I wear patches on the outside
'cause patched is how I feel on the inside...

[Regular readers: there may be some confusion as I complete a minor update in page layout and design. Please stand by.]

I am being slowly driven insane by a website I'm working on, for which the client wants to create a large searchable online database. All the satisfying tasks of designing and developing the pages -- which involve at least a measure of irresponsible creativity -- have come and gone. The agonizing work of programming the search functions and getting the database working is thickening the air around me into the consistency of flesh. I can no longer easily distinguish between my life and my software.

On Thursday night I had my last probationary class before I start my regular duty nights at the rescue squad. It was a pretty cursory session, but the high point was that I was issued my new uniform. If you've never held a job that involves wearing a uniform, I may have some difficulty explaining how an otherwise-sensible person can think that it's about the coolest thing in the world. Those official-looking patches on either arm come equipped with heavy social conditioning. While it can't compete with wearing an officially-sanctioned gun on your hip, the rescue squad uniform feels powerful.

As I tried on my new duds with fellow probationary member Steve, he commented that I looked like a whole new man. To some extent, I was: a freshly born fusion of myself and my allegiance to this new role. Or perhaps, I had subverted my individual identity into a regimented group, epitomized by my trading my unique clothes for an anonymizing, powerful uniform. Or perhaps, I clothed a part of myself that is other wise invisible in everyday life. As Odysseus poured out blood for the dead in Hades to drink, allowing them a passing fleshiness and permitting them to talk a while, I've acquired the uniform that a surviving part of me needs to manifest itself.

My new uniform consists of a blue shirt bristling with official patches, pants that are so stiff they could be used as roofing materials, and an enormous black leather belt that looks like an overstock from the original "Star Trek." I'll need to find a pair of clunky black boots to complete the ensemble. In the mirror, I looked strange even to myself. I seemed more compact, dense. The uniform sealed off and partially obscured my personality to others. Someone who saw me getting out of the ambulance would see the EMT and not the human.

Also as part of our final class, we had to prove ourselves by carrying a 185 pound dummy around the station, up and down stairs. This task was somewhat grueling and painful, but posed no serious difficulty. My body seems to be mysteriously getting stronger, almost without any effort on my part. For the first time in my life, I can bench press my own weight. I suddenly and disturbingly find myself adding more and more weight to what I'm accustomed to lifting at the gym. It's like I've hit puberty again and have little sense of the altering capacity of my transforming tissues.

As I'd requested, I was placed on a "roving" crew, which works a different shift each week: Thursday this week, Friday night the next, and so on. This is apparently an unpopular assignment (all other crews work a fixed night and every seventh Saturday), and the Chief seemed relieved that I was interested in taking it. It's not so hard to guess why it's understaffed: the changing schedule must play havoc with social calendars and hamper one's ability to plan ahead. I'm sure it will do the same to me, but I think the variety might be worth it. Post facto, I was also a little pleased to hear that the crew was desperate for new members, because this may facilitate my interaction with my fellow crewmates. I can be somewhat retiring, even socially maladroit, when plunked down into a new group. It usually takes me about a year to feel comfortable with new people. It's my handicap,and I'm learning to live with it.

My first night shift is next Friday. It's typically a busy night, and I won't hesitate to admit that I'm nervous.

In other news, not a single reader responded to my request for photos of their asses and chins for my "Cheeks 'n' Chins Challenge" game. I admit that I wasn't surprised. On several occasions I've requested readers to send in some sort of titillating revelatory material about themselves: indulgences in the Deadly Sins, short essays about why they wanted to come to my New Years Eve party (that one I really regret) or photos of private anatomical zones. The responses were humbling. I'm sure folks perceive that I'm getting a voyeuristic thrill out of demanding personal information from them, and steer clear accordingly. I put a lot of personal information up for people to read, and tend to assume that other people will welcome turning the tables for a moment. Maybe people are reluctant to air their laundry on someone else's website; better to save that "content" for your own alter of self-worship. Or maybe not everyone really wants the same things I want.

All day long today, I kept thinking I smelled puke on my hands. No amount of scrubbing seemed to eliminate it for long. Maybe I ingested some poison that's now leeching out of me.