to be a car crash... and it was about 30 seconds away, so I was screwed. I decided against the life-giving oxygen of the SCBA and clambered out of the truck with a flashlight and tried to look viable. It didn't take. However, no noxious fumes cluttered my airways so I guess the no-SCBA tactic was the right answer.

Chuck told me to get ready to direct traffic. This I could do. Despite the fact that I'm still unable to dress properly, looking like I matter is easy when wearing turnout gear, because nobody can see the look of utter confusion under the silhouette of the big red hat. I point, they go. It's pretty sweet. I've been at the station for 3 months and already I get more respect from the general public than I have garnered in 13 years as an IT goob. That's all speculative, however, since I didn't direct any traffic.

All I had to do was put down some glorified sand on a leak. It wasn't even a gas-leak... more like radiator fluid or wiper fluid. Terrifying stuff. If the temperature of the asphalt suddenly increased by a thousand degrees or so, then this liquid would potentially ignite, and my work would not have been in vain - as it stood, the liquid was the very embodiment of benign. If Jet Fuel had a bizarro-world parallel, it would be this liquid. Like a surgeon carving his initials next to an appendectomy scar, the glory-sand was pretty much just us trying to leave something to show for the effort.

Oh, for the sake of edification - the wreck was just some chick that hit a deer. She was pretty shaken up - she was just hiding it really well by not acknowledging at all that she had been in a car wreck. She wouldn't talk to the cops, she wouldn't let the EMT look at her, and her cell phone never left her ear; I think the wreck might not have even interrupted the conversation she was having pre-deer slaughter, given her unwavering commitment to the phone. I don't think a severed limb could have disengaged her from that conversation.

The cell-phone as curtain to the world - nobody can see you when your attention is directed towards an unverifiable and unidentifiable entity at the other end of the call. It's the perfect camoflage. Kind of like Hemorrhoid's bullshit, the cellphone conversation is completely unverifiable... it's the perfect way to escape scrutiny. I think this is a growning trend, and one that is pretty universal in application: a cell phone can, and should, be deployed in all uncomfortable situations;
- stressful business meeting? cell phone;
- girlfriend pissed that you're watching TV? phone call;
- congressional hearing closing in on the truth? gotta take this one, can I get back to ya?;
- hit a fucking deer and don't want passersby to see your face? Hellooooo Moto.

As an aside, I totally knew where the absorbant glory-sand was; officer side, 2nd to last compartment, red plastic can. I fucking rule on truck inventory.

Second Duty Crew

2007-05-25T10:12:00.000-07:00

"You're name is [], right?"

This came from the officer, Ernst, with whom I had spent my entire Thursday the week before. He got my name right, which, I guess, is better than not getting it right, but the idea that we could have spent that much time together without him being sure of my name kinda fucked with me a bit.

Surly Quartermaster Keith was in the command room with him, so I almost wondered if it was Ernst's way of keeping me in check. It's pretty clear that Keith actively engages in keeping people at arms length. I generally find this to be an acceptable practice, because then I get to choose who I talk to, and that's invaluable. What I can't figure out is if he does it because he; a.) doesn't want to expend the energy to make a new aquaintance (acceptable), b.) has a general dislike for people (acceptable) c.) requires some sort of proof that a person isn't a douche prior to investing time in them (acceptable) d.) covering up for severe social inadequacies (unacceptable - but allows for much more humor and referencable anecdotes). I'm going to just ignore him for now - I've got all my gear, my need to endear myself to him has dwindled considerably.

Who cares - Keith is so fucking 23 posts ago.

Training was a hair better this week. Ernst was still mentioning - at 60 minute intervals - that he'd prefer to relax, but overall he did a pretty good job of explaining how things worked.

At the beginning of the night, I asked him what we were going to do. He, of course, slipped the requisite "prefer to relax" statement in, but then motioned to me that it was open-mike night, and I had the opportunity to choose training. This policy, is of course, flawed in that at some point, I'm not going to know what I don't know, but for now - well, I'm going to make the most of it.

I relayed to him what I wanted to do: gear up, hook the truck up to a hydrant, run the water, go to the crosslay (two hoses lie directly behind the cab, perpendicular to it [hence the term 'crosslay'], one points to the driver side, one the passenger or 'officer' side) and pull it. I then wanted to run the crosslay to where the practice door was, sit it down, call for water, put on my mask, turn on my SCBA, and then charge inside all guns a'blazin'. (This is effectively stringing together several things I'd learned over the past month or so).

The idea of charging (turning on the water) a hose was asinine to Ernst. He would allow me to pull the crosslay, but no hookup to the hydrant, and certainly no water. Water is stupid. Water makes hoses heavy, and hard to put back on the truck. Water slows down everything. Hockey was on in an hour.

I went through the drill with moderate success on the first try, and was somewhat proficient on the 2nd try. Using the crosslay involves pulling and shouldering 100 feet of hose in a stack - not overly difficult, but it takes a few attempts before the concept is fully grasped. I was the only one doing the drill, which was fine, but I have to admit that Jordan taking pictures lent some credence to my claim about her being somewhat, ahem, ill-suited for action. Ernst, on the other hand, gave me some tips on masking up and getting my SCBA working in rapid order - so the redemption of his credibility is taking baby-steps in the right direction.

This whole scene, however, reminded me a bit of my youth. It took me back a few decades to two-a-days in August. I was a center on the varsity football team (see how I snuck 'varsity' in there? Whatever, like there was any question).

We were practicing long snaps, which are particularly difficult, and fraught with peril because they are generally executed in bad situations. The coach showed us every aspect of the longsnap, but never longsnapped himself. We later found out that he never snapped it because he didn't want to fuck it up. If he were to fuck it up, which would have been quite probable, then we would have laughed, or at least spoken of it in hushed tones of amusement. That would not have been conducive to his coaching style, which was pretty fucking authoritarian.

During the drill, as I was given every conceivable verbal instruction on how to do things, it occurred to me that nobody once touched a thing until it came time to rack the hose. Ostensibly, I guess this would be due to their wanting me to do it solo, but I suspect that that conveniently coincided with them also not having to showcase their own inability to do it properly. Much like my football coach, they didn't want concrete evidence of their own ineptitude. Tidy, nay?

Third duty crew is tomorrow... I sure hope we pick a good restaurant.

First Duty Crew

2007-05-21T06:46:00.001-07:00

For reasons unbeknownst to me (not true), Chad (Gaynadian), my former Red Hat trainer is on hiatus (permanent).

Without going into the reasons (PAH) or my thoughts (hate PAH) I will continue to discuss the happenings at the station with my leveled and objective eye (horribly skewed and biased).

Unfortunately, things have become less eventful now that I'm working with people who are less action oriented, and more sitting oriented. In fact, the duty crew to which I was assigned stated, upon initial introduction, that when it came to training (mandatory at my station) they were more inclined towards the 'not' end of the spectrum. The officer went so far as to tell me he was only training me as a favor to the Chief - I was thrilled to hear that. It's not like I'm contributing my own time to try to better the station, provide a community service, or further enhance my and my crew's skills - wait, it is like that.

The crew is made up of 3 guys;

[Ernst] the officer, is a 10 year vet who likes to 'relax' because it's his 'rest night'
[Chuck] the driver, is a 6 or 7 year vet who likes him some computer card games - to the tune of about 8 hours straight.
[Steve] the firefighter, is a 3 year vet, IT goob, clearance, etc. Reads blogs and such at the station. He's actually pretty cool - but I already know cool people.

Steve wasn't there on the first night, in his stead was Jordan. I need to eludicate a bit on Jordan but I haven't exactly pinned down what to say. I think the primary reason she's on my radar is because she seems to be the epicenter of a lot of activity at the station. Outside of the aforementioned flirting (incredibly feckless) with everyone (not just management anymore) she has a way of placing herself in a position of authority or knowledge, and then when called upon to fulfill the responsibilities of the position, relegates the yeomen work to someone else; all the while somehow maintaining something akin to credibility.

I'm no stranger to this type of behavior, but I wouldn't expect it in a volunteer organization. Volunteers, are by definition, people who are willing to contribute mindshare/work/effort to a cause with no tangible compensation. Jordan seems to want to maintain the illusion of being a person with this comportment, but doesn't want to actually commit the resources.

I was going to list all of the evidence here to support my claim, but it seems trite and childish. Suffice it to say - Jordan is not somebody I want to follow into a fire. Nor is she somebody I want following me.

My duty crew went to dinner and then did a quick hydrant drill (at my request) before wrapping it up for the night. I would love to delve into all of the humorous and interesting aspects of the drill, but the fact was, it sucked, and all it did was convey to me the fact that the crew was desperately in need of more drilling.

At the very beginning of the drill it was evident that the crew didn't do this often. What followed was a series of rationalizations reminscent of the hapless sidestepping at a Senate Hearing: frantic justification of why they didn't know where something was, constant re-evaluation of how something worked vs. how it should have worked, multiple tries to get something to work, multiple tries to get something back in the truck, and extensive enumeration about how the truck sucks and should be able to accommodate all of these issues. Basically, they had the entire suite of ailments present in PAH save the predilection towards unfettered rage.

Needless to say, my outlook darkened on the ride home. It was doubly darkened when we were joined in the tv room by what could possibly be the biggest (both in waistsize and relativity) blowhard I've met since the 22-hour class.

This character, let's call him [Hemorrhoid], couldn't squeeze more bullshit into his conversations if he had an implement specifically built for bullshit-squeezing. I'm not a great judge of character, or people for that matter, but this guy had 'asshole' emblazoned all over his countenance... it was tough to miss. He gave an exhaustive discourse on how good he was, how bad the Chief was, how much he didn't care what the Chief said, how much he didn't have to be there, how everybody knew he was awesome, how his experience trumped everyone else's, and how important he was at his other station.

Apparently my passive demeanor, or the fact that I'm a Red Hat, dictates that I have to tolerate irritants such as this. Hemorrhoid is not the first person to regale me with breathless exaltations of himself, but he was certainly the most unyielding. His behavior is completely without restraint because everyone is complicit. Besides the fact that all of these verbal assaults sound much the same, they also have something else in common: they would be easily disproven if anybody had the sack to call them out. I'm a new guy, I have virtually zero skills, but I'm still likely going to be that person. For some reason, I find it immoral and irresponsible to let this shit go on unmanaged.

Look for a future post on how my verbal invective and bullet-proof logic completely changed Hemorrhoid's demeanor and how he is now a very apt and engaging individual.

There was lots of activity that night; multiple EMS calls, and an actual fire call at 2am. I had never really gotten to sleep, so I was out the door and putting on my turnout gear (the actual fire gear) in a matter of 30 seconds. I was on the truck with all my gear on, or with me, and I didn't fuck one thing up in the process. Maybe not a truimph, but a stunning non-defeat.

The call was for a gas-leak. It was our 2nd due, meaning another station is responsible for being there first, but we were backing them up. We sat around the corner and I was instructed to, upon notice, jump out, wrap the hydrant, and flow water if called for. It never happened, and I never had to get out of the truck. However, the conversation that followed was a bit unsettling...

Ernst: We couldn't hook to the hydrant, we've got a 4" supply hose. Hydrant steamer caps are bigger."

Chuck: Yeah, well, I've got the hydrant couplings in the back, we could use one of those.

Me: "There is a hydrant coupling on the supply hose. It's intended specfically for hooking up to hydrants. There is also a hydrant wrench tied inside the coupling with webbing. The webbing is what I pull to get the supply hose off the engine."

Ernst: "You sure? I don't think that's right. I think we need to add a coupling."

Me: "I've run water through that supply line 3 times in 3 weeks, twice it was me that hooked it to the hydrant - so, yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Chuck: "Okay, we'll check it once we get back to the station."

It give me no pleasure to say this: I was right, they were wrong. Typically, I engage in a little dance I like to call the gloaty-smugnificent-swagger-step whenever I prove somebody wrong, but in this case, the wrongosity of their claims bent towards a somewhat sobering thought:

My crew was haggling over the most basic, most fundamental, most primary function of their job. The raison d'etere of the truck is to move water from a source to a fire. The primary means of doing this is via the supply hose hooked to a hydrant. They, quite literally, were not clear on how this was to be done.

Oh yeah, and they're training me.

I Are Satisfactory!!!

2007-05-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the company meeting. We have one every month. I'm sure this isn't a common sentiment, but I rather look forward to them. It could just be that I'm still new and not yet dreading the formalities that are forced upon county employees, but mostly it's because of the following:

1.) I get to meet people I don't know - some of them are of actual interest to me
2.) I get to understand a bit more about the station - some oddities have yet to be explained
3.) I anxiously await the reappearance of eager-chick so I can have some fresh conversations to pry apart with the cold-hearted ferver of a hunger-crazed jackal.

So I arrived a bit early.

Of course, Eager Chick wasn't there. Nor was her accomplice, I guess the MCATs are a two-month long test. Disappointing, but if she doesn't show up at the next meeting, I'll just start making up conversations. The following is a prototype - please keep in mind, this is just my virgin run at hypothetical Eager Chick dialogue, so if it sounds manufactured; well, that's because it is:

Me - "Hey, how'd the test go?"
Eager Chick - "Test?"
Me - "Yeah, you sat for the MCAT last month, right?"
Eager Chick - "Oh yeah, that... I think I did pretty well, but I sorta flopped on the inorganic, organic, physics, calc, and biology portions of the test."
Me - "Uh, isn't that the entire test?"
Eager Chick - "Well, yes... as it turns out, Doctors need to know a lot of science. And I sorta focused on L. Ron Hubbard's book on Science, because, well, it covers ALL of Scientology, so, it seemed the right place to start. But, it was a bit thin on facts, I guess I should have seen the warning flag when the intro was penned by Tom Cruise."
Me - "Wow, that must have been really disappointing."
Eager Chick - "Tom Cruise is hot."

So, still reeling from her absence, I made my way over to the Chief, who, by his very nature, makes me feel more firefighterish. The good news was, I was being put on a crew. I'm still processing this information - commentary pending.

Once the meeting was called to order, and the formalities and minutes were put to rest, the Chief stood up and addressed the happenings on the fire side of the house. N number of calls, N number of fires, annnnd done. He then pulled out the awards and certifications that were received by firefighters for the month - who was first up? That's right.

I am now a certified class-completer of Blood Borne Pathogens. BBP is far from the most important class in the Fire Service, but it was my first cert, so dammit, I was gonna walk up there and receive it with a little of the circumstance, a sprinkling of pomp, and not just a little of the cavalier braggadocio. Actually, I just grabbed it and sat back down... my head has a tendency to turn very red on these occasions so I try to keep them as short as possible.

The cert itself was befitting a man of my stature; marbled texture, good and heavy bonded card stock, the county's seal of approval and the signature of several people I've never met. It had all the markings of an actual certification that meant something. Outside of the intrinsic gravity added by the requisite latin, my college diploma didn't look much better.

It then occurred to me that I received a 100% on the test at the end of the class, as did everyone else that sat all 7 hours. Two of my classmates didn't sit for the first 3 hours - and they still received a 95%. The credence lent to my person by way of a cert was beginning to diminish in my mind. "Was it possible that this piece of paper did not connote viability? Do others know that the class wasn't demanding? Would they not admire me more because of my newly-bestowed credentials?" My attention drifted back to the text:

That's right; "[Name] has satisfactory completed a 7 hour course". I think the grammar error was intentionally placed in there. The typesetter felt compelled to surreptitiously rescind the honor by placing an obvious but unremarkable flaw in it, thusly relaying the fact that I am still, cert or no cert, without merit.

Clever bastard. Well played.

I'm getting this one framed. It is, by far, the most perfectest certification I've ever received.

Service vs. Provider

2007-04-30T14:53:00.000-07:00

I have a watch.

I don't own many high-end things but I have always had a nice watch. This watch was an anniversary gift from my wife replacing my last watch, which was decommissioned after 12 years.

My watch's primary feature is that it is probably the coolest watch ever made, throughout the entire passage of time, up until this very moment. My watch is so perfect that I will sometimes stare at it for extended periods, only to have to look back moments later to actually ascertain the time. It is understated yet capable of feats that would render a lesser watch scrap. If the soul of John Coltrane were looking for the coolest place on the planet to haunt, he would haunt my watch, and I don't think even that would make my watch any cooler, because it is both physically, and metaphysically impossible to stuff more cool into this watch.

Considering that, one would expect the company that made my watch to be cool too, right? Wrong.

The company that made my watch is Breitling. A few weeks back, Breitling sent a hat to my house, ostensibly to be worn in conjunction with my cool, understated watch.

This hat couldn't be less cool if it were bathed in the sweat of David Hasselhoff. There is more branding than hat. If I were an extra in a movie, and I wore that hat, Breitling would have to pay royalties for all of eternity every time the movie was seen. If I were the Breitling driver, on the Breiting team, driving the Breitling car, in the Breitling cup at Breitling stadium in Breitling, Georgia, I would be embarrassed to wear that hat.

Also, Breitling uses John Travolta as one of their spokespeople. I think that pretty much closes the book on Breitling.

So, just to catch up any stragglers, my premise here is that a product can be cool, but that coolness does not extend to those creating or providing the product. I'm going to go ahead and apply this theorem to services as well.

And so it goes with the fire service. First off, and let's be honest now - there aren't too many jobs that are cooler than that of firefighter. Go ahead, let's put em out there; astronaut, test pilot, beer taster, porn star. The first two require higher degrees, crazy skill, and the luck of the devil just to make the screening process. The third requires a palate so sensitive that the drawbacks would almost outweight the perks. The fourth, well, let's just just say that most aren't qualified. Firefighter, therefore, wins. That's why 80% of firefighters in the country are volunteers - the job is so cool, we don't need to be paid to do it.

Back to the premise: the service that firefighters provide is terrifically cool, but that coolness does not necessarily extend to the firefighter themselves. Here is the drawback to firefighting: firefighters break down just like the rest of the universe - there is a small contingent of badasses, and a relatively large portion of douches. In this context, badass is everything good that humanity has to offer, and douche is, well, the opposite of that.

The badass contingent in the fire service has show qualities thus far including: smart, funny, helpful, driven, ambitious, fearless, confident, self-aware, ironic, and complex.

The douche contingent is left with: oblivious, grandstanding, passive-aggressive, exhibiting the courage of being out of range (more on this later), braggadocio, unearned demand for respect, and all other manner of offal.

I say this not in disappointment, nor in anger, I say it almost out of relief. I'm glad that firefighters are as plagued with tools as the rest of society. As much as I want every crew fielded to be comprised of ex-rugby players with degrees in mechanical engineering and Chappelle-like senses of humor, that's just not realistic. The fact is, any crew can operate effectively, and in so doing they can unleash an awesome amount of power in a very short time. It doesn't matter if the crew is populated with douches, tools, or stallions; if they are doing what they are supposed to be doing they will still do the job right. The firefighters themselves might not be awesome, but the service they are providing is.

Which brings me back to my original point: I have got a fucking awesome watch.

Redhat Training - Day V

2007-04-30T05:09:00.000-07:00

PAH is a mean son-of-a-bitch.

I expected some surly personalities when signing up for this but I have never seen the kind of arbitrary rage that seems to be the hallmark of PAH's outbursts. The odd part is, he can be quite amiable and professional right up to the point where he goes 100%, out-of-control apeshit.

Allow me to step back to the beginning of the evening.

I arrived at 5:40 pm, just in time to get dinged by Chad for being late.

Me - "Hey, so, what has been checked out on the truck so far?"

Chad - "You'd know that if you were here on time."

Me - "I thought that, although you would like us to be here at 5:30, we didn't actually need to be here until 6:00pm, when the shifts change."

Chad - "Well, I guess it's possible that I may have... oh wait, shut up, be here at 5:30, never question me again."

So, the evening was off to a super start. I didn't mind so much being the object of Chad's dry invective, but I prefer it be someone else, that way I can laugh and point, all the while remaining cheerfully unscathed.

As I was checking out the truck, PAH pulled me aside explained that he was sorry that I had misunderstood (kind of a politician's apology with no admission of wrongdoing, but it was a start) the events of last week, but he was going to make sure we all understood this week. I gave him my standard answer: "Okay."

I try to be completely neutral in these situations, primarily because I don't want to become complicit in the dysfunction. I still thought that he was full of shit, but my thinking that was completely immaterial to the situation, therefore, my only recourse was neutrality. I cringe when I see people overcompensate by saying "Oh, it's fine, no biggie, no problem, barely remember it". They lose their footing in the conversation or argument because of their innate desire to reach closure and move on, but in effect it allows the wrongdoer to reevaluate if what he did was actually wrong. This type of compensatory behavior allows assholes to continue acting assholish with no repercussions.

The fact is, sometimes agreement and closure are not to be had. In this case, PAH made the effort, I acknowleded his words without agreeing to them - done.

After truck checkout PAH gathered us around, and explained what was going to happen: we were going on a fake call, he would yell out the address, and we would operate like it was a real fire. Fifteen minutes from the moment he called out to the time we had water running on the site. We succeeded. It wasn't flawless, but it happened and it was great to see everyone working together.

We then spent another hour or two just shooting water everywhere. It was complete and unadulterated fun. We learned ways to save our arms, to pull the attack hose individually, and to work as a team to advance the hose more efficiently. We were all geared up and it was exhausting and exhilarating (granted, had a fire been the target, it would have been even exhilerating-er).

We spent another hour cleaning up, washing hose and reracking the lines on the truck. That's when the deuce hit the sluice... so to speak.

It was closing in on 10 and nobody had eaten. We had been wearing between 40 and 80 lbs of gear for about 3 hours and everyone was famished. Chad - who is, I may have mentioned, not afraid to eat every now and again - was spoiling to get some vittles. Everybody else was waiting for Chad to get the food-getting process underway. PAH, unfortunately, had adjorned to the communications room to take a phone call. Chad tapped on the glass and indicated sustinence was needed right quick.

At this point I had moved over to the other end of the station to put my gear in the rack. As I was wrapping up, I heard the communications door open, followed by this:

PAH - "Get the FUCK out of here!!! I don't give a shit, close that fucking door!!! I will send you home, I don't give a FUCK!!!"

I had a pretty good idea of where this was headed, so I wrapped up and started towards my car. This is where I ran into Chad.

Chad was on the receiving end of PAH's tirade, and he was therefore heading out. I'm surprised he wasn't gone already. He was oddly calm and collected, not the good kind though. Nobody, least of all Chad, can be party to that type of explosion without being emotionally compromised. Chad was showing no affects, which meant to me that I should probably tread lightly.

Prior to last week, I'd seen these type of outbursts only a handful of times in my life, and the aftermath was never pretty. I was bound and determined not to be a casualty of this random anger. But, as Chad was leaving, we discussed my bike. (Chad was going to borrow my mtn bike for a ride that week, so I had brought it to the station). I didn't seem like the ideal time to make a bike transfer, but we agreed to anyway.

I took my bike off my car, put on the front tire, and pulled off a few quick bunny hops to demonstrate my stunning mtn biking prowess, as well as the baseline capabilities of the bike. The asshole who put the front wheel on my bike (me) had done so incorrectly, and it rolled off, mid-bunny hop. I then executed a perfect, pristine, textbook, shoulder-roll, onto pavement.

The four onlookers didn't care about my demonstration of the perfect shoulder-roll, all they cared about was the wreck itself, and how funny it was that a mtn biker would wreck in a parking lot. Clearly my impromptu safety lesson was lost on them.

It lightened up the evening a bit, however, and Chad seemed to haved cooled off a little. After deciding to leave the bike with me for the time being, we chatted a bit more and I took off for the evening. Chad did not follow. It occurred to me that he would likely go back in and try to sort it out with PAH. Chad was duty bound, and he was on duty. I guessed this was his version of coughing up some pride and laying it down at the alter of 'doing the right thing'.

Redhat Training - Day IV

2007-04-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting on this one for a few days because I'm still trying to reconcile myself with it. It's a brand new emotion that I experienced during my time with the fire service and I am struggling with the best way of expunging it from my system.

Because Sunday night, I was fucking pissed.

Coming off of SCBA class on Sunday I was absolutely torqued with excitement. I had made some mistakes, and I was pretty tired, but I had done some real training. Not book-learnin', not Powerpoint Slide watchin', not training video viewin', but real-live training.

My enthusiasm was short-lived.

The SCBA class ended at 4pm, Redhat training started at 6pm at the station. Chad was there, as usual, with bells on. He was still enjoying the verbal victory he had won with me the week prior when he was discussing some ideas the county was exploring for training incentives:

Chad - "Yeah, so, we're going to try to have some incentives for training over the next few years."
Me - "Really? Are they going to add blowjobs to the curriculum?"
Chad - "Well, we hadn't discussed that, but I don't think it violates any bylaws. How's your gag reflex?"

I'm sure he stole it from somebody funny, but that one was new to me so he got credit.

We did the usual truck check out, where Mike and I tried for the 2nd time to start the damn chainsaw with no luck. A career guy came over and started it for us. I'm sure he's told the story to his buddies for the 32nd time on how he had to show the dumbass volunteers how to pull a cord.

The Redhats train with the Sunday night crew. Three probationary members of the crew, in fact, are Redhats, hence the reason Sunday is Redhat night. Chad is Redhat trainer, and also the Sunday driver/pump operator, it makes sense there as well. Unfortunately, the actual Sunday officer decided to make the scene as well, and for the first time in four weeks, he was itchin' to train.

Now, this officer has been around since I joined, but remained largely removed from any training. I was fine with that because he seemed to be just a little too smiley for my taste. His name, from this point forward will be Passive-Aggressive Homophobe [PAH]. Justification will be forthcoming shortly.

Chad had planned on doing some hose and ladder work. Perfect for trainees that need to know the very most bare-bones basics on hoses and ladders. Even though I had a whole Sunday of them, I still wasn't exactly comfortable. Plus, as I believe I mentioned before, attack hoses kick ass.

PAH was having none of that. We was a'-goin' car-flippin'. Which, actually, sounded pretty fucking fun too.

We took the engine out to the same car we trained with on Company Training Night. PAH indicated that he wanted us to flip it. Sounded good... in fact, it sounded downright violent and metal-crunching, which, I believe I mentioned before, was absolutely a personal objective of mine.

Once in our gear we Redhats and Mike stood around and discussed the merits of several tools on the truck. We leisurely debated the how and the why, and the best way they could be used for this typ...

PAH - "What the fuck is going on? I don't know what kind of training you're used to but I want that car flipped now!!!"
Us - "Do you want it on it's side, or it's tires?"
PAH - "I don't want to hear any more talking, just do it!!!" (This is where it got a bit confusing)
Us - "What are we supposed to do?"
PAH - "GO!!!"

So, Mike got the wench and we tried to attach it to the side of the engine. No dice. We later found out that there was grit in the assembly, impeding our progress, but that didn't stop us. With the determination of two Redhats and a pretty new firefighter, all of whom were desperate to evade the wrath of an increasingly irate officer, we forged on, and got the wench in. The pin, however, was a different matter altogether.

The pin, which kept the assembly from pulling out, wouldn't go into it's hole. I suggested knocking it in with a sledgehammer. This was not the right answer. I had learned in prior sessions that everything, save a very few exceptions, was hand-tight in the fire service. All apparatus and appliances were built to work in this fashion. In the wake of all the shouting, I guess the Big Eye had caught up to me and I forgot that little nugget.

All fire trucks, however, are custom-built, and the customizers who created our bespoke engine forgot to check hole-size. As I pounded the pin in I found tha..

PAH - "What the fuck are you doing with that sledgehammer? Are you an idiot?!? You NEVER force anything on the engine, NEVER!!!"
Me - ""

We spent the next 30 minutes widening the hole with a file. Upon completion the wench and pin fit just fine. We turned the car on it's side and all was well.

Next up, air shores. We needed to have an opposing stabilizer on the underside of the car to shore it up and make it steadfast. We used air shores, without air, of course. It took us another 30 minutes or so to get these in place properly.

At the end we had accomplished the objective, which was no small feat, considering the actual objective was never relayed to us.

PAH - "That was ridiculous."
Us - "We agree, it would have been easier with a little direction."
PAH - "The point of tonight was to see how you worked as a team, and you didn't do that at all."
Us - "We were told not to communicate."
PAH - "You shouldn't need to."
Us ('Us' is really just me, everyone else was pretty damn quiet) - "We're Redhats, this is our first time doing this, we weren't even sure what the end result was supposed to be."
PAH - "This training was for the Sunday night crew, not the Redhats. Redhats should only have been observing."
Us - "Well, if that were the case, 1.) Why is this called 'Redhat training night', and 2.) Why, with my Redhat, was I not told to stand aside and observe?"
PAH - Pause. "Did you not learn anything?"
Us - "I did learn something... I learned that I fuck a lot of things up when I don't know what to do."
PAH - (With a big smile, BIG smile) "You didn't fuck up, you LEARNED, that's what we do here, we learn. We learned a lot tonight. We learned that the wench assembly needs cleaning, we learned where not to put air shores, we learned that you guys don't know where anything is..."
Us - "Right, sure, I guess. But, doesn't it make more sense to teach us the right way to do something, rather than ridicule us for doing something wrong when we have no concept of what right looks like?"
PAH - "I know the right way to do things. That's why we're training. I was all hellfire to when I was a Redhat, just like you, and I know that means you'll turn out okay."

The dialogue went on for awhile, but it followed the same pattern. Basically PAH continued to revise his thesis to fit the sentence which was most recently sent forth from his mouth. The sentences contradicted each other, followed no real pattern, and could only be drawn together by one common element; each of them ended with PAH being unerringly correct in all of his actions, and us being a bunch of morons. It was a real treat. But the best was yet to come.

After we loaded everything back on the truck, PAH turned into our best buddy. He regaled us with his brand of humor (unfunny), stories from his job (homophobic), and all manner of playful banter (awkward) with the team upon whom 10 minutes prior he was unleashing his fury. It was painful to watch, but the rubber-necker in me couldn't turn away. He kept trying to pull me into the fun but I was so acutely aware of the train-wreck that I was witnessing that I could just barely manage a half-smile, much less a coherent sentence.

Eventually even PAH grew silent and the crew started talking about food. I typically join them on any food outing because I'm a poser, and I love walking around restaurants and grocery stores with real firefighters. I feel cool, even if the cashier is thinking "I've got to give this wannabe a 20% discount?". Not this night though:

Chad - "Are you coming to eat?"
Me - "Is the drill over?"
Chad - "Yes"
Me - "See ya."

Chad knew I was pissed, and that was a good sign, because it meant he was tuned in. PAH was oblivious.

In retrospect, I determined that I did learn a lot that night. But I could have learned a lot more. With the countless combinations of tools on the engine we could spend eternity learning all the ways not to do something properly. My big take-away from the evening was a bit more individualized: Negative reinforcement is probably more effective than positive for me, but the fallout is going to take some getting used to.

It'll be painful, but in the end I'll learn to deal with PAH, and I'll stomach his bullshit because that's part of what I signed up for.

Sometimes it's expensive to be a man.

The 22-Hour Class Part VIII - SCBA

2007-04-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

After the stunning, albeit long-winded, victory of the EVOC driving test, I was able to rest for a whopping 12 hours before attending the SCBA class. This was the eighth and final class in recruit training.

SCBA is widely renowned as the most taxing and most enjoyable part of what is an otherwise rather uneventful curriculum considering the job for which we're training. SCBA, of course, is Self Contained Breathing Apparatus, just like SCUBA, without the 'U' - 'Underwater' is the 'U' in SCUBA. Typically fires don't burn underwater, hence the removal of the 'U'. Of course, now we have to spell out the damn abbreviation instead of an easy, phonetic SCUBA.

Most firefighters call the apparatus Scott Packs, which are built by the eponymous Scott Corporation. This is easier to say than S-C-B-A, but I propose a better solution: SCABA - Self Contained Awkward Breathing Apparatus. Succinct and accurate without being brand-specific, the two-syllable SCABA could save valuable time and allow for more concrete communication between firefighters. For instance:

Without my suggestion: "Hey, put on your S-C-B-A."

With my suggestion: "Hey, put on your SCABA, asshole."

Same amount of syllables, but the speaker in the 2nd example conveyed his meaning a great deal more effectively. He not only established his precise feelings about the person to whom he was speaking, he also clearly demarcated the chain of command.

The class was led by Robin and another dude I've never met. Robin, by the by, has made the cut. She has not shown any douche-like tendencies and has made great strides in both humor and stand-uppedness. And yes, I am the fucking arbiter of all things cool, so don't question me. Robin is also heavily tatted which is not cool in and of itself, but certainly in keeping with her personality. I go both ways on tats, some can pull it off and some can't. For instance: Awkward Boy has a tattoo. I don't think I could ever adequately explain how much he can't pull it off, but I'll take a crack at it.

In the scientific community there are many concepts and ideas that can't be proven by sight, feel, or any other sense, but they are still generally accepted as reality. One of these things is the Quark. The Quark is a tiny part of an electron. An electron is part of an atom, which most know can only be seen by the most powerful microscopes. An electron is to an atom what a grain of salt is to football stadium in terms of size. So, in effect, the Quark is the atom's atom. Awkward Boy's ability to pull off a tattoo is roughly equivalent to a Quark's ability to blot out the Sun with its shadow. Hey, look at that, I was able to adequately explain it after all.

The class was primarily meant to acclimate us to our gear overall, and specifically to breathing through the SCABA. The SCABA is cool, no doubt, but my desire to wear it goes down in a manner inversely proportionate to the length of time I'm wearing it. Lucky for me, I huff air roughly twice as quick as anybody else in my class, so I don't have to wear it as long.

After donning and doffing our gear multiple times for our two-minute drill practice, we crawled around (SCABA-clad) with our hands on the wall. This was to teach us how to breathe in the apparatus as well as how to perform basic search procedure. I was first, followed by the 4 other guys in class. It wasn't terribly fun but neither was it overly taxing. I think the instructors were just trying to see if any of us were claustrophobic with the facepiece on. One guy was, but not overly so.

We then did buddy breathing. Each SCABA has two hoses, one for the firefighter, and one for any potentially troubled buddy. Hooking up to the buddy breather is difficult without gloves, really difficult with gloves, and impossible with gloves and no oxygen. That was a little bit o' the foreshadowing, because I'm a literary purist. All five of us hooked to the man in front of us and walked around in a circle. I would expect all mental images to be leaning towards the 'Elephant Walk' right about now.

The next bit was a hair more compelling. It involved 400 ft of hose, a boat on a trailer, brooms, a ladder, a car jack, and several yards of wax paper. I know, I was a bit aroused too, until I figured out what was going on.

The wax paper was stuffed in our masks and we were blind. Simply blind. We could distinguish between day and night, but that was it. Not only was sight gone, but hearing was significantly impaired by the SCABA, hood, helmet, neck cover thingy (pretty sure it has a name, but I don't know it) and the blaring radio. The hose was our guide, and it was strewn across all of the aforementioned obstacles. I was again placed in the lead, I can only assume because my profile and stately expression fairly brim with the glean of effective leadership (that's crap, I'm pretty sure the choice was arbitrary.)

We then, in a brightly lit station, proceeded to blindly crawl on the floor, in a group, calling out to one another in a vain effort to orient ourselves. I think we probably looked and sounded roughly like 4 Helen Keller's (pre-Annie Sullivan) except that Helen Keller had character and dignity. If there were a video of this on YouTube it would never leave the charts.

The fifth guy dropped out again, leaving us at four. We crawled under the boat (not easy), around some walls, under a ladder, in and out of a closet, up and down stairs, and out onto the lawn. Some of the comments relayed back to me post-drill were as follows:

"I'm coming out of the closet"
"Grab my leg, dammit, grab it"
"I'm taking number 2"
"I'm breathing heavily, holding a hose, on my knees, wearing a Gimp Mask"

My air ran out 2 minutes before we were done. Fuck buddy breathing, that mask came off with a quickness.

EVOC

2007-04-21T18:42:00.000-07:00

This past week we studied for EVOC; the Emergency Vehicle Operators Course. There are 3 EVOCs that our class would take: I - Light Utility, II - Ambulance, and III - Fire Engine/Truck. There are two others but they are for specialized equipment, and require a different drivers license.

Each class member could sit for any or all of the three tests, or they could take none. I took all three just because there was no reason not to.

That's right bitches, I can drive the big truck now*. FTW!

I think it's important to take a moment here and explain FTW, and how it came to be in this journal:

FTW is 'For the Win'. The term originated from the least hip and cool show ever, 'Hollywood Squares', e.g. "I'd like Whoopi Goldberg for the win." The dearth of even an iota of cool in this show, of course, puts the term in the stratosphere of cooldom. (Now that I'm aware of it, however, I'm quite sure the kids will extricate it from their vernacular with the ruthless efficiency of an organ harvester.)

I came to be aware of this acronym while driving in a local college town behind a teen-ish girl with the license plate "STFU FTW". Of course, I'm pretty familiar with the first acronym - I use it ad nauseum. But FTW threw me. "Fuck the World?" - Nah, the girl didn't look angry or disenchanted. "Free Tibet, Whitey?" - Didn't see the accompanying Richard Gere or Beastie Boys stickers. I was stumped, so I had to ask. This of course meant I had to catch her, get her attention, and slow down to a speed where she could hear my inquiry. I attempted this at unsafe speeds using unconscionable technique befitting a getaway driver, not an established professional like myself**. I got my answer though.***

Which brings us back to the driving test. This past week I have sat in two classroom lectures, been out with two duty crews, and trained with two ambulance drivers, all for the purpose of preparing for EVOCs I, II, and III. I learned a valuable lesson during this period: "Don't tell people when you think you'll be done". Not once did I get home when I said I would. My wife was mostly cool about it at first, but became less so when our Saturday plans started to be jeopardized.

The fire and rescue sub-culture is not really so much into making sure all is well on the homefront. It is largely left up to the firefighter to handle that. My wife digs me, but, being a secure and confident grown-up, she does just fine when I'm not there. That is, of course, operating under the assumption that there isn't a PLACE TO BE. If there is a PLACE TO BE then all bets are off - my person better be available and accessible toot-sweet.

The EVOC testing started at 8am, I was scheduled for 9am. At 9:45 am the instructors just about had the course fully set up and ready for testing. I didn't even bother calling my wife at that point to say I was going to be late, because I knew I'd have to call again and adjust the time repeatedly. I just pushed it out of my mind and hoped for the best.

I was the first to drive the engine, which was odd since the 8am guys hadn't gone yet. They seemed more than happy to let me go first, however, since the instructors were getting a bit cranky at that point. I'm sure my fellow students wanted me to be the first kill to satiate the beast, after which, they would saunter by unassumingly and pass with flying colors. Sorry fuckers, not today.

I'd be humble here, but that firetruck was my bitch and I treated her thusly. She did exactly as I said and I owned that fucking course. Ditto the ambulance. CHEEKY instructor showed up later to get certed on the engine and he killed at least 3 cones while I was watching. I may be a poser, and he may be all firefighty and shit, but that victory was mine (in all fairness, he didn't know we were competing, in fact, he didn't even see me drive, in fact, I wouldn't have mentioned this at all if I were to have lost).

At some point things started to go more smoothly, people were testing quicker and the schedule was slowly catching up. Confidence was high that I would make it home in time.

This improvement in the situation must have alerted the instructor to efficiencies that were working, so he adjusted accordingly by bringing everything back to a slow crawl. He decided to go ahead and take the EVOC I truck - the one remaining truck upon which I had yet to be certified - back to the fire station so a student could fill out a form. One student. One form. It would take two minutes.

Still sitting at the station an hour later, I decided to call my wife. On the surface, it wasn't an uncomfortable discussion at all. Her voice was very sweet, and accommodating. She told me just to do my best and make it back as soon as I could. She was so sweet, yet, underneath that soft lilting tone was the sound of the sword of Damacles coming dislodged from it's perch.

Finally we all left the firestation in the EVOC I truck with me driving. I pulled into the testing parking lot and didn't hesitate, rolling right into the course. I rode it flawlessly (I really can't be sure about this, I was doing like, 190) in the EVOC I truck in record time (nobody was keeping time). When I was finished, in one fluid motion I threw that thing into park, got the instructor to sign off on my runs, and bailed into my moving car (it wasn't moving) and headed home.

I was 2 hours and 45 minutes late. Not too late for the PLACE TO BE. Burrowing through my mental bag of explanations and leniency-garnering techniques, I chose the hang-dog expression as my primary defense and walked inside...
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* Don't worry, this step is a formality, I won't be driving to fires for a really long time. Also, I haven't actually gotten the results back from my written exam, so I might very well be sitting through the class again. But I soldier on, assuming the best.
** I'm not that well-established
***As an aside, when I finally got the girl's attention, her pinky finger was knuckle deep in her left nostril. So chicks, cats out of the bag, you do it too.

Level Setting

2007-04-21T17:45:00.000-07:00

A firefighter died in the line of duty last week. His funeral was today.

Until now my training experience has been peppered with stories of close calls, narrow escapes, and events that could have easily turned sour if x variable occurred at y time. There have been countless discussions on safety, precautions, preventative maintenance, and other steps taken to mitigate the danger we face, but this death lent a great deal of perspective to the job; at the end of the day, we're still going into burning buildings.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about death this week, I have more than a casual acquaintance with it, so I allot it some mindshare from time to time. I certainly don't peruse the tomes penned by philosophers on the subject, but I've got a rough idea of where they all end up. Everybody dies - life is ephemeral - one's contribution is all that matters.

The firefighter died in a burning house. He was performing a search and rescue with no visibility and heavily involved flame. The team did everything right, but the wind was crazy and the fire subsequently evolved. He didn't make it out.

There isn't a word or phrase in the above paragraph that doesn't terrify me - but on the other hand - God grant that I die doing something that mattered. And, if it's all the same to Him, I'd like for it to at least look like I was doing that thing with an element of competence.

My take is this: whatever that firefighter had done prior to his death, when all was said and done, he died searching for survivors in a burning building - he's squarely in the black with God, karma, and anyone else keeping score. That doesn't make the pain of his death any easier for his department, friends or family, but it certainly does for him and his legacy. His contribution mattered.

It Wasn't His Emergency

2007-04-19T12:51:00.000-07:00

It's conceivable that I've said enough on the topic of "It's not your emergency". It's possible that I've already convinced everyone that it is indeed profound, either that or completely bored them with the subject. I don't care, I've got more to say, only this time from a slightly different angle.

In order to elaborate effectively here I'll need to draw in some context. Everybody, in their sphere of knowledge and influence, has a constituency of idiots and assholes with whom they have to deal. In my world it is generally a client who just doesn't get it, a colleague who can't pull his weight, or a boss who manages upwards and couldn't squeeze a workable idea out of DaVinci. For any commuter it's that guy talking on the cell phone. For a waitress I suspect it's the guy who demands all of their attention and gives her a paltry tip. In other words, we've all got people who vex us.

In the rescue community, as anybody who has read this journal (it's a journal now) knows, the constituency of idiots and assholes includes pretty much everyone. Not because everyone is an idiot or asshole, but because any person who is interacting with an EMS in an emergency situation is likely to be a tad off their game. Generally speaking, if a person is calling 911, it probably isn't a banner day. People not having banner days aren't nice. Nor are they helpful. Nor are they accommodating. They cease to be rational and they start being difficult. Any number of instructors, old salts, or even newbies will regale us with constant stories of people yelling, cussing, screaming and otherwise behaving badly during a crisis. Pretty common, and to be expected.

So, today I found myself in a doctors office, a hematologist to be specific. The reason I was there was pretty benign... I literally needed a doctors note. I thought it could have been done over the phone, he wanted me to come in. Super.

So, this should have taken all of two minutes. It wound up taking and hour and fifteen, mainly because he was with another patient.

I'm not a man who does well with waiting. I also have very little tolerance for those who make me wait. I don't know why I'm like this, I just am.

So, sitting in the doctor's office, waiting for a guy who can't schedule his time properly was really beginning to piss me off. Who the hell did he think he was? Does my schedule not matter? WTF? I don't care what his degree is or where he did his bullshit residency, I've got a meeting at 11 and it's 10:40.

Then, of course, my irony alarm kicked in.

Those who know me also know that I love irony in all it's forms - bitter, karmic, dramatic, tragic, comedic - even when I'm the source of it. Today was no exception.

I thought back to when I walked in the office... it said 'Hematology-Oncology' on the door. I was there for a doctors note regarding an innocous little thing that will likely never matter to me. The patient that was making him late, however, could very well be hearing the worst news of their life. It then occurred to me that my doctor probably had to see the look of terror, pain, anger, sorrow, defeat, or sheer anguish on a pretty regular basis. I began to chew on this concept as he walked in the door with a very neutral look on his face.

There was no apology for being late, no kudos for being a good sport, just a handshake and down to business.

Apparently my 11am meeting didn't make his urgency radar that day. God I'm an asshole.

Maxims (Not those stored under the mattress)

2007-04-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

Over the course of the past month I have seen and heard a lot of new and exotic thoughts, convictions, philosphies and ideologies. A lot of them are just the rantings of guys who, when presented with a willing listener, will rattle on about some bullshit that was probably concocted about five words in advance of when it was spoken. Other responses are taken straight from a textbook, but a textbook regarding another subject, in another era.

However, there have been a few concepts that have truly stuck with me and I think will continue to do so. They have no particular pattern or genre but they are all decidedly universal and therefore applicable across a wide variety of situations. Some of them have been mentioned before, some not.

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It's Not Your Emergency -

This is the quintessential saying that is used by everyone I've met so far. I've already mentioned the history, and what it means, but to refresh: 'Its not your emergency' is the mindset that every emergency response person must have going into any situation. The emergency is solely that of the person who called... it's not ours - we're just there to do a job.

The reason this thought seems so applicable outside of the fire and rescue community is that if people could always step back from their current circumstance, and view it with an air of objectivity, things would almost invariably go smoother. I can't count how many times a project at work has been undermined due to shortsighted, reactive behavior to an 'emergency'. The same goes for relationships, ball games, legislation, or any number of other situations which are packaged in the human condition. This should be a mantra for anybody that ever has to make a decision.

The Big Eye -

This is a component of the 'Emergency' rule but I've deemed it noteworthy enough to warrent it's own entry. The Big Eye is what a person gets when honing in on something so overwhelming that all else ceases to matter. Clearly, in the case of the fire service, the overwhelming entity would, indeed, be a fire. All of the seasoned people warn of this phenomenon, saying that it will happen, just be aware of it when it does. Every firefighter experiences it; the vets know to shake it off, but the rookies a driven by it, and hence blinded by it.

The daily application of this is pretty obvious. For dudes, it's the woman by whom they are entranced. She will occupy exactly 100% of their attention, resulting in a languishment of everything else at the foundation level of Maslow's heirarchy of needs. Food, shelter, water, sleep - all foregone when there is a hottie in the crosshairs. I guess it might be the same for chicks, but my not having a vagina (some would argue that point) precludes me from speculating. Love/lust is my first example, but there are a torrent of others; oneupsmanship, pursuit of power, pursuit of possessions, competition, or even something as mundane as a career can all be the target of the Big Eye. And, just as in the fire service, the key is recognizing it, and making sure that the periphery is considered while in pursuit of said target.

The Rule of Thumb -

This one I overheard during a conversation on Hazmat operations. The EMS speaking said that if a person isn't a Hazmat pro, the rule of thumb is to retreat until the Hazmat scene can be covered up with one's thumb. Funny, clever, and completely accurate.

This is the third, and best definition of this term I've heard. Prior to now, I thought the etymology of the term was one of the following:

1.) A beer brewer will use his thumb to test the temperature at some point in the brewing process to ascertain if the mixture is ready for the next step, and
2.) During the middle ages a man was never allowed to use a stick with a diameter bigger than his thumb to beat his wife.

Now that I've heard the Hazmat version, I'm discarding the other two.

The phrase and definition coined in the Hazmat community can certainly be applied in everyday life for anything from which a person would want to distance themselves. "Yeah, she's cute, but she's got crabs, better use the rule of thumb," or, "Larry had Chipotle at lunch, if you value your olfactory system, use the rule of thumb." The possibilities are endless.

The Sticky Rule -

The same EMS guy who told me about the rule of thumb had this gem for me. "If it's wet, sticky, and not yours, don't touch it." At the time this was specific to the bloode borne pathogen class, but I'm pretty sure it covers all things gooey.

I guess the applicability of this phrase probably doesn't need elaboration. With one very notable, and important exception, I think everyone would agree that this rule should be followed to the letter. If there is a question as to what the exception is, I'm going to have to advise the person asking the question to close this page and not return until he/she is over 18, or married, or both.

DRT -

Dead Right There. This is the modern-day equivalent to DOA. DOA is no longer used because there was some equivocation on the word 'arrival', specifically, did it refer to arrival at the scene, or hospital, or other. DRT allows for no interpretation, it means the individual was not alive when found, full stop. Oddly enough, DRT has not been phoneticized - as government organizations are so prone to doing - into DiRT. I can only assume this is the case because it would be a hair unseemly to describe the deceased as such.

DRT will rarely come up in literal terms during day-to-day activities outside of the health arena, but I can certainly see it being used to describe things that will never live, are at the end of their lives, or possibly things that just suck. For instance: "That company is competing with Halliburton for a contract, that proposal is DRT," or, "Man, Dougie just hit on that girl, all the while having a boogie-snot hanging from his nose, he's DRT," or, "Dude, that club is DRT, I'm not even going in." Again the potential for daily application is pretty vast.

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I suspect there will be one or more addendums to this post. Considering that I've merely been at this a month, I can only assume that more phrases, quotes and profundities will be coming my way. Firefighters, if nothing else, love a good maxim.

The 22-Hour Class - Part VII

2007-04-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

Considering the potential for danger and misadventure, Sunday's hose and ladder class went off without a hitch, even in the constant rain and wind. We actually learned a lot and walked away a great deal more effective than when we showed up. Great news for the volunteer fire community - it's shite for trying to come up with interesting things to say in a journal (is it just me or is the word 'blog' just plain fucking annoying?) entry.

So, that being the case, I'm going to spend less time on what we did, and more time on the people that were doing it.

Only 6 of the 8 members of the recruit class (this class is no longer called the 22-hour class - probably because it lasts 59 hours) attended; plastic surgeon girl and one other dude didn't make it. Which left me with a class demographic leaning 2-1 in favor of non-douches; 4 non-douches, and 2 douches. The instructors broke down in a similar ratio with two being cool and competent and one leaning uncomfortably into douche territory.

Douche 1 - Awkward boy.
Douche 2 - [Coldplay].

Non-Douche 1 - [Trent]
Non-Douche 2 - [Ernie]
Non-Douche 3 - [Bob]
Non-Douche 4 - Me

They broke up the group into teams of 2 and 4. Why not 3 & 3? I don't know. My group started with ladders, with douche-leaning instructor giving us very little guidance, but plenty of reprimands. It was an effective strategy. I think we all learned, by way of chastisement, how to put up several types of ladders. We also got to climb the tower, which was the 75 foot truck ladder. Tough to beat the view from that vantage point.

The hose component was way more fun. There are lots of hoses on a truck, but unless they are specialized, they boil down to 3 types: 1.75 in, 2.5 in, and supply hose (generally 4 inch I think). Supply hose is just that, hose that gets water from hydrant (or other source) to truck. The other two hoses are attack hoses. 2.5 is primarily for external dousing (defensive), 1.75 for going into the structure (offensive) and mixing it up with the fire mano y mano, or mano y fiero.

Offensive is more fun, more dangerous, and way more exhausting. It took the 1.75 all of 60 seconds to wreck me. I'm told that will get easier with practice - and oftentimes I'll even have a 2nd man behind me - but that shit was grueling when going it alone. I would say advancing a 1.75 hose solo at 110 psi wide open is roughly equivalent to pushing a medium-ish car on a flat or slight incline - not impossible by any stretch, but there's no way a person can do it without looking like they are expending some real effort.

Defensive is definitely less exciting, but the 2.5 is to the 1.75 what a steamroller is to a tamping iron (I know, weak analogy, I'm off today). It took 4 of us to move the 2.5 forward (well, three of us, Awkward boy was bringing up the rear, which, in forward motion terms, netted us right around nothing). The amount of power in 2.5 inches was astounding, more water was displaced in a millisecond than Rush Limbaugh getting into a bathtub. So, to the Canadians out there, 2.5 inches might not impress the ladies, but it certainly kicks ass in other disciplines.

On to the participants.

Coldplay got his name today (and his 'douche' classification) because instead of wearing the uniform, he had a shirt with the faces of four guys on it. If that wasn't bad enough, when I asked him if it was N'Sync, he guffawed condescendingly and replied "Dude, sorry, this is Coldplay". To which I replied with nothing, because stone silence is my only response to somebody who parries an N'Sync jibe with the legitimacy of Coldplay.

This unfortunately resulted the most uncomfortable and mind-numbing conversation on music I've ever had the misfortune to be party to.

Awkward Boy - "Yeah, Coldplay is cool, but Nickleback and Creed rule."
Me - "I honestly can't respond to that with anything but a look of horror and revulsion. " (I then contorted my face in a hideous way and threw up on my shoes).
Awkward Boy - "You've got a problem with that?"

Let me stop here for a second. It's been brought to my attention that my zeroing in on Awkward Boy as the primary target of my disdain is generally not in keeping with my nature. Typically, I hate people for attributes that are under their own control - those primarily being personality shortcomings. I generally don't deride somebody for a physical flaw because those are mostly not of their doing. My original description of Awkward Boy, however, mentioned only shortcomings of a physical nature. I need to say here that, if his personality were anything other than grating, with an overwhelming dose of unearned credibility (established by his proximity to credible people, I would imagine), he never would have made my radar. But I fucking hate anybody who thinks that they can talk smack to me without a foundation of either friendship, respect, or fear. Awkward Boy has none of these, and he seems to think his validity is set in stone, which is presumptuous, which is something I also loathe.

Onward...

Me - "Nickleback is formulaic and their lead singer sounds like he's dropping a deuce. Oh, and Creed is a punchline, not a band."

The ensuing dialogue was painful and unfunny and I won't continue with it. Suffice it to say that, while I'm not a music snob, I refuse to discuss the merits of bands that only reside on the pop charts. Much like bubble-gum - the product used in many circles to define pop music - even if I consume it from time to time, I'm not going to spend time discussing it.

We ended the day washing the truck. Coldplay escaped early, as did Ernie. That kind of pissed me off, since I don't want to lose another classmate to the douche category. Coldplay was a big enough loss without Ernie going that way as well. I don't think he will, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed nonetheless.

Personalities

2007-04-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm caught up with the chronology, and my next post will only occur after my next class, I'd like to take a minute to catalog the people, their aliases, and their current status just so everyone is clear on who is who.

In no particular order:

Mike - New-ish firefighter, Mike was the very first guy I met. Still nice, still helpful, still sits next to me when nobody else does. I'm glad not everyone wants to be like Mike, otherwise I'd have nothing to write about.

The Chief - No alias. The chief looks exactly, EXACTLY, the way a fire station chief should look. If anyone has a picture forming in their head right now, it's dead on.

Eager Chick - Haven't seen her since day one. It's killing me, because I'm going to run out of material in a hurry if she doesn't get back in the game.

Keith - The quartermaster. Still grumpy. I have a sneaking suspicion that there is a great deal more to Keith than he lets on. Jury is out on whether or not I give a shit.

CHEEKY - CHeerful, Eager, Energetic, Keen and Young instructor. Funny kid. Loves his work. Really wants people to know how awesome he is.

Jordan - As I mentioned before, she's the resident cute girl at the station. I don't see her too often, but she seems to perform her duties accordingly: flirts with management, amiable but standoffish with the help. Textbook.

BAJI - Bitter And Jaded Instructor. I feel that I've done this guy a bit of a disservice with his name - not that I'm planning on changing it. He is clearly a seasoned vet with tons of experience under his belt. He just doesn't have the frosty and anticipatory outlook of most of the people I've come across. I'm pretty sure that means that I want him giving the orders at my first fire, but a fucking smile wouldn't hurt every once in awhile.

Plastic Surgeon Girl - A member of the 22-hour class. Not to be confused with a girl who has had plastic surgery, this chick works for a plastic surgeon. She seems nice enough and also has some ferocity to her, which I have to think is an asset. She's also the apple of Awkward Boy's eye, which is going to make for some amusing fodder.

Awkward Boy - Another member of the 22-hour class. Still number one on my hit list. This guy was actually the one member of my class that rode to the two-alarm fire the other night. To his credit, he's obviously a full member of the EMS squad. His crew doesn't give him wedgies and make him dance for their amusement, so I can only assume that they have accepted him as an equal. That doesn't really give him more street-cred, rather, it calls theirs into question.

Chad - The resident training advisor for my company. Chad is effeminate, scrawny, has a lisp, and chews with his mouth open. He talks about Broadway Shows he wants to see and can't shut up about how much he loves vegan food and Norah Jones. Actually Chad is none of the above, but he is Canadian, which is pretty much the same thing.

Chad's Girlfriend - Hot. Some day I'll figure out how the gay guys do it.

Kate - County level administrator, or something like that. Kate is the fit chick noted early on. Still nice as can be. I would expect the rosters would fill up more if Kate's time was spent recruiting instead of attending to paperwork and HR violations.

Katie II - Too lazy to assign a unique alias to this girl, I just made her a sequel. Katie II is country and doesn't mind getting her hands dirty. She's precisely the type of girl I would expect to see fighting fires. She is also the type of girl I would expect to see on the business end of a sawed-off after pumping three rounds into her drunk-ass husband. That doesn't sound like a compliment, but it is.

Nurse-Voice - Her moniker didn't actually appear in an entry, but she was the instructor for the blood borne pathogen class. Seasoned, competent, and mind-numbingly loud, Nurse-Voice is to nursing what the Chief is to chiefing.

Robin - Part time instructor in the 22-hour class. Assessment pending. Her comment on the night of the dual house fires was: "For keeping me away from that fire this class will go down in history as my most hated, ever ." Based on that comment alone, I'm guessing I'm going to like Robin... but hell, I also liked 'Waterworld' so my opinion isn't exactly rock-solid.

Philosophicalizing

2007-04-12T11:52:00.000-07:00

I need to take a moment to step back and further examine a phenomena that I've been witnessing for the past month or so.

As I mentioned in the last post, the dual-fire near the station was a pretty frenetic event. One alarm gets people moving quickly, two alarms (meaning that more stations are being called to the fire) gets people moving at disaster response speeds. Sure, they want to make sure they get to the truck in time, but there is a layer of excitement and anticipation that seems to be the real key ingredient in the reaction underlying the event. There is no question that duty, discipline, training and focus all contribute to a successful deployment and subsequent out-putting-of-fire, but there is something else as well.

Which brings me to my point: firefighters fucking love fires.

Dichotomy? Nay.

Allow me to elucidate.

First, loving the thing that you are sworn to kill is an age-old passion. It has been detailed and exploited in sonnets, novels, legends, cartoons, and most recently, "Kill Bill part II". It's an amalgam of the 'man vs. nature' and 'man vs. himself' conflicts that high school students learn when under the tutelage of an instructor who likes to rely upon simplistic literary mechanisms rather than actual study. Essentially, a man, while fighting nature, is also fighting himself due to his love for the fight. Winning the fight of course, is the goal, but after the win, another fight is needed. In order to obtain another fight, the hero must have another opponent... which in this case, is fire. By the simple law of syllogism one can discern that if an opponent is necessary for the fight, and the hero loves the fight, he therefore must love the opponent.

Second, firefighters want to use their training. No logical constructs are needed to elaborate on this topic. If a person practices throwing a ball everyday that person will eventually want to be in a game. If a Marine is in boot camp for 18 weeks learning to fight, he or she will want to see some action. If a firefighter has trained on the proper ways to put out a fire, that firefighter is gonna want to see a fire.

Third, most firefighters crave action and danger (granted, a lot of them are in it for the chicks, but one begets the other - more on this later). There is a word for this, and it will be revealed shortly, but first, some background:

The suffix '-phile' has gotten a bad rap for a long time, but I'm hoping to bring it back. It is simply the Greek suffix for 'having an affinity for'. Unfortunately, the only time most people see it is when it's used in conjunction with 'Pedo' or 'Necro' (oddly enough, both of these prefixes are Greek too. This is probably comment worthy, but I'll refrain in light of the breakout success of '300', which is to the Greeks what 'Rocky' is to every skinny white boy ever.)

Well, phile has another prefix, and its fucking extreme. Okay, it's actually the word 'Extreme', as in 'Extremophile'. This term has been around for decades, but is used primarily in the scientific community, which, in a Ven diagram overlaps with the Fire Fighting community exactly zero percent (Chad's PhD notwithstanding... he's an anomoly and therefore discarded from the result-set that made up this fake exercise.)

The term refers to a class of bacteria, specifically a class of bacteria that 'not only can survive in extreme conditions, but thrive in them'. These conditions are... wait for it... extreme heat. See where I'm going with this? Firefighters are like extremophiles because they are not only capable of withstanding heat, they beg for it. Of course, the bacterial extremophiles are single-celled prokaryotes with no nucleus and free-floating DNA, so the analogy starts to break down there. Still, firefighter = extremophile = fire-lover.

Lastly, and some may think most importantly, fires present the firefighter with the opportunity to shed all nebbishness importuned by corporate America, walk into danger head-on, and break shit. Saving lives? Sure, maybe, but while I'm waiting for the chance to be some victim's hero, I'll go ahead and smash some things in the interim. A great deal of the firefighting actions taken inside of a structure fire would be illegal, immoral, or downright un-American. Breaking windows, knocking down doors, chopping up roofs, and tearing up floors are generally considered bad form in polite society - but inside of a burning house? Fuckin' applauded.

It's like "Fight Club" for guys who want to keep their shirts on.

The 22-Hour Class - Part VI

2007-04-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

Extinguishers.

An everyday item found every hundred or so feet in every office building, and most homes in the US. Generally able to combat fires of type A, B, and C (ordinary combustibles, flammable liquids, and electrical) they have countless combinations of ingredients and sizes, but at the end of the day, they are just pressurized canisters full of dousing stuff. Not unduly exciting, they are designed for the general public and therefore dumbed-down for use by a frantic, endorphin-addled everyperson. This class would have been the most boring to date, but we got to put out a real fire, and better yet, we got to dress up like real firefighters to do it.

Let me step back a moment. The class started, as they all do, with a powerpoint slideshow, endlessly enumerating, in Monte Python-esque fashion, the very limited facts we needed to absorb.

However, instead of the brilliance of John Cleese:

"First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three."

The class sounded like this: "
"First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. (Okay, it starts off the same). Class A extinguishers are for class A fires. They are not for Class B, nay, Class A only. Nor on C fires shall they be allowed. Class A is the class for Class A fires. Class B is for B fires only, unless the fire is an A, and no A extinguisher is available. Yay, though we walk through the valley of a class C fire, no B extinguisher shalt be used. Betwixt B and D class extinguishers lies C, C fires shalt be doused in accordance...".

Anyway, that went on for quite some time, until an alarm went off. The instructor shrugged it off and moved on with the class, saying that "After 17 years in the fire service I know there will always be another fire." This is bored and jaded instructor talking, as opposed to Cheerful, Eager, Energetic, Keen and Young [Cheeky] instructor, who would have poked out his own eyes if he had to teach a class while others were combatting flame.

Well, when the second alarm broke BAJI (Bored and Jaded Instructor) had to go. Two houses were on fire and apparently that constitutes a break for the class and a jarring bolt out the door for the instructor. We went and stood out on the front lawn and watched two very dark plumes of smoke rise about a mile off.

Chad had meandered over to where we were standing. His equipment was elsewhere so he was shackled to the station with the rest of us.

Me - "Hey Chad, you think we could all pile in a car and go watch?"

Chad - "Yeah, tool, people love having spectators as their house is burning down. Because, it's not enough to see the entirety of your possessions go up in a fury of gas and flame, people want random onlookers there to share the moment."

Me - "Well, sure, but we're a class of firefighters, so this would be like, a lesson for us. Not just schadenfreude."

Chad - "Don't ever refer to yourself as a firefighter in front of me again or I'll cut you." Actually, Chad didn't really say this verbally so much as glarefully.

I think it's important to note here that Chad was wearing a DEFCON jacket. It goes against my nature not to tee off on this for days, but members and participants of DEFCON have the ability of unraveling my shallow little world in the space of hours, with complete anonymity, and ruthless abandon. Therefore, all the really funny and insightful shit I wrote here was erased. Just know that it was really funny, and insightful.

The plumes died down and we went back inside to a new instructor. [Robin] had multiple piercings and sore thighs. Granted, these two things were unrelated, but points of interest nonetheless. Chad came into the class as well since he and Robin were clearly friends. Things went more smoothly after that. Chad and Robin taught together, and the material, while still being enormously redundant and boring, was made less so by the added color.

We then donned our fire gear, took our extinguishers outside, and set a pail of diesel on fire. Sounds cool? Not so much. Flame on, squirt out. Flame on, squirt out. We used CO2, Dry Chem, and Water. Dry Chem and CO2 worked great.

Turns out, however, that no matter how hard we tried, the Class A extinguisher couldn't douse the Class B fire. I nearly soiled my armor.

The 22-Hour Class - Parts IV and V

2007-04-11T17:49:00.001-07:00

There just wasn't enough funny stuff that happened in the next two days of class to warrent two separate entries. The reason behind this is, well, the classes were a two-part series about blood borne pathogens... conceivably the least funny topic, ever. Try as I may, there is little humor that can be extracted from a topic which included Hep B, HIV, syphilis, SARS, TB, smallpox and bird flu.

The instructor, on the other hand, was damn funny. She was a nurse who was, I can only imagine, completely deaf. That, or she had suffered severe trauma to her vocal cords resulting in an increase in audible effect registering not only in decibels, but on the Richter scale. In retrospect, it might have just been nurse-voice, I could see that sort of thing being an asset in her line of business, but it was an inordinate liability in the 10x10 room in which we were sitting.

The net effect of this was a complete dearth of questions. Nobody in the room wanted to be the guy who spawned the next verbal onslaught with a query about viral vs. bacterial infections. We were blissfully complacent in our incomplete knowledge, considering that the alternative was complete knowledge accompanied by ruptured eardrums.

Half of the class hadn't shown for this particular segment of the course. This was primarily because they all went to the wrong place. The course was being held in a different station, but that was indicated on the schedule. I'd make fun of the dumbasses that made this mistake, but I've been dumber, so I'll let it slide, for now.

Scott Adams, of 'Dilbert' fame, once noted that everyone, himself included, was an idiot from time to time, and he's absolutely right. The trick is being able to discern whether or not the idiocy stems from a brief lapse in judgement, or if it's a persistent theme. Jury is still out on the individuals in question, but the trendline has been initialized and it will continue to be plotted.

Back to the class.

As I mentioned before, the topic was depressing, and health care providers are, due to the nature of their job, exposed to more risk than most. The tagline at the station is "If it's sticky, gooey, and not yours, don't touch it". The most effective precaution that can be taken against all of the potential exposures? Hand washing. That, and not going on duty with open wounds. Sound advice garnered from either a seasoned health care professional or a 3rd grader.

Coming back from a call? Wash your hands.
Get some stuff on you? Wash your hands.
Touch someone? Wash your hands.
Taking gloves off? Wash your hands.
Cleaning equipment? Wash your hands.

As I was leaving the class I decided to make a pit stop in the men's room prior to my 20 minute drive home.

They were out of soap.

Company Training Day

2007-04-11T06:40:00.000-07:00

Today was company training day... it happens once a month. Basically, the idea is that come hell or high water, everybody in the company should show up and participate in some training... ideally solidifying their knowledge or adding to their already vast toolbelt of skills and techniques. There were seven of us...

Prior to the actual training, Quartermaster Keith informed me that I was going to get my gear. That was good news because 1.) I am a poser, and gear makes me look like the real thing and 2.) If I ever actually get into a fire, gear will protect me from getting hurt.

I would love to go into detail about the gear-getting process, but it was pretty uneventful. The shed that holds the gear looks like the aftermath of an explosion in a garment factory... with boots, helmets and jackets askew, but other than that, Keith just gave me my shit.

Everything was pretty new except for the mask. That being the case, I proceeded to give it a good thorough washing in the kitchen. One of the other redhats, a girl named [Katie (Have I already used Katie? Fuck it, if so, this is Katie II)], approached me with a look of curiousity and condescension and asked,

"Why are you washing your mask?"

I replied "Uh, because somebody else's mug was snugly ensconced in this thing while breathing, panting, expectorating, talking, sneezing, coughing, masticating, blubbering, sniffing, producing boogie-snots... and all other manner of ickiness. I just thought maybe I'd wash it out, otherwise I might as well go find the prior owner and give him or her a good tongue-bath."

Katie II said, "Huh, never occurred to me to do that."

I am gonna leave that out there for a minute to sink in....
...

...

...

Moving on.

The low turnout for company training actually worked in my favor because it allowed me to actually do something, because even with 7 guys we had a lot of standing around going on. We essentially unloaded about 70 things off the engine... placed them on or around an upside-down car, and explored ways to stabilize said car. I got to see how the various implements were used; air bags, air shores ("No, we don't use air in the air shores idiot... not unless it's an enclosed extrication with no radiant heat, where the proximity to water is less than 90 feet, it's a calm day, and there are no victims under the age of 20 or over 80, and the radio is off. Fucking newbies... don't know shit."), cribbing, chains, sledges and yes, the Halligen bar.

With all the equipment called for, I was expecting to cut, break, flip, burn, or do something violent. What we actually did was lift the car 2 inches, and set back down. Lift 2 inches, set back down. At one point, the stack of cribbing (two 4x4's, placed 18 inches apart, then another pair placed perpendicular on top of those two, and so on until the proper height is reached) had the top pair of 4x4's in the wrong place.

I said, "Hey, let's just turn the stack 90 degrees, then the top pair will be parallel with the car, achieving the desired effect." (No, I do not really talk like this, my language is cleaned up to underscore - by means of contrast - my next point.)

The guy next to me said, "Naw, that shit won't work - ya gotta pivot it." He then proceeded to turn the pile 90 degrees until the top pair was parallel with the car, achieving the desired effect.
I can only assume it was the dual geometry references that threw him.

The evening came to a close with us putting all of the stuff back in the van and the Chief debriefing us on the training. Prior to debriefing, he put a scooby snack (chew,dip,chaw,snuff) in his lip that had both the size and general demeanor of a burrowing varmit; it managed to stay in for the entirety of the conversation, but it was touch-and-go there for a bit.

Chief - "Any questions on what we just accomplished?"
Me - "Uh, so, we spent a lot of time make the car stable... but, wouldn't we be moving a lot quicker if there was somebody hurt inside? I mean, we wouldn't be stablizing the car otherwise, right?"
Chief - "It's not your emergency" (I believe I mentioned in a prior post that this would come up again)
Me - "Right, but..."
Chief - "It's not your emergency"
Me - "B..."
Chief - "Are you done?"
Me - "Yes"

Truck packed, gear doffed, crew dispersed, I headed home, making a mental note to just slow down and keep my head in the game. Also, if I ever found myself trapped in an overturned car to start foraging for food between the car seats... because I might be there awhile.

Red Hat Training Day III

2007-04-09T14:09:00.000-07:00

So, it had to happen eventually... eventually, I was going to have to go to somebody's house and pretend I knew something about how to fix them. Thank goodness I was with people who could perpetrate that lie better than I could.

It was Sunday night, Red Hat training night, and we had gone out to a fire hydrant to turn it on and off, hook up a hose, etc. The hydrant in question was one used often by the station as a training hydrant due to its remote nature as well as its proximity to eateries.

All hydrants in the county are 'dry-barrel', meaning, they are dry all the way down to the valve that feeds them, well below the frost line. They also automatically drain after... this is fucking boring. Long story short, the hydrant wouldn't close... we opened it all the way (an impressive sight... that stuff shoots a good 50-60 feet) but Chad and I together couldn't close it and I'm guessing we're pushing 5 bills in tandem. So we capped that bitch off and started hunting for some food.

As we were walking around the store, I found out Chad is a PhD - in Computer Science. Fucking nerd... I want to punch him in the head for that... but, he's also an ex-cage fighter, so not only is he smarter and richer than me... he can kick my ass as well. Good thing I'm wicked good-looking, otherwise I'd get a complex.

Anyway, we get back to the station, sit down with our vittles, and bang – off goes the alarm. Two tones, which means a fire call. Turns out, however, that it was just an EMS-ish call so we take a service vehicle (Ford Expedition with bandaids) instead. I pile in back on the pretext that it's not a dangerous call, and I would garner valuable learning experience from seeing people in action. Also, they didn't explicitly tell me I couldn't ride along.

We get to the house and [blah, blah, blah, blah- I don't fully understand HIPAA yet, so I'm gonna keep the details to a minimum]. My only contribution was carrying unnecessary items back and forth to the truck. I did help the caller down the stairs though (Caller? Victim? Seems incorrect to call the caller a 'victim' when they weren't victimized. Respondee? Stretcher-Doodle? Hospital-Takee? COT-Fodder? - Gonna have to ask that question in class)

Once we got back to the station I watched Chad fill out about 3 hours worth of paperwork. Holy shit... Mr. PhD (I guess it would be Dr. PhD) was having some SERIOUS trouble with the county forms. To his credit, it was his first time filling out the forms himself... to his discredit, he's a FUCKING PHD!!!!

In the event that Chad stumbles across this blog and recognizes himself... I am gonna burn this page along with any evidence of its existence. I don't want cage-fighter Doctor-Boy givin' me the business...

The 22-Hour Class - Part III (CPR and EMS)

2007-04-08T16:40:00.000-07:00

This is the dude with whom I was making out on Sunday. He's pretty ripped, and he can take a lot of abuse, so I could do worse. One guy showed up late and got a dummy that looked like he was picked up from a porn shop on the way to class. Seriously, the mouth was a perfect 'O'. I'm typically not into that sort of thing; I'm just saying... you know, it might do in a pinch.

So, this CPR class was just a hair less boring than the last one. It wasn't just me this time, and the instructors gave me the impression that they'd actually performed CPR in a real live emergency (they had) and that one or two of them actually had done it with positive results (awkward kid, from the prior post, had performed CPR 5 times, and had actually saved one of the people - pretty heroic - nonetheless, he still may have to die).

There was also an EMS class where we saw the guts of an ambulance, the COT, the gear, the backboards, neck braces, etc.

Each of us got a turn taking someone out and putting someone in the ambulance on the stretcher. The stretcher is an amazingly ergonomic and well-engineered contraption, yet, one could lose a finger in that thing with no problem. I was bound and determined to see how well it handled, so the second I got the stretcher out (with classmate strapped soundly on top) I began to spin him around on the pavement. I guess neither the instructor, the paramedic, nor the classmate enjoyed that too much, because like, 5 people said simultaneously "WHOAAA, we NEVER do anything like that. That is ABSOLUTELY forbidden". Granted, they didn't say it in sync, but it was still impressive to see them all jump in on cue. Soundly rebuked, I put the classmate back on board.

We then took vitals. The amount of touching was, well, it was disconcerting. Classmates were pressing, poking, prodding... very unseemly... very unsettling. I mentioned this to the paramedic, but he looked at me like I was a 5'11" piece of man-candy, so I let it go. Actually, his response was "Get used to it, by the time you're out of EMS training you'll have carnal knowledge of every single person in the class." I'm pretty sure awkward kid's head exploded when he wrapped it around the concept of his being able to take lung readings from plastic surgeon girl. I'll say this now: if he can work that out, I will spare his life. Odds are about 90:1 against.

The 22 Hour Class - Part II

2007-04-08T16:05:00.000-07:00

Part II of the class was a bit more interesting - Personal Protective Gear and small tools. The instructor was a bit of a small tool himself (that won't be the last time I use 'tool' in that fashion... 'duty' will come up as well).

Actually, the instructor was pretty cool, he was about 23, full of piss and vinegar, and absolutely loving the fact that he was being listened to by a bunch of mid-20 to mid-30 recruits. Turns out, this guy has only been out of fire-school for a few years, but he's engaged, and that bodes well for the newbies. Seeing a guy who is jazzed about his gig makes one excited about the prospect...

Of course, all the energy in the world isn't going to make a discussion on fans, shovels, and crowbars interesting. The Halligan bar, on the other hand, has got some promise. As you can see from above, it's a crowbar/hoe/spike... firefighters swear by it, not sure why yet, but it's got a pointy end so it's gotta have merit. We did cover some of the power tools, but in order to really understand how cool they are, you gotta cut something. A samurai sword is just a hunk of sharpened steel until you see it employed in a Kurusawa film - similarly, a hydraulic jaw going in and out really isn't too impressive until it's done all up in the ass of some twisted metal... at least, that's what I would assume... since I haven't fucking seen it yet.

After small tools we moved on to personal protective equipment (PPE). As I mentioned in a prior entry, this is the stuff of life: hood, mask, pants, coat, boots, gloves, and helmet. The pants and coat, I learned, are rated to 1100 degrees Fahrenheit. Apparently, what that means is, if I were to walk into a 1099 degree fire, the suit would be reusable - I, however, would not be. Firefighters get pretty hemmy-hawwy when faced with the question of 'What can the equipment withstand?' They don't really like absolutes because there aren't any. 1100 degrees in a short burst is livable, 1100 degrees in a closed room is death. Oh, yeah, the hoods don't go that high either, so ears start to get warm in the 400 degree arena.

The good news is, fires are attacked from the outside in, and the floor is always cooler than the ceiling. So kids, after you're done stopping, dropping and rolling... just keep on rolling, because the floor is your best friend - thermal layering tells me so.

Energetic instructor demonstrated how the equipment goes on with what I can only assume to be an 18 year old kid. I assume this because he is conceivably the most awkward human being I've ever encountered. He can't be under 18, because he wouldn't be allowed in the class. He can't be over 18 because, well hell, because the laws of natural selection just wouldn't allow somebody that ferociously ungraceful to live past 18. Granted, his general nature would preclude sex with a girl, posing no risk to future bloodlines, but we can't rule out indirect contact, and that's a gamble Darwin just can't be willing to take. So he's got one year to sack up before I have to kill him. I think I'll be in fire school with him, so I'll get my chance.

The 22 Hour Class - Part 1

2007-04-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

The 22 Hour Class is a mandatory for all new red hats before they can ride along on calls. It features the very, most bare bones fundamentals of firefighting: safety, hoses, ladders, and basic EMS (Emergency Medical Responder) things like CPR (again) and BBP (Blood Borne Pathogens). The object of the class being to make a rookie look a hair less stupid at a fire than he would otherwise. Also, the object of the class is to get this all-consuming point across:

"IT'S NOT YOUR EMERGENCY"

This will come up again, I'm sure. In brief, this phrase is the mantra of every instructor, mentor, Chief, Captain, DICO (yeah, I KNOW!!! But, it stands for Designated Infectious Control Officer) EMT, or virtually anyone else with a patch on their sleeve. It essentially means that the emergency is exclusive to the person who made the call, we respond to the emergency, it's our job, but it's not our emergency. We are the experts, we are the people who are making it better - part and parcel with that responsibility comes the calm air of a professional whose job it is to make things run smoother. Allowing the freneticism of the moment to invade one's thoughts and obstruct their training is counterproductive. "It's Not My Emergency". Not a bad approach to everything, actually.

The class was about fire safety, and fire behavior. Mostly stuff that was intuitive. Nothing too tricky. We did learn about flashpoints, decay, backdrafts (very rare, by the by), and other mostly unknown firefighting terms. We also learned about convection, conduction, and radiation... the same concepts my son just learned in 4th grade science, only difference was that the topics were dumbed down for us firefighters.

The guy teaching the class was actually a career guy who also volunteered in my county. I find that pretty cool that a guy does his job all day long, and loves it so much that he goes home at night and does it for free. This is sometimes found in the IT industry, where computer nerds code all day, and then go home and code all night... but that's because they don't ever have sex. If they had the prospect of real sex, with a real girl, I'm almost positive most would walk away from the keyboard. This instructor, stays at the keyboard (proverbially) because he loves firefighting that much. Vindication for my decision? maybe.

Red Hat Training Day II

2007-04-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

Fresh from my CPR class, brave and confident in the knowledge that I too, could save a life, I showed up for the 2nd Sunday of red hat training - PPE (Personal Protective Equipment) night... and me with my new boots.

I borrowed some skinny guy's gear and put on the pants. Apparently, my visage was funny enough that [Jordan] the resident cute firefighter chick took my picture. They claimed it was because I looked like a figurine firefighter in a Hallmark store, but I'm guessing it was because stuffing me into a wee-lad's pair of pants made my package poof out like a positive TB test.

After finding me some duds that fit better, I started learning how to do the 2-minute drill. In short, the drill is a necessary, but impractical way to get a firefighter to learn their gear and get it on quickly. It involves donning the pants, jacket, hood, gloves, air pack and helmet... and then getting the air on and flowing into the mask... all in the brief span of two minutes.

I did the drill three times, my last attempt was 1:54. I looked at the instructor with a mixture of glee and expectation, to which he exclaimed, "Yeah, nice work... you put on clothes real good."

CPR Class

2007-04-06T13:07:00.000-07:00

Uh...

Ahem...

CPR is boring. Four hours of boring... but with dummies.

That will be all.

Holy Shit, I'm Gonna Die of TB

2007-04-06T12:39:00.000-07:00

waaaassssss what I was thinking as I raced back to the doctors office Friday morning. (See that... that was me hooking the reader with a crazy title, just to completely reverse it once they went to the text. 17 years of 'The Simpsons' is finally paying off)

Let me step back. During the physical, the TB test was administered using a little needle, inserted into the forearm, and creating a little bubble of whatever-ness under the skin. The owner of the forearm then waits for 3 days and takes said forearm back to doctor for a reading. My doctor didn't inform me of what a positive or negative reading looked like.

At the 72nd hour my arm looked like it had been hit with a ball-bearing coming out of a slingshot. No doubt I had TB. Of course, I was in the middle of a peer review (read: the corporate equivalent of a pulminary embolism... painful, long, grueling, and almost always results in death) and couldn't just walk out. At a break I ran to my office and started googling TB results - nothing. The project admin walked in, looked at my arm, and the look on her face spelled death. So I went to the doctors office.

En route I got a call from my boss telling me I needed to be back in 5 minutes. I told him that he was gonna have to wait... that is, unless he wanted to be patient zero in a worldwide epidemic of tuberculosis. He relented, and said it was fine for me to undertake this quest for truth, mainly because the other guy on my team was there. Thanks asshole.

Haha, ahem... uh, well, come to find out, a positive TB result would be a great deal of swelling under the skin, sort of like what I would expect skin to look like with a pinto bean inserted under it. My redness and irritation was nothing more than a non-TB reaction to the skin test.

"No biggie, happens all the time... didn't the nurse tell you that?"

"No, no she didn't."

I didn't have TB. Or Hep B either.

Everything is coming up Milhouse.

The Physical

2007-04-06T12:29:00.000-07:00

The physicals that firefighters take vary from state to state and county to county, but they do generally have one thing in common: they take it several steps further than the typical eyes, nose, ears, heart and sign here type of affair.

My physical took two hours, and it didn't even involve any of the strength or cardio portions that the career firefighters had. The doctor and nurses checked everything; heart, lungs, ears, eyes, flexibility, posture, ticklishness, body fat, and nutties. I was hooked up to an EKG, I did a lung capacity test, eye chart, flex-test, and interestingly, a full-fledged hearing test... with the sound proof booth and everything.

My lungs and heart were textbook. Eyes and ears were okay, not great, but certainly in keeping with my age and career choice. Only thing left was to take some blood for hep B and do the TB skin tine test.

Red Hat Training Day

2007-04-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

Sunday nights are red hat training nights. However, since my physical hasn't come through yet, I'm not allowed to actually do anything. The only think I'm allowed to do is take truck inventory.
As it turns out, firetrucks carry a lot of shit. Cool shit too. All of it is meant to be used and beaten up, so it's heavy as hell (hell, in this context, being something enormously heavy). There are quite literally hundreds of tools, appliances, and accessories on a fire truck, so I'm not going to list them here. What I will do, however, is list the high-level categories:

• Things that suck water
• Things that shoot water
• Things that go up
• Things that go down
• Things that fix things
• Things that break things
• Things that clean things
• Things that make things very, very, very dirty
• Kiddie fire hats

After about 3 hours of going through the nooks and crannys of the truck (and only making it halfway through) the duty crew got a call. We zipped up the tool bags, threw everything back on the truck, and slammed all of the compartment doors. They made their way to the alarm toot-friggin-sweet.

Some dude had run his car into some chick's house. Not the most technically challenging event that the crew has ever had to address, but it spawned some funny jokes about the urgency of booty calls.

Day 4 - Paying the Rent

2007-04-06T11:36:00.000-07:00

In order to be a volunteer firefighter we are required to pay exactly two dollars in dues every year. Why two? No, it's not an homage to 'Better off Dead', it is the mechanism by which former members are expelled. If a person quits coming to the firehouse then they aren't able to pay their dues. If they don't pay their dues, they are expelled. Pretty simple, and the roll calls aren't crowded with people who are in it solely for the license plates.

So I stopped by to pay my two dollars.

In the lounge are a few red hats, an EMS and the quartermaster. The first three are immaterial here, not because they aren't nice people, or because they don't have a ton to contribute to a conversation... no, they are immaterial because they AREN'T the quartermaster.

The quartermaster is very important... more on that later. Our quartermaster, [Keith], is a bit cranky, maybe a hair ascerbic, crotchety, caustic or otherwise unpleasant. Jury is out on whether or not this is his actual personality, or just the personality he puts on when he is fulfilling the duties of the quartermaster. I expect at least part of his demeanor is based upon every character Fred Thompson has ever played, ever.

On to why I care. The quartermaster is important because he is in charge of quarters, or more precisely in this context, he's responsible for gear. Gear matters - a lot. Gear needs to fit, and it needs to not suck. Gear is half the reason guys do this shit. More gear = more fun. Less gear = having to accommodate for lack of gear with wit, charm, strength of character, or other hard-won attributes. Screw that.

There is also the idea that better gear means less risk during a fire, but right now I just want something that doesn't smell like ass. Therefore, I intend to make the quartermaster like me if it requires a dozen roses and a reach-around.

Day 3 - Orientation

2007-04-06T11:15:00.000-07:00

Coincidentally the county orientation fell on the day after the vote, which was perfect for me, except that I wasn't signed up for the course. I noted the woman's name on the course announcement, conjured up my charming voice, and made a call:

Me - "Hi, may I speak with [Kate]?"
Kate - "This is she"
Me - "Heeeeyyyyy Kate, this is [], I'm a new volunteer at []. I just learned about the orientation tonight, but I didn't fill out the registration form. Do you think I could sneak in? I promise I'll be incredibly well-behaved."
Kate - "Sure. See you at 7"

That was anti-climactic. Either that or my charm is so finely tuned that it works in seconds, even over the phone.

I show up a bit before 7 and I see precisely what I would expect to see in the parking lot of a fire-training school; a bunch of young recruits in uniform huddled around a jeep after class. They were clearly talking smack and engaging in the tribal dance of I’m-24-and-I’m-still-trying-to-figure-this-shit-out-so-stand-near-me-so-we-can-fend-off-others-if-need-be. I get it, I’ve been there. Hanging with your boys is often just an obfuscation to cover up your need for protection against the uncertainty of the outside world. When you’ve got a crew you’ve got a bit of security. You've also got an accomplice.

All at once the recruits start a different dance, one that resembles a combination of whack-a-mole and a mosh-pit... they are climbing over each other to get a glance at a girl walking into the training center. She is unquestionably fit. This uncomfortable little show goes on only for a few seconds until she gets inside. After the door closes behind her the crew go back to their antics... and I walk in.

Fit chick is Kate... Kate is the instructor.

Me - "Hey Kate... I'm [], that crew of recruits out there was fairly falling over themselves trying to get a peek at you."
Kate - "Oh, funny. What a nice compliment."

See how I did that? I was absolutely innocent of any wrongdoing (it was after all, a county orientation, and there would undoubtedly be a harassment portion), but I got total credit for the compliment. Never hurts to have the instructor/administrator like you, even if it is for shallow and altogether ridiculous reasons.

The orientation class sucked. Training better be more fun.

Day 2 - The Vote

2007-04-06T10:22:00.000-07:00

During one of the phone calls prior to the interview the recruiter had indicated that there was a vote. There was a meeting of the members on the 2nd Monday of every month, and in it, a vote on new members was conducted.

The vote wasn’t supposed to be a particularly grueling process but it was, nonetheless, a vote, and I was the candidate, so there was a hair of anticipatory perspiration. I was lucky enough to have two aspiring medical students being voted in at the same time so we had a chance to chat outside while the members caucused. One was the savvy undergrad chick who was confident and cocky and prepping for the MCAT, the other was what I assumed to be a stay-at-home mom who had finally found some time to clamber back into the world of medicine, take the MCAT, and see where fortune takes her. She was cute, eager, and refreshingly naive. Our conversation went something like this:

Me - "Hi, I'm [name that sounds like a famouse baseball player, but is actually my name]"
Eager Chick - "You're [baseball player]?"
Me - "No, He's [baseball player], I'm [my name]. Also, he signed with the Mets when I was 10... and he's black, I'm not, in fact, I'm so white I'm actually pink"
Eager Chick - "Oh, haha, yeah, I guess you're not him"

(It's important to note here that I may be pinkish-hued, but it's a power-tie pink... not bow-on-a-poodle pink).

At that point the Chief jumped in and asked if any of us had truck driving experience.

Me - "Yep, I drove for a moving company during college"
Eager Chick - "You worked for a movie company? You were in the movies?"
Me - “Yes, I used to work at a movie company, where I acted in the talky pictures and played a black baseball player”
Eager Chick - "Wow, that must have been exciting"

So, when I called her refreshingly naive, what I meant to say was, she's going to be so critical to me that I will run her down and force her to talk. Because everything that comes out of her mouth is pure comic gold.

After the vote, where all three of us miraculously scraped by with just the thinnest of margins, we were ushered around for a brief tour accompanied by a bout of document signing. Our escort mentioned that we would need to take an orientation class where they would take our picture for our badge.

Eager Chick – “We get badges… WOW, I've never had a badge.”
Me – “You live in DC and you’ve never had a badge? That’s like being Keith Richards and never having snorted a line of coke from a hooker's asscrack”
Eager Chick – “Should I dress up for my picture?”
Chief – “Oh, absolutely… semi-formal is acceptable, but the station prefers full ball-gown attire for women just to insure that nobody mistakes the company for being an organization that goes out and rescues people from burning buildings and stuff”
Eager Chick – “Okay… so, then, just a cocktail dress?”
Chief – “Yeah, that’d be super”

Gold. Pure, fucking, gold.

The chief then proceeded to hand us stickers that we slap on our cars indicating that we were rescue and fire volunteers.

Chief – “These are not, I repeat, NOT, get-out-of-jail-free passes. Cops can, and will, pull over and issue speeding tickets to volunteers. Please stay within the boundaries of the law.”
Me – “By 'stay within the boundaries', do you mean only break the laws by an acceptable margin? A margin that a police officer - who now, by professional association, is my colleague - will dismiss with a wink and a shrug?”
Chief – “No fucker, don’t break the law with my sticker on your car.”
Me – “k”

Day 1 - the Interview

2007-04-06T07:51:00.000-07:00

After a few weeks of filling out applications, printing up my driving record, having a background check and scheduling interviews, I finally went to the station for my meet-and-greet.

Driving up the station I saw that it's pretty unassuming. A couple of fire trucks, a couple of ambulances, and a smattering of people milling about. It's a small-town fire station. Precisely what I expected. The trucks gleamed with the fresh-scrubbed look of a fraternity brother's car after twelve pledges buffed it with their monogrammed chamois; but the house itself was somewhat cluttered with the various oddities that are exclusive to the fire industry. Nozzles, safety equipment, hoses and canisters were all shoved out of the way, but not exactly stored. It definitely had the look of a place that was focused on one thing and all things subsequent to that one thing were in varying states of disarray.

I was told in the beginning that the bar isn't set particularly high for volunteers: we just need to have a fairly clean background and be mostly intact physically. Underscoring this message was the enormously belly-goitered gentleman working on his alternator in front of the station when I got there. Not the welcome I would have chosen, but this was a new world for me... I fully expected my comfort-zone to be violated a bit here and there. Cracker-ass, front-porch-sittin', dirty-butt, redneck guy working on his hoopdi in the front yard might just be the start. No telling what other wonderments I would encounter.

First person I met was [we'll call him, uh, Mike]. Amiable, friendly, with no pretensions and what seemed to be a genuine interest in having me volunteer there. He was kind enough to walk me around the station until somebody who recognized my name showed up. I could tell Mike would be a good guy to have around - I could tell this because at the end of the day I had nothing negative to say about him... and, quite frankly, there are very, very few people to whom I ascribe that characteristic.

Enter [Chad]. Chad is my interviewer. Chad, upon initial introduction, is quite evidently somebody I will either love, or hate. Shaved head, broken tooth (from a firehouse-related incident a week prior) and a demeanor of somebody who meanders through life looking for things to either break or fix depending upon his temperament at the time. I fell into the latter category, but I got the impression that that could change at any moment.

Chad told me about the firehouse, what he did for them, and why. It was abundantly evident that he loved it. He told me about the training program (to be enumerated later). He talked about technical rescues, water rescues, fires, wrecks and a dozen other sub-categories that reside within the fire and rescue sub-culture. He also told me about the firehouse demographic. Apparently, it looks a lot like the American Flag: 1/3 red, 1/3 blue, 1/3 white. This is a brand-new analogy I just developed, but I'm gonna run with it and see where it takes me.

The red: Part of the firehouse is full-on redneck. These guys are country and unabashedly so; they seem to want to volunteer because they get to spend a lot of time around vehicles that are being serviced and outdoor barbecues. There are also various and sundry items laying out on the lawn at any given time and I think that reminds them of home.

The blue: The next third is the blue-collar working man. This category is comprised of truck drivers, construction workers, landscapers, and all other flavors of men and women who work with their hands. I think this contingent is in the program because it's in their blood - they are either in families with firefighters, or their friends are firefighters, or they are just fucking tough and they need something that keeps them that way.

The white: What seems to be the most populous contingent are the white collar fucks; specifically, white collar fucks in IT; more specifically, white collar fucks that work as IT contractors. Absolutely the most depressing part of this venture so far. If I wanted to interact with more office drones I'd just spend more time at the office repeating jokes I heard on 'King of Queens' and discussing the merits of John Maher and Maroon 5.

After what turned into a 3 hour discussion and field trip, we went outside and watched red hats (volunteers who haven't yet completed the entire training program) put ladders up against the wall. I wasn't allowed to... because I hadn't a waiver. No need to walk down that path any further... I just want it to be clear that in my rush to fight fires I had forgotten to have my Mommy sign a note that allowed me to pick up a ladder.

The night ended when the ladders were put away and I drove home, only to return the next day for the vote.

The Reasons

2007-04-06T06:36:00.000-07:00

Why did I want to join a volunteer firefighter outfit? The reasons are varied but they boil down to this:

I need to be more.

I look around me in my x-burb (I'm also a guy who hates silly, contrived terms like 'x-burb', yet still uses them) and I see everybody churning away just trying to keep their heads above water. Perhaps the interest-only loan is coming due, maybe the family unit is decomposing, could be a pending margin-call, or the boss finally figuring out what a shitty job is being done... everyone is facing some impending crisis. What can be done to assuage that? Well...

Pointless and unnecessary accoutrements are the medium of the day to fend off the feelings of despair. Land Rovers, leased BMW's, coiffed hair and 4 dollar coffees - our existence has become so tepid that we bathe ourselves in perceived luxury as a way to draw a thin veil over how desperate our situations are. It's a quick and empty high and it certainly doesn't last as long as the payments... the same payments that lock us into our soul-sucking job for another 5 years. Does the guy in the Mercedes really think somebody cares that he got his? At best he'll get looks of scorn from people who want to be as conspicously consumptious as him. Nobody covets the car, they are just cataloging it so they can one-up it in their next beyond-their-means purchase.

Enough of that little tirade... point is, I don't want to be that. I don't want to be a guy who owns a 200 mph sports car but never takes it above 60, or the guy who spends 5 days a week in the gym but never plays a game of touch football, a guy who owns a speedboat that sits in his garage, or an SUV that hasn't been offroad.

In an effort to fend that off, I've been searching for quite some time for something that would help keep me from falling into that well-stocked trap. Then, one day about a month ago I saw a Volunteer Firefighter license plate on the back of a beat up Isuzu.

At this point I'm quite sure most are thinking "mid-life crisis". Well, perhaps. It's happened to better men than me. I guess it's conceivable... part of the reason for this blog is to be able to view the ebb and flow of my excitement about this prospect. Perhaps I am going through a phase, if that's the case then I guess we'll know soon enough. And it'll be chronicled right here.

Introduction

2007-04-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

My name is [Withheld for reasons of Plausible Deniability], and I just volunteered to be a fireman. This is my blog.

Let's start at the beginning... well, not at the beginning, but at the inception of why I wanted to write a blog about this in the first place.

I wanted to keep a journal of this process for one of two reasons: 1.) Either I could look at it 20 years from now and laugh at what a poser I was, or 2.) People could read it at my funeral and try to eke out some sort of meaning for the life that was snuffed out in the first-ever fire-school death brought on by uncontrollable crying.

My Mom also wants to know what I'm up to.