New York’s Eye and Ear Infirmary, and the Clínica de Vulva in Mexico. The poor penis has no hospital to call its own.
† An exception is made for Dr. H. W. Bradford, who, for cosmetic purposes, transplanted a rabbit eye into the socket of a sailor who’d suffered a childhood eye injury. “The nature of the man’s calling,” wrote Bradford in the 1885 case study, “made it undesirable to use a glass eye.” I don’t know the precise occupational risks of the seafaring eyeball, but the prevalence of eye patches among pirates suggests they do exist.
Despite some clouding, the operation was deemed a moderate success. Though rabbits have larger pupils, their eyes are otherwise unnervingly similar to our own, as a Google Image search will quickly establish. I can’t recommend this activity, however, as the search results will include a photograph of a plastic-lined box captioned “Rabbit heads: no neck, no skin, with eyes. 100 grams each. Please contact me for price quotation.”
Carnage Under Fire
How do combat medics cope?
T HE CALL TO PRAYER can be heard from the Carl’s Jr. parking lot. You can hear it at the Wells Fargo drive-through and outside the offices of the San Diego County Water Authority. The attentive listener will notice that something is off. Rather than five times over the course of a day, you may hear it six or seven times in a morning. Other days it is absent. If, perplexed, you were to follow the sound, you would find yourself not at a mosque but at a spread of movie studios and sets known as Stu Segall Productions. By all means, knock on the door and have a look around.
Segall was born a Stuart, but on his movie credits and in my mind he is always and very much a Stu. * Chest hair can be seen, and some necklace in there. There are whiskers, sparse and longish, somewhere between beard and I-don’t-feel-like-shaving. He has a wife but spends more time in the company of Bob, an agreeable Rottweiler who naps on the black leather couch in his office. Segall dives in and out of careers with glee. Writing, directing, producing (most recognizably, the TV crime drama Hunter ). He owns a diner next to the studio. He doesn’t cook, but occasionally he names menu items, and you can pick them out without too much trouble—for example, the Boob (chicken breast) Sandwich.
Early in 2002, with Hollywood’s appetite for action dramas dampened by the events of 9/11, Segall began repurposing his talent for gore and violence. He founded a company, Strategic Operations, to produce loud, stressful, hyper-realistic (the coinage has been trademarked) combat simulations for training military personnel: the fog of war, in a box. Many of the trainees are corpsmen (Navy medics who deploy with Marines and SEALs)—men and women whose job may require them to perform emergency procedures while guns are going off around them and people are screaming and dying and bleeding like garden hoses. The underlying concept is “stress inoculation.” If you’re thrown into a staged ambush in Stu Segall’s Afghan village mock-up, the thinking goes, you’ll be calmer and better prepared when the real shit hits overseas. For medics, being calmer matters a lot. The fight-or-flight response is helpful if you’re fighting or taking flight but, as we’ll see, fairly catastrophic if you’re trying to stanch the flow of blood from an artery or cut an emergency airway or just generally think fast and clearly.
Forty future corpsmen for the 1st Marine Division, headquartered in nearby Camp Pendleton, are here today as part of a combat trauma management course. Over the course of two and a half days, the trainees will administer pretend emergency care to role-players, most of them Marines, in six varieties of military pandemonium, beginning with an 8:00 a.m. insurgent attack in the Afghan village.
The village, the largest of Segall’s sets, consists of two dozen ersatz mud-brick buildings, a small market, a rusting swing set,
† An exception is made for Dr. H. W. Bradford, who, for cosmetic purposes, transplanted a rabbit eye into the socket of a sailor who’d suffered a childhood eye injury. “The nature of the man’s calling,” wrote Bradford in the 1885 case study, “made it undesirable to use a glass eye.” I don’t know the precise occupational risks of the seafaring eyeball, but the prevalence of eye patches among pirates suggests they do exist.
Despite some clouding, the operation was deemed a moderate success. Though rabbits have larger pupils, their eyes are otherwise unnervingly similar to our own, as a Google Image search will quickly establish. I can’t recommend this activity, however, as the search results will include a photograph of a plastic-lined box captioned “Rabbit heads: no neck, no skin, with eyes. 100 grams each. Please contact me for price quotation.”
Carnage Under Fire
How do combat medics cope?
T HE CALL TO PRAYER can be heard from the Carl’s Jr. parking lot. You can hear it at the Wells Fargo drive-through and outside the offices of the San Diego County Water Authority. The attentive listener will notice that something is off. Rather than five times over the course of a day, you may hear it six or seven times in a morning. Other days it is absent. If, perplexed, you were to follow the sound, you would find yourself not at a mosque but at a spread of movie studios and sets known as Stu Segall Productions. By all means, knock on the door and have a look around.
Segall was born a Stuart, but on his movie credits and in my mind he is always and very much a Stu. * Chest hair can be seen, and some necklace in there. There are whiskers, sparse and longish, somewhere between beard and I-don’t-feel-like-shaving. He has a wife but spends more time in the company of Bob, an agreeable Rottweiler who naps on the black leather couch in his office. Segall dives in and out of careers with glee. Writing, directing, producing (most recognizably, the TV crime drama Hunter ). He owns a diner next to the studio. He doesn’t cook, but occasionally he names menu items, and you can pick them out without too much trouble—for example, the Boob (chicken breast) Sandwich.
Early in 2002, with Hollywood’s appetite for action dramas dampened by the events of 9/11, Segall began repurposing his talent for gore and violence. He founded a company, Strategic Operations, to produce loud, stressful, hyper-realistic (the coinage has been trademarked) combat simulations for training military personnel: the fog of war, in a box. Many of the trainees are corpsmen (Navy medics who deploy with Marines and SEALs)—men and women whose job may require them to perform emergency procedures while guns are going off around them and people are screaming and dying and bleeding like garden hoses. The underlying concept is “stress inoculation.” If you’re thrown into a staged ambush in Stu Segall’s Afghan village mock-up, the thinking goes, you’ll be calmer and better prepared when the real shit hits overseas. For medics, being calmer matters a lot. The fight-or-flight response is helpful if you’re fighting or taking flight but, as we’ll see, fairly catastrophic if you’re trying to stanch the flow of blood from an artery or cut an emergency airway or just generally think fast and clearly.
Forty future corpsmen for the 1st Marine Division, headquartered in nearby Camp Pendleton, are here today as part of a combat trauma management course. Over the course of two and a half days, the trainees will administer pretend emergency care to role-players, most of them Marines, in six varieties of military pandemonium, beginning with an 8:00 a.m. insurgent attack in the Afghan village.
The village, the largest of Segall’s sets, consists of two dozen ersatz mud-brick buildings, a small market, a rusting swing set,
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