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Excessive habits.

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*Note: Patient is stated to be 350LB*

Ugh. The text glowed white on a black background, eliciting inward consternation and outward groans for my partner and myself.

As Medic 19 lumbered up Georgia Avenue, I clicked "enroute" on the computer and flipped it closed. We had been fitfully trying to get back for lunch, but no such luck today. Any day on an ambulance, really. Far out of our response area, we headed north to find what awaited us on Shepherd Street.

Jay (as we'll call him) was seated completely naked on the floor of the basement he lived in, surrounded by the sparsity of a man whose sole obsession is certainly not furnishing his living quarters. Instead, Jay's room accessories consisted of a TV, a high-backed rolling office chair parked in front of it, and six or eight of the 50-count DVD towers full of porn.

(Oh, and there was a small coffee table; the one square foot of it what was not covered in porn had amassed a collection of chinese food containers, stacked twenty or thirty high.)

There was porn on the walls, there was porn kicked under the bed, there was porn still in unmarked brown mailing boxes, waiting to be unwrapped. Porn playing cards had apparently fallen over quite some time ago and were left to lie about; the few of them that remained visible offered a stark and explicit punctuation to the collection of dirty towels and clothes on the floor.

Taking a history and obtaining vitals was a surreal sort of moment, surrounded by every manner of pornographic material. Apparently the southwest corner of the room was the blacks-on-blondes fodder; yet another DVD tower specialized only in group social functions of staggering proportions.

Side note: I wasn't aware that they even made Innocent Until Proven Filthy 13, much less the first twelve that were neatly organized above it in the rack. Others were far more blunt (and thus unprintable here).

—————

According to Jay, he had come home from lunch and needed to go to the bathroom; shortly thereafter, he sat down on his chair, became dizzy, and slid to the floor.

Sir, at what point between sitting in this chair and sitting on the floor did your clothes spontaneously fly off?

(I couldn't bring myself to ask.)

Physiologically, everything checked out. He was a touch confused, but not in a stroke kind of way. More of a "uh, why did I pass out naked and who are these people in my house?" kind of way. His vitals were great, but we all agreed that he should be transported to the hospital anyways; his obesity had led him down the road to a number of chronic medical conditions, and it was impossible for us to rule out the etiology of his syncopal episode.

(If you ask me, the only chronic thing he's suffering from is a… *ahem* protein deficiency.)

The TV was blaring the entire time we were there. Surprisingly, it wasn't porn. Instead, the classic Guess Who's Coming To Dinner added to the general absurdity of the room. Sidney Poitier's soothing baritone rang out through the TV as we wheeled Jay out the door and into the ambulance.

—————

"Did you see my movies?"

"Hmm?" I looked up distractedly from the tablet computer where I was entering his most recent set of vital signs.

"Did you see all of my movies?"

There was a hint of pride in his voice, and I was only half-surprised that his first cogent sentence was about his pile 'o porn.

"Uh, yeah. That's… quite a collection you have there."

"Aw, that's not that much. It's pretty small right there, but I have more somewhere else."

My mind reeled at the thought of Jay's U-Stor-It unit somewhere nearby. He would fling the rolling door up with a great flourish to reveal another collection of unimaginable quantity; and like Scrooge McDuck, he would jump in and laugh as he swam amongst the DVDs piled inside his vault.

I snapped back to reality as I realized he was listing off names, seeking my approval for various titles and actresses.

"Gianna Michaels, she's pretty good… The Lesbian Truth or Dare series? I like Alexis Texas, too…"

He drifted off into his own thoughts, and I left it at that.

“The Lost Art of Firemanship” – an excerpt.

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I was recently digging through the supply closet at the firehouse when I came across this withered citation in a battered frame. I had seen similar items littering the walls of other firehouses, but I had never paid much attention to them—nearby, the proudly-snapped photos of big fires and grinning, smoke-stained crews always proved to be more visually appealing.

However, as I held the wooden frame and blew the dust off the smudged glass, I was curious about the wording of the citation itself. Issued from the District of Columbia Associate of Insurance Agents on October 8th, 1958, the citation offers high praise for Engine 15 as the "Company of the Year."

In recognition of devotion to duty, great firemanship, courage, initiative and teamwork in the highest tradition of the Department, this Citation is presented.

Courage, teamwork… anyone who's received so much as a Most-Improved Player trophy from Little League has heard these buzzwords countless times.

But firemanship? What the hell is that?

I had never heard anyone use the term around the firehouse, but I suspected it was the origin of the wistful conversations the older guys have about my younger generation. It's not uncommon to hear cries of "they don't make 'em like they used to," or declarations of a historic pride and dedication that we'll never understand. The "new" Department, they claim, doesn't go to fires, and seems to be solely a miserable medical department with some really big, really red ambulances that can't transport patients.

Now just waitaminnit, you old bastard. My generation's level of dedication to the job—no matter what our call volume consists of—can be addressed later; but maybe we could cross a little bit of this gap if we understood this "firemanship" you speak of.

The Googles did not fail me; interestingly enough, the top hit for "firemanship" was a three-year-old blog called biglinefire, written by the mysterious figure of Jason B.

I was unable to reach him via his blog; as I cannot find any other contact information for him, I was unable to ask for permission to reproduce the excellent post entitled "The Lost Art of Firemanship."

It's absolutely worth a full read. I simply cannot leave this post with a link, but instead must offer some of my favorite excerpts; I can only hope that the gods of copyright will look favorably upon my actions, as I seek no profit from Jason's writing.

—————

Speaking of the most basic tenets of the science behind firefighting, Jason opens the generation gap early:

We learned hot air rises and fire always looks for the path of least resistance. I learned these things when I was 12 years old. Why is it that this basic information seems to be foreign to most people entering the fire service today? Yes that was many years ago… but the kids these days have grown-up in a much different time and culture than I did.

Although, he would posit, the blame for my generation's problems rests on more shoulders than our own:

…Many of the “kids” appear to lack basic life skills: how to clean a toilet; how to press a shirt; how to cook a basic meal or how to follow simple instructions. It is not all their fault. We as a society must take our share of the blame.

We again fail them in the academy… I have seen as little as four hours of the fire academy dedicated to SCBA… The instructors have spent much more time on topics such as Hazmat, confined space and terrorism. 

The writer fully admits that problems without solutions are useless; he offers a bit of advice from his point of view, regarding moving forward and keeping the problem from growing any worse:

…we cannot change how the next generation is raised. But we can encourage vocational education. It should be ok to take a shop class.* People should know how things work and how to fix things and I don’t mean debugging a computer program or how to hard reboot a CPU.

…we must not forsake our traditions. Fire has been fought by men and women, crawling down hot, smokey hallways taking a beating to put the fire out. It was dangerous then and remains dangerous now. Let’s not let forget the lessons learned by our predecessors; take the time to teach the New Kid what firemanship is about, what the job is about.

* (Just a side note: I graduated from college in 2008, and was never offered anything even close to a shop class during my seventeen years of formal education; in fact, the majority of the people I knew in high school or college couldn't work with tools if their life depended on it. Thanks for looking out for me, Dad!)

His parting sentiment is a nice recap; again, the entire post is a great read when taken together, but the wrap-up is a good reminder to us young 'uns… anyone who truly cares will take it to heart:

As a profession we must return to the basics of our trade: Hot, dirty, hard work that every generation has done before us. Keep yourself educated, in shape and be true to the job. Remember we are the fire service and it is only as good as we make. Do not forget Firemanship, because without it public works could do our job.

—————

So what happened? Why is my generation so different from the previous two? Have entire similarly-aged recruit classes been genetically predisposed to have an "I don't give a shit" attitude? Or is it that if we were working our asses off and going to fires as often as our predecessors, we'd be better firemen over all?

Ah, the nature v. nurture debate rages on. Maybe firemanship died with all the fires. But methinks that lazy firemen have existed since the profession started, and good, dedicated firemen will continue to prosper in any Department. It's really just up to the individual.

But on firemanship: it's nice to finally have a term that represents that… thing. That idea that you can't quite put your finger on, but the guys you really respect seem to have it mastered. It almost feels like a spiritual concept, something many of us strive for but few will ever really embody.

I certainly don't have it yet; but figuring out what the hell it is sounds like a good first step.