COLUMN: Is This Thing On?

From Tim Zeigler's "Turn Your Head and Cough," Fall '94 I am sitting in my government built house just down the street from the medical clinic. The house (built to last -- by the lowest bidder) is most notable for its absence of a television. Now, I am not a big fan of spending countless hours staring mindlessly at the endless parade of bad programming, puddles of drool slowly drying on the pillows as bedsores begin to form over the weight-bearing areas of one's body (just because I've done it, doesn't mean I'm a big fan of it). But for the love of all that's holy, I think catching the news on CNN, along with the occasional sports wrap-up is not too far below food and oxygen on the necessities list. But, it's not like I have missed any major events of any personal interest -- no plane crashes in my home state, no peace initiatives by the IRA, no bold legislative efforts in the hysterical campaign against violence. I am all too wide awake in the wee hours of Monday morning because I just learned that I have been chosen from a pool of eager applicants to do something like this once every two weeks. So I have been both blessed and cursed with the double-edged sword of receiving that for which I have asked. Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but the moment the words "Congratulations, you have been accepted as a columnist" came at me over the phone, every bleedin' idea I had thought potentially worthy of rumination and expounding upon in print fled my mind like it was a burning movie theater ... screaming all the way and not looking back. Unfortunately, all the exit doors of my mind were well-lit, unlocked, and wide open. They are all gonzo. Just me in a vacuum with a forty-eight hour deadline. They should use this technique for deprogramming the brain-washed victims of cults -- kind of a mental Drano. Anyway, it is a damn fortunate thing that I find panic so inspirational. I thought that during the long drive out here I would be overwhelmed by an eruption of ideas from the depths of my subconscious. Surely, while speeding over the flat stretches of the Midwest, I would counter the tedium by exploring the vast and varied terrain of my mind. Armed with a tape recorder, I would capture this flood of creative thinking. Replaying this tape recently, I was awed by the deep thinking that produced such recorded comments as "Geez! It's flat out here..." Having mentioned television and brain-washing, I arrived at the one recurrent thought that approaches revelation status. I believe as a child I was irreversibly twisted by my near fanatical viewing of the show Emergency. Many of you probably remember Johnny Gage and Roy DeSoto, paramedics extraordinaire of Squad 51. Now, decrying the show may seem odd given my involvement in medicine. In view of my choice of emergency medicine as a career, my newfound loathing is quite ironic. Well, I can explain. There were many side effects of watching that show that I accepted. I handled the early hyper-awareness for things that produce ulcers in neurotic kids like me -- cyanide in peach pits, rabid dog bites, poorly chewed hot dogs lodged in the trachea... I could handle it because I thought "Ringer's Lactate" would cure them all. I also accepted the disparity between the good-natured high jinks that went on amongst the TV firemen when contrasted with the mysterious and dark sub-culture of the local volunteer fire company. Maybe it was just the location. Standing in the neighborhood of some mythic childhood bullies, there was always a fair chance of getting pounded when nearby; however, some of those dudes in uniform were truly good ole boys gone bad -- at worst, Beavis and Butthead with high-pressure hoses. But, as I said, these things I acknowledged years ago and moved beyond. Thus, I was surprised when my new awareness of additional warped behaviors pushed my disaffection with the show to the level where I regretted having ever seen it. Hiking amongst the grassy hills and wooded mountaintops, I caught myself stepping over fallen logs and down rocky shelves with an extreme amount of caution. Immediately I realized that all my ground-scanning, high-stepping, and stick poking behavior stemmed from my expectation, no, my conviction that some dreaded, ever-present, blood-thirsty rattlesnake awaited the slightest chance to drive his venom-laden fangs deep into my leg; and, as any fan of Johnny and Roy would know, those blasted snakes split their time between living on the other side of fallen logs along common footpaths and hanging out in rocky recesses on otherwise barren cliffs. I am yet to see or hear a single snake, living or dead, during my treks. Years of deconditioning may be required, however, before I can stop hiking about like some neurotic boob with a gait directly from the Ministry of Silly Walks. If years are required, then so be it. Damn the torpedoes and the pit vipers. I will continue with as much hiking and climbing as I can tolerate. However, this final intrusion upon my unhampered ability to partake of the outdoors has forever turned me on the show. Never again will I view it as a decent little TV drama with frequent educational points to deliver. It was too much information, too early in life. With the exception of not playing with guns, gasoline, or middle-aged strangers in clown suits, kids should remain blissfully unaware of the rampant perils of life. Of course, on all overnight roadtrips I will continue to travel with one of those heavy clear glass ashtrays packed in one of my bags. You never know when a domesticated, venom-spewing cobras may escape its owner and start trashing your hotel room. Johnny and Roy just used those ashtrays to shield their eyes from the venom while using fire extinguishers to... Tim Zeigler is a medical student from Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Turn Your Head and Cough will appear alternate Wednesdays.