Vartan, my father-in-law, was taken to the hospital last week. The Cedars-Sinai Hospital emergency room was too busy at the time, so he was taken to a nearby hospital which is nowhere near the caliber of Cedars Sinai. Sophia was nursing a cold, so I drove down by myself to the hospital to see what was going on. It was 1AM.
By 3Am, Vartan had a room, but the nurses wanted to move him to ICU. The hospital was understaffed and lethargic. I excused it to the early hours. The patients seemed to come from lower income backgrounds. Was this my first taste of socialized medicine? I made a sarcastic joke on Twitter, saying that I was learning the health care hierarchy of LA: Cedars-Sinai for the movie stars, UCLA for the movie producers, and THIS hospital for the grips. (I was later told that the grips are unionized and have excellent health care) Maybe I should have said this hospital is for entertainment bloggers.
Two slight nurses came into the room to wheel Vartan to ICU. It took them ten minutes to unhook all the tubes and prepare his bed to be wheeled out. One of the nurses was having trouble managing the bed and the attached IV, so she asked me to help wheel the IV to the other wing. I was beginning to wonder if this woman was a nurse, or a receptionist doing double duty. It was an obstacle course to ICU, with wheelchairs in the hallway and humps that we had to maneuver over.
We finally reached the locked door of the ICU and pressed the intercom. A male nurse, the head of the ICU came to the door.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“We’re bringing that patient.”
“We don’t have a room ready. Or an available nurse.”
“Oops. So, what are we going to do?” asked the nurse standing to my side.
The ICU nurse started to laugh, spurring the others to crack up as well. I’m sure they were all tired, and the situation was absurd. Vartan was lying there, equipment sitting on top of him.
There was only one big problem with this funny scenario. I was there, helping with the move. And I wasn’t laughing, despite my reputation as a “humor writer.” I was wearing a blue sweatshirt, so perhaps the ICU nurse figured I was some orderly helping, and not the son-in-law of the patient.
“What the fuck is going on?” I said.
If you know me, that is not something I usually say.
“I don’t see this as particularly funny,” I continued.
“Who is he?” the ICU nurse asked the others, pointing at me.
“I’m HIS fucking SON!” I said. I know I lied a bit, but sue me.
The nurses suddenly became very serious.
“And is this the usual procedure –” I said, my voice getting louder, “– to have family members helping move the patient to the new room? Does anyone know what they are doing here?”
“Perhaps you would like to wait in the visitor waiting room.” said the male nurse, pointing at a room down the hall.
“I’ll wait in the visitor waiting room, after my father gets a fucking room and I see that you know what the hell you are doing.”
Within two minutes, they found a room, a nurse, and Vartan was hooked up.
Of course, the next day at the hospital, Sophia and I noticed that Vartan’s feeding tube wasn’t turned on. We went to look for the nurse, who was apparently busy absorbed in watching the finals of the World Cup… in the visitor waiting room.
I don’t enjoy being pushy. In fact I hate when circumstances force me to do that. It makes me reflect on other parts of my life, as if you are alone in this world, and no one really gives a shit, so you have to force your way into getting what you want. I don’t want to live my life that way.
On the way home, Sophia and I stopped at Ralph’s Supermarket to pick up some groceries. One of the items we bought was a package of cabbage. Sophia likes to make stuffed cabbage. After we paid, and before we wheeled the groceries out of the store, Sophia checked over the receipt. She always does this, and I never do. She is not as trusting as I am. I even get a little irritated at times in supermarkets, waiting for her to go down the list, making sure all the prices match.
“Aha,” she said. “She charged us twice for the same package of cabbage.”
Sophia showed the recipt to the checkout woman.
“I’ll fix it in a second,” she replied.
There were three more customers on the line for this checkout woman, waiting to be helped. The checkout woman helped the first customer and then started taking care of the next customer, a burly Samoan guy.
“Hey, what about our refund?” asked Sophia.
“After I finish with everyone on line. They were here first.”
“What do you mean? We were here first. You charged us for an extra cabbage!”
“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Who’s the manager?” asked Sophia, getting angry.
“Calm down, lady!” said the Samoan guy. “And don’t be so impatient.”
Now, normally, I’m not the type of protective husband who defends his wife no matter what, especially when the opposition has broad shoulders. Usually, I am the one calling Sophia impatient. But this time, she was right. I’m sure the Samoan thought he was right, too, and I realize that people can see the same situation in different, Rashomon-like ways. But, the hospital experience hardened my heart. I didn’t care about the other guy’s rightness. We were right. We were tired. We bought a package of cabbage. The checkout woman made a mistake. She should fix it FIRST.
I told this to the Samoan guy.
“Ralph’s Supermarket made a mistake,” I said. “They should fix it.”
“Big deal,” said the deep-voiced Samoan. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
“I’ve made many mistakes. And when I make a mistake, I take care of it. Immediately. Especially if it is a business situation.”
“And why should I get punished. I’m the next on line.”
“This is not about you. This is between us and Ralph’s. Ralph’s is not my friend. They fucked up. They need to fix it. You should be siding with us, so when this happens to you, you will get prompt service.”
“You’re just being selfish.”
“No, sir, YOU’RE the selfish one.”
Whatever. Not exactly fighting words. I said a lot more nonsense, even quoting the Constitution. At the end, they returned our money, and the Samoan called us assholes under his breathe.
When we stepped outside, Sophia was so in shock at my bravado that she was speechless. If she wasn’t so tired from the hospital, and we didn’t have ice cream that could melt, I bet I could have gotten laid in the backseat of the car.
Later, that night, I decided to book my ticket to New York for BlogHer. I had been going back and forth, thinking about taking two different flights. One was on Virgin America, and was a non-stop. The other was on American Airlines, with an hour stop-over in Salt Lake City. The second flight would save me $70. Normally, I would go for the savings. But I hate stopping over on a flight. Was it really worth the savings of $70.
If you don’t speak up, you get lousy service in the hospital. If you don’t speak your mind, you wait in line in the supermarket, charged for an extra package of cabbage.
I’m flying non-stop.
Are Blog Commenters “Real” Writers?
A few weeks ago, there was a raucous argument online over the unimportant question of the day — are bloggers “real” writers?
I have my own thoughts about this, but I’m all about spreading the love, so for all practical purposes, I edge towards saying “yes.” If you write, you’re a “real” writer, whatever that means. A “professional” writer might be a better writer, but then again, there are a lot of shitty books published about cats.
The problem is the word “writing,” which like “blogging” is too broad and meaningless. A doctor is a doctor, but you don’t want a pediatrician doing your heart surgery. Blogging is a new art, and a singular discipline. A good blogger might write a boring book. On the other hand, I have read blogs written by novelists that bore me to tears. These professionals just don’t “get” the community aspect of blogging, or the soap opera-ish, episodic nature of a personal blog. No writer can write anything. Screenwriters are considered the low end of the writing totem pole, but both Hemingway and Fitzgerald took stabs at screenwriting, with awful results. Every art form is different. A play is performed live. A movie uses editing. Blogging is writing. But writing isn’t blogging. And really — who cares? The whole conversation reeks of insecurity. I’m not ashamed to say I am a blogger. I’m ashamed to say I make NO MONEY blogging. But I am proud to blog. I love it!
When we talk about “real” writers, I’m assuming we are all thinking about someone like Jonathan Franzen, a guy who writes BOOKS you can buy in a store. Of course, I only mention him because other bloggers are talking about him, which just proves that blogging is all about immediacy.
Yeah, I hear you. Blogging is exactly like writing. For every person who says that blogging is real writing, I wonder how many times you have gone into my archives to read my “writing,” as if my blog was a collection of short stories. Never! Gotcha!
In some ways, bloggers are not “real writers,” in that blogging is just plain different. Bloggers use links. Links are as revolutionary as editing in a movie, and completely unique to the online experience. You never see links in a traditional novel. Imagine a novelist describing Doctor Zhivago’s house, and then including a link to a photo in Flickr. Bloggers play off of one another, like improv players. Someone writes an angry post. Two hours later, someone writes another post responding. Blogging tends to be topical and immediate, like my name-dropping of Jonathan Franzen. “Real writers” write in isolation, their beards growing gray as they toil over their masterpiece for ten years in an abandoned cabin in the woods. And here is the real big difference, at least according to me: most bloggers allow COMMENTS! Not too many “real writers” allow comments on their novel, unless you are one of those crazy readers who scribble notes to the author on the side of the page.
“WTF?! Are you saying that his wife is his OWN SISTER?! You are a perv!”
If you want to feel like a “real” writer, shut down your comments and let your beard grow. If you want comments, and enjoy the adoration, you are a blogger. Be happy.
Of course, as times change, so will our ideas about “writing.” In ten years, all books might have “links” embedded, as we read them on our Kindles.
Which brings me to the real point of this post — blog comments. If you are one of those people who shook your fist and shouted “Bloggers can be REAL WRITERS!,” I have a another question for you. “Do you consider commenting to be real writing, and if no, why not?”
I do. I consider my comments an integral part of my post. The comments on one of my posts can be more interesting than my post. They are very important in humor blogging. Have you ever read the comments on The Bloggess? They are hilarious. Her blog would not be half as fun without her comments. Jenny and her commenters FEED off of each other. In fact, their relationship is so strong, I think she should SHARE all of her advertising dollars with her commenters.
I see many bloggers complaining about a lack of comments. They usually blame Twitter and Facebook. I say, it is your own fault. You don’t respect comments as “real” writing. You consider stupid one-liners on Twitter as “writing,” but the comments on your blog as an appendage to YOUR brilliant post. Is it any wonder that there has been a brain-drain from the comment section to the Twitter stream? There has already been a book on Twitter Wit? Can you imagine a book of blog comments? Can you imagine anyone getting a sitcom deal or book deal from a blog comment? Of course not. No one really respects the blog comment.
The first lesson I learned at film school is that the auteur theory of film-making was hogwash, created to fulfill the need for critics to analyze a movie in the same way that they would a book — written by one author.
We tend to view our blogs under this same “auteur” theory, dissing the community aspect of the medium. Of course, this doesn’t stop us from pimping our blog posts on Twitter, or constantly networking. Blogging is not only writing. It is part circus, part Borg.
I write my blog. It is my words. But during my five year writing journey, I have been guided by YOU as much as by my own life. YOU have been part of my experience. We all have been part of each other’s blogging life. This is what we mean when we talk about this “community.” If we all just want to write on our own and think of ourselves as “writers,” then let’s drop blogging and write our books. But if we are going to blog, we should embrace “blogging.”
I am not a good commenter. I am more comfortable talking about my own life, than reflecting on yours. I consider this a fault.
Commenting is a skill. It is real writing. I greatly appreciate smart comments. For the longest time, I have wanted to come up with some sort of blog award, solely for comments, something that would undercut the typical “Best Blog of All Time” idea, a concept that would embrace the community, not just the individual blogger making believe she writes in complete isolation. Perhaps by enobling the comment as an art form, as “real” writing, we can energize commenting again. Wouldn’t it be great to see a session at a conference where the speakers doesn’t suggest ways to “get MORE COMMENTS” but instead — “how to write more meaningful comments on the blogs of your friends?” — taught by some of the best commenters amongst us.
If I actually started a Commenting Award, my personal nominee would be Headbang8. When he comments on one of my posts, he takes my topic to another level. This is, despite the fact that I rarely comment on HIS blog, mostly because he lives in Europe and isn’t in my usual circle of friends. I can tell that this isn’t a reader who has zoomed though 100 blog posts in one morning. He has actually thought about the subject, and when he writes a comment, I consider him to be a collaborator on the post.
And just to show how much he means to me, I will now share all of my advertising dollars with him.
Here is one of his recent comments on my post about my “big ears.”
Now THAT is “real” writing. In a comment.