"Joel may look like 10 gallons of lard in a 5 gallon bucket, but I've seen him run down 2 gang-bangers and beat them both into submission."

I just finished another night volunteering in the ER. It was busier tonight than I've ever seen it. When I got to the ER, every hallway gurney was filled, all the wheelchairs were filled, and the waiting room was packed with people waiting to be seen. We have an "in box" for triage forms and there were probably 20 forms waiting to be prioritized. On top of all that, there was a new ER volunteer there to be trained. He had never been in the ER before so I had to baby-sit him very closely. He was this pre-med kid from UC-Berkeley; one of those Wunderkinder who has had his entire life scheduled by his hyper-educated Asian-American baby-booming parents. I'm guessing that his toilet training regimen was determined 5 years before his birth and as a zygote, he was already on a wait-list for a Montessori kindergarten. He was desperate to show me that he possessed an innate knowledge of the ER in an attempt to match the expectations to which I'm sure his domineering parents hold him. Of course, he was in everyone's way all night. I know the kid has the brain of daVinci, but his "run Forrest run" eagerness was counterproductive on such a busy night.

The triage nurse tonight was Michael. He is the brightest nurse I have worked with in the ER. The first time I worked with him, I heard him speak 4 languages fluently: English, Spanish, Japanese and Tagalog. Michael (not Mike, mind you, Michael) is a former military man who runs a tight ship and is not afraid to utilize his corps of soldiers in the ER to their fullest potential. In short, Michael lets me do a lot of shit I shouldn't really be doing. We had a young lady come in tonight with shortness of breath and chest pains and a numb/tingly feeling in her arms and hands. Because we were so busy, she was looking at a long wait to even get triaged. Her father made a big stink to Michael because he read that "young people die of coronary events these days." Have I written about "Group A" in the ER before? Anyway, Michael got done chatting with the father and turned to me and said "Quagmire, get her on an O2 monitor and get her pulse, if anything looks emergent, let me know." He then walked down the hall to an ambulance arrival, leaving me alone with the young lady and her militant father.

Now, I can work the O2 monitor (or the pulse-ox as it's called) and I can get someone's pulse. But to be honest, this girl could be breathing her last gasps and, until she fell over and the O2 saturation read zero and her pulse was zero, I would have no idea if she was in an emergent situation or not. As Michael walked down the hall, I sat and stared at the two people in front of me. I think I could actually hear my eyes opening and closing "blink blink, blink blink". So I put the little clip on the young lady's finger and...now, I'm not a religious man, but at that moment I prayed with everything I had, begging any supreme being to show me a 99% O2 saturation and a pulse between 70 and 100. I'm thinking of getting back into the whole worship scene because she had a 99% O2 and a pulse of 100.

Michael also takes joy in throwing people into uncomfortable situations. For instance, we had several 5150 people come in. 5150 is the ER code for people who are a danger to themselves or, more importantly from my perspective, a danger to OTHERS. You understand, these people present a danger to OTHERS; they are dangerous to people who are not themselves. OTHERS in the ER includes me, the unpaid volunteer just trying to get to 9 PM without getting cut up. Usually young, heavily armed policemen escort these folks. These young, good looking, well muscled, heavily packaged and heavily armed police men are sincerely dedicated to their job. Well, that is until they spot the hot, nubile, slightly slutty Philippino nurse in charge of beds 13 through 20. At that point, the cop's job is to guard the scary denizens of beds 13-20 for the rest of the night, and, believe me, those 80-year-old diabetics are an unpredictable lot.

So Michael hands me a wristband and says that the guy in the secure room needs to be tagged. I saw the guy in the secure room come in. He was brought in by ambulance in 4-point restraints and had "KILLER" tattooed on his chest as well as some other Spanish words my dictionary doesn't contain. He also had about 4 tattooed tears coming out of his eyes.

Actually, all Michael says is "Secure room, no drug allergies, tag him."

I respond, "Um, Michael, yeah...volunteers are not..um..well you see...we are not really allowed to...uh it's really against the rules for us to enter the secure room."

"What the hell are you worried about soldier?!"

"Well, Michael, it's just that I peeked at the police report as this guy came in and, well...he suffers from schizophrenia and, WHILE I HAVE NOTHING BUT THE UTMOST SYMPATHY FOR THOSE AFFLICTED WITH MENTAL ILLNESS...he kind of threatened to slice up his family, his dog, his therapist, his parole officer, the ambulance crew, the triage nurse, and I'm pretty sure he winked at me and licked his chops as he was wheeled by just now."

"Don't worry Quagmire, Joel will be right outside the door in case something happens."

Well isn't that comforting? Joel is the security guard in our little ER. Joel is as small as our ER is not. Do you know the Subway ads that feature Jarred, the erstwhile tubby who is now a svelte spokesman? Well, think "before" rather than "after", that's Joel.

"Michael, I don't think Joel works in the ER, I think he's in a constant state of having a heart attack and, since he's here all the time, people just assume the hospital hired him"

"Listen Quagmire, Joel may look like 10 gallons of lard in a 5 gallon bucket, but I've seen him run down 2 gang-bangers at the same time and beat them both into submission."

Apparently Joel is a former Army Ranger who got injured on duty, spent a lot of time in physical therapy, gained some weight, and now ekes out a living working security at the hospital and at local supermarkets. May the lord have mercy on anyone who misjudges that behemoth.

"Group B" sent a contingent tonight as well. A cute elderly lady came in complaining of a "bug bite" on her lower leg. She waited a long time and as I was calling someone else in, her sister asked me how long until the nurse could see them. Bug Bite Lady castigated her sister, saying that the ER was busy and to quit being a pest. So we finally get to her and it turns out Bug Bite Lady is a diabetic. Hospital rules dictate that a blood sugar test needs to be run immediately on all diabetics. Her blood glucose came back at 304 mg/dL. Normal blood glucose, even for a diabetic is less than 126 mg/dL. Even if she had just eaten, it should be below 200 mg/dL. This poor lady had a raging infection in her lower leg. This will raise the glucose level in a healthy person's blood, but of you're a diabetic it is a very serious condition. As usual, the sickest of the sick is the most polite, most patient person in the hospital, and practically in a hyperglycemic coma.

"See ya buddy, you're a ball player."

Well, today was not the happiest of days. I play a lot of softball, A. LOT. I play coed ball, men's ball, and for the LGBT club, I play on an all women team, but keep that on the down-low, else I face disqualification (just Google LGBT if you're confused).

My Monday night team is a men's novice team. Understand that in N. Cali, men's novice level teams can kick the holy crap out most other advanced teams in the nation. OK, so I've only played ball in WI and AZ, but these CA novice teams are phenomenal. I've been on this particular team for about 8 seasons. That's really only 2 years, since we can play year round here. But the guys I play with are easily the closest friends I've made out here in sunny CA. They are easily the best players I've played with. It's one of those teams where you are expected to play well, where errors are laughed at only after the game, and any heated arguments during the game are forgotten once the game is done. It's pure testosterone-fueled latent joy.

Tonight was the first game of the summer season. Our regular pitcher was gone so I took the mound and threw 4 innings of shutout ball. We ended up winning easily. As the game wound down, I realized that I have maybe 3 more games to play with these guys. After the game we went up to the club for our usual post-game beer. One of the guys mentioned that he was going on vacation for the next 2 weeks and that he won't be back until the second week of August. I knew then that I would probably never see him again in my entire life.

I didn't mention anything to him, but as we were leaving he shook my hand and said "See ya buddy, you're a ball player." I'm sure he realized too that we would never play ball again together and most likely never even meet again. He paid me what is the greatest compliment given at the ball field: you're a ball player. As in "you see that guy over there? Watch him, he's a ball player," or "I wish I had that guy on my team, he's a ball player!" Over the next 3 weeks, I'm going to have to say goodbye forever to all the guys on the team. I know there are ball players in New York and I hope I meet some ball players there as good as the ball players I know here.

"Nice ass, FAG!!!!!"

Too tired to type. I did a 50+ mile bike ride today. From Danville, to Walnut Creek, over to Concord, through Clayton down to the Morgan Preserve, then I climbed that hill over to Black Hawk and back to Danville. Donger need food!

I commute to and from work on my bike a few times a week too. The round trip is 40 miles and goes over the Dumbarton Bridge. My greatest joy in life is to call that bridge the Dumbarton Fink Bridge. Yes, high comedy. Anyway, I've noticed that automobile drivers like to interact in various ways with the bicyclists they pass on the road. Usually this involves beeping or shouting, but occasionally you get doused with soda or beer and every once in a while, they throw something at you. It's kind of like those 4th of July parades when you were a kid and they would throw candy from the floats. Only candy rarely lacerates your scalp or bruises your ribs.

Today's ride was mostly on remote country roads, so there was relatively little traffic interaction for me to enjoy. However, while riding through Walnut Creek, one nice gentleman in a Camaro did shout out "Nice ass, FAG!!!!!" Now, I'm pretty comfortable with my heterosexuality, so being called a fag isn't at all devastating to me. I assume, though, that this fine, meth-addled, Camaro driving, Central Valley denizen felt it to be an insult of the highest order. Which got me to thinking. I'm the one with the nice ass, and he was the one who noticed and pointed it out verbally...so who exactly is supposed to be the fag in this scenario? Shouldn't he have said something along the lines of "Hey fag, I have a nice ass and I'll bet you would like it if you could see it, which you can't because you're too busy peddling that faggoty bike in your faggoty bike shorts, fag!"? He bravely squealed off before I could hold a civil discourse with him and posit my theory on his sexuality.