Note from TC...
Harold Hutchison
Nothing particularly on topic--not that you guys ever let that stop
you--but something that might be of passing interest to those who read
my books.
I should probably be dead now. I have never written anything like that
before, and in truth it feels melodramatic, since I never really felt
all that bad. But five--or was it six?--Fridays ago, I felt a little
punk. Took an a mile walk around NYC--a city I don't like very
much--and came back to the hotel feeling a little tired. (Odd, I can
usually walk all day long.) Woke up the next day, NY Times, breakfast,
TV, another boring day kicked off. But my wife comes from NYC, and I go
there to make her happy. So, another installment in the marriage
contract.
Then something rather odd happened. I was sitting in the room, and the
TV was on, probably to a news channel, and it started moving. Imagine
sitting in the dead center of a movie theater, and the stuff on the
screen starts moving left-to-right at high speed, like 20 RPM or so.
Very strange. Stranger still, I didn't feel dizzy from it. I sat down
to digest this phenomenon, and in due course, say about 90 seconds, it
stopped. How very odd, I thought, then I forgot about it. But 20
minutes later it happened again, this time for maybe 30 seconds, and
that made me think something was genuinely wrong. Maybe I should call
my friend Terry, who fixed my eyes a few years ago. Good guy, good doc,
now living in Florida. Shortly thereafter my wife called via her cell
phone. She asked how I was doing and I replied that something odd had
taken place, and I described it to her. Alex got excited. Inside of
half an hour she was back in the hotel with me and planning a trip back
to Baltimore. (She even thought about chartering a private ambulance,
but common sense broke out, and though I settled on an SUV, I still
think we would have been better off on the train, but my opinion as
overruled.) Several hours later we left the hotel and drove down. Three
to four hour trip that passed uneventfully. Every stop on the New
Jersey turnpike I thought about getting some cigarettes, but for fear
of Alex's reaction, I refrained. Ate Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips,
which I rather like, but it's a dead franchise operation. Pity. We made
it to Baltimore, where we have a condo, and then Alex dragged me to the
Johns Hopkins Hospital Emergency Room.
Alex had called ahead to a friend, named Curt. Curt is a pal, and
something of a hero to me. Pediatric Oncologist. Crummy way to earn a
living. Hell of a guy, brilliant physician/scientist. Superb doc. He
was waiting when we showed up, and I was checked into the ER for a
preliminary evaluation. The usual medical bullshit, answering the usual
questions repeatedly to different physicians who nod, hem and haw a
lot. Then they sent me off for various tests, the results of which
were unremarkable as far as I could tell. So, I was checked into the
hospital proper for observation. I was probably pretty dull to look at.
Next day the tests began in earnest. You bleed into test tubes
(fortunately the troops at Hopkins who stick you are expert, and it
doesn't hurt much) but the worst memory of this date was the MRI scan.
You lay on your back and they slide you into a large plastic tube,
about 4" from your nose while a machine looks into your body through
physics I do not understand. (I'd later hear from a doc that his
father-in-law, a Jewish chap, did this and called it the worst
experience of his entire life. This guy was a concentration-camp
survivor. He thought it worse than Bergen-Belsen. It wasn't pleasant,
but no SS guys appeared to end my tenure on earth as "unworthy of
life." What the hell. I have blue eyes.) No word ever on results. Toss
in an echocardiogram. That was when things started getting iffy.
A couple of docs came into see me, one of whom I'll call Dr. B. Dr. B
is an ordinary-looking chap, about two weeks younger than I am, I would
later learn. He looks smart, but there are a lot of people like that at
Hopkins. He told me that one of my coronary arteries was 100% blocked,
and the rest of the important ones were 90% blocked. I found myself
listening carefully to Dr. B. Those are scary numbers.
Now, by the way, back in July I had a stress test. I passed the son of
a bitch. My smoking is largely a thing of the past. I take Lipitor, and
my cholesterol numbers are, actually, pretty good. How was this
possible? I wondered. On he other hand, there was no arguing with Dr.
B. What to do? I asked. Well, Dr. B sits in the coronary surgery chair
at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, and he said he had
to crack my chest open and fix the broken parts. Not much in the way of
words to object to his proposal. Dr. B was clearly a man at the top of
his game, and this guy has the gift of inspiring great confidence in
his patients. (About the best thing a doc can do, when you think about
it.) So, I agreed. I didn't even have to sign any release forms ("If he
kills me, it's okay, and my estate won't sue the hospital..." that sort
of thing). The crazy part was that I wasn't even very scared. Sure, I
would have preferred to leave and have a drink and a smoke. but that
wasn't an option.
Meanwhile, Dr. B had talked to my wife and told her that I was "a very
sick man," but that "I think I can help him." Alex was having rather a
stressful time, but when she next saw me I didn't catch any of that.
So, I went to sleep.
You know, cigarettes are made for moments like this. They're good at
steadying you down, but nobody offered me one. Pity, but about what
you'd expect.
Next day. I met the gas-passers. Two of them, Dr. B's regular
anesthesiologist, and a resident who's learning the business. I was
scared of this. Why?
It happened down where I live. Some poor schlub was in the local
hospital for major but routine surgery--gallbladder removal, I
think--and the operation went as planned, except for one thing. the
gas-passed knocked him out with Phenobarbital, paralyzed him with
Pavulon and the surgeon started carving. But the Phenobarbital wore
off, and the patient recovered consciousness in mid-procedure. Because
of the Pavulon (a synthetic curare, a paralyzing agent) he couldn't
scream or make any noise. He couldn't even go into shock, but the
gas-passer neglected to hook up the nitrous oxide, and so he got to
experience almost the entire procedure. They say he had a severe
attitude problem in the recovery room. (Does Josef Mengele School of
Medicine come to mind? Hell of an interrogation technique, when you
think about it.) That possibility scared me, rather a lot, in fact.
Irrational? Okay, I am not a Vulcan. But I slept that night, fairly
well, I suppose.
Next day they wheeled me into the OR. You lie there, looking up at
people in green. masked so that you can't see their faces. No
comforting smiles Body language: people at the office for a day's work.
Next AM, it was time to go to work for the medical team, and my chest
was the field of battle. The OR was totally nondescript a cluttered
room with lots of lights and other stuff that you can't identify. I was
on my back, looking up at the crew, not trying to be brave (I should
have been terrified, but I was not, strangely enough, just curious). No
score card to identify the players. They made me take off my wedding
band, to which I objected, but they didn't listen to my objections. (It
turns out that they were concerned that my fingers might swell from
fluid retention, causing the finger to turn black and fall off, which
would be a black mark in their copy books. And you can't have that.)
About this time the gas-passer zapped me with some drug or other, and
then world stopped.
They told me going in that I'd have no sense at all of the passage of
time. Not even any dreams. Turns out they were right. But while I was
out of the normal universe, the senior surgical resident used the big
skin knife to slice my chest open, then to peel that back like the skin
of some fruit, then he got an electric reciprocating saw (the sort
where the blade goes up and down) and used that to slice through all of
my left-side ribs, opening the surgical field for Dr. B's skilled
hands. This is why I couldn't be a surgeon. The idea of carving some
poor bastard up with a knife puts me into auto-droop mode. But for Dr.
B it was like selecting his 5-Iron for a par-3 tee shot. Surgeons are
not like the rest of us. At least they're not like me.
So, there I was asleep while Dr. B did the skilled work, allowing his
resident to observe and ask questions, while he cut he was all the way
inside, into the pericardium, exposing my heart. Yes, cynics, I really
do have one. Even though I'm a Republican.
Oh, for those among you who wonder how someone with a 100% blockage of
an important coronary artery could be alive, be advised that every
damned day for five years I've been doing the treadmill under the
tutelage of my trainer. The exercise caused the heart to develop
"collaterals," which means little supplementary blood vessels that kept
my heart working. Dr. B said he could see them on the echo-cardiogram,
but not on visual inspection. Meanwhile, I was asleep, and the
gas-passer remembered the nitrous oxide, Gott Sei Dank. So I was still
in a parallel and quiet universe, oblivious of what to Dr. B. was just
another day at the office. You know, society depends on people like Dr.
B. in order to function. He's rather an important chap--that day he was
damned important to me. But to him, it was akin to taking out the
garbage, albeit requiring some greater skill in execution.
Some blood vessels were removed from my right leg to provide the
substitutes for vessels needing replacement on my heart. The procedure
took about four hours. What Dr. B makes per hour is probably fairly
high, but I will pay cash for that, with a smile. Double, even. What
the hell, I've given Hopkins a lot of money in the past.
I woke up of 0400 or so the next morning in what was probably the
surgical recovery room. Without a doubt the worst moment of my entire
life. I've had some bad ones, but not this bad. I figured I'd have to
recover quite a bit before I was well enough to die. The insult of such
surgery to the human body is noteworthy. I looked like an extra from
"The Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Worst of all, I had a plastic umbrella
rammed down my throat--far enough that I was certain it poked out my
other end. In fact it was about 5" long. and had probably served as an
airway for me to breathe during the procedure. I had a Foley Catheter
rammed up my penis. Thank God that was inserted while I was
unconscious. (I've had it done the other way, once, and it is not the
least bit pleasant. If I ever meet Foley, I'm going to gut-shoot him
with a .45 hogleg) So, I could urinate without thinking about it. I
also had a bunch of chest tubes stuck into my chest, busily sucking out
the thirty pounds of fluid my body had accumulated during the
procedure. Dr. B would later tell me that I had a full liter of fluid
in my right lung alone. I have no idea at all how that happened, but I
was asleep the whole time.
(I did ask them to video the procedure. The Hopkins lawyers don't allow
it. Too bad. Okay, I have a very perverse sense of curiosity. But it is
my chest we're talking about here, y'know?)
After waking up, I worked hard to go back to sleep, and I largely
succeeded. That day passed without much in the way of memory. I think
Alex showed up, and probably kissed me and did the usual good-wife
stuff. (Let it be said here that she is a superb, brilliant wife. "Lux
mea mundi" doesn't begin to state my feelings for her. I love her. All
the way. Her concern for my initial symptoms probably had the net
effect of saving my life. She's a good girl.) Every so often I'd
semi-wake up and look at the wall clock, then fade back out. There was
nothing to be gained by waking up all the way. So, I rejected what had
become a very adverse world. Somewhere along the way they yanked out my
breathing tube and one of the chest tubes. And the Foley Catheter, I
think. I may have been semiconscious for some of this, but no memories
resulted. The Hopkins troops treated me quite well. Good troops, every
one of them.
(Oh, Alex photographed me. Sure enough, I look as though I'd have to
improve in order to die. I have no memory of the flashes involved, and
on most of the prints I look unconscious. They are, in their way,
darkly funny. But it's hard for me to laugh at them.)
Soon thereafter I was wheeled into Nelson (Building) Room 677A to
continue my recovery. It had a window. (The wake-up room didn't, and I
remember it as being gray-dark. I woke up cold, covered by a blanket
and something that looked and felt like egg cartons, made of cardboard
(???), but I was too whacked out to care very much. I was now in a
motorized bed (up/down, but no sideways) and I could see what
approximated a real world outside. (East Baltimore is not Yellowstone
National Park, but I grew up about a mile east of Hopkins, and I
recognized a few landmarks from the distant past, including the
playground which I visited only once in my life, at age 4 or so. Only
went there once, but I never forgot it.
Being in 677A was not exactly pleasant. Two chest tubes sucking fluid
out of me, into a pair of boxes, though the other one and the Foley
were long gone. That limited my mobility rather badly. the head, only a
few feet away, might as well have been in Philadelphia. To urinate I
had a plastic container with an ill-fitting top, using which was a
little inconvenient, all the more so as I had to empty my bladder
fairly often. I was tempted to piss on the floor. The TV had a
half-assed cable selection. Discovery Channel was the most interesting,
but repetitive.
The food. You don't check into a hospital for the quality of the
cuisine. People came in and out, including Dr. B, whom I asked about
getting the hell out of there. He evaded the question with skill. It
would end up about a week. He also said I was recovering very well,
better than expected. (I've always been a fast healer, and this time it
mattered rather a lot.) Dr. B, in addition to being a superior
chest-cutter, is a man of considerable charm to whom his patients are
nor mere pieces of meat. Such cutters are reputed to be arrogant
fighter-jock types. Not Dr. B, who's a decent, honorable gentleman in
all respects. Suffice it to say that I owe him a beer. I owe him a beer
at the Yeomen Warders' Club at Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress,
the Tower of London, of which I am an honorary member, and is the best
place in all the world to have a pint of beer, especially if it's John
Smith beer. And unlimited access to Box 31 at Camden Yards. Turns out
that Dr. Bill is also a mediocre golfer, and when I build my house at
The Greenbrier, he'll be our first house guest. A princely gentleman in
all respects.
He does not approve of smoking. That's putting it mildly, though he
largely depends on smoking for his livelihood. He even told me that my
heart, which he held in his hands (scary thought, that!) had cigarette
burns on it. Bullshit, but cleverly stated bullshit. He's also a very
charming chap, Dr. Bill. But he never quite explained to my
satisfaction how the hell I passed my stress test in July. False sense
of security. When he told me that a major coronary artery was 100%
blocked, well, it came as a very adverse surprise. You can't trust a
stress test? What the hell, over? On the other hand, my treadmill work,
he said, undoubtedly saved my life through creating all of those
peripheral blood vessels. I suppose I remain lucky or something.
Anyway, eventually I was allowed to leave the hospital and drive to my
Baltimore condo. You are sent out in a wheelchair, lest an observer
think you are cured. I'd done the walk up & down the corridor at Nelson
enough to be certain that I could handle the four-minute basketball
court, and I was ready to pull a gun on the Hopkins staff. But it needs
to be said that they are real professionals in all respects. They took
exemplary care of me. I tried to be a good patient, undemanding as much
as possible.
The food. I was getting food from Marberg, which is supposed to be
better than average at Hopkins. If so, average" isn't quite as good as,
say, McDonalds. But I survived. I went into Hopkins weighing about 163
lbs. (Came out of surgery at 191, which means they flooded me with
fluids, for the chest tubes to suck out.) I came out at 152 or so,
looking rather like an Auschwitz survivor, with an impressive scar down
the middle of my chest. Inside my chest is held together by
stainless-steel wire. The skin is largely glued together. Super Glue, I
suppose. Initially when I coughed it felt like the end of the world.
So, I tried to avoid coughing as much as possible. Chest remains rather
sore today (11-22-06) but not too bad. A couple of Tylenol before bed
makes it go away.
in the hospital I begged for some Chardonnay. Dr. B eventually okayed
it, but the wine they got me (it said "Meridian" on the label) was not
exactly what I am accustomed to. (Stump water, as they say in
Mississippi.) What the hell, I slept fairly well in Nelson 677A.
In the back of my wife's car--she likes he BMW and says it's better
than my Mercedes Benz S-600 V-12. It isn't, not even close. I was still
alive, and on the way to my own bed.
I was under orders not to drive a car and to sit in the back, lest the
airbag open my chest incision, and give me a traumatically induced case
of dextra cardia. Would probably make the responding cops faint dead
way. I wouldn't like it much either, but I also wear my seatbelt. Three
days after that we drove home to southern Maryland. We have a large
house, but a couple of years ago, we installed an elevator. (When my
wife packs to go somewhere, she packs everything, and this is useful
for getting the baggage up and down.) Stairs were rather frightening
things for me to contemplate, and the elevator came in handy.
Well, I still have a book to finish. My new editor didn't entirely like
the submission draft of Dead or Alive, but I think I know the fixes
needed.
Looking back, I am probably rather lucky to be able to draft this
document. I was very sick, albeit without knowing it. My heart could
have stopped at any moment, and that would end my career, and also
prevent me from being daddy to my newest kid, now age 2.5, which is
rather important to me.
So, now I get to do it. She graduates from high school about the time I
contemplate turning 80. Scary thought, that.
I cannot end this without indulging in further praise for Alexandra
Maria, my wife. Her instincts were instrumental in getting me into the
Hopkins ER. She was, therefore, instrumental in keeping my ass alive.
My wife is very pretty to behold, but more importantly than that she
has a golden heart. As unpleasant as this adventure was for me, it
wasn't much fun for her, either. While I was unconscious in the table
with my chest cracked open, Alex was in a waiting room waiting, which
must have been hell, while being told every hour or so that things were
going well. (Dr. B, gentleman that he is, was pretty good at keeping
people informed, so I am told. I guess he understands that another day
at the office for him is end-of-the-world to the rest of the people
involved.) Anyway, now she's turning into Nurse Ratchet, but I have no
reason to complain. As awful as my wake-up was, it wasn't carved in
stone anywhere that I had to wake up at all.
Everybody says I'm doing very well indeed. Had a post-op meeting with
Dr. B. and he proclaims me on the way to recovery. It will take
another 4-6 weeks before I'm fully back to battery. My physical energy
isn't too bad. The mental sort comes a little harder, but I do have a
book to finish. We'll see.
We're spending Thanksgiving on Martha's Vineyard, a new family
tradition. Then back home to continue the recovery process. I am now
allowed to drive a car. Can't pick my daughter up yet (okay, I've
cheated a little on that), but I'm getting better. The process isn't
fast enough. I wish you could fast-forward through this sort of thing,
but reality doesn't permit it. Pity. Reality, however, could just as
easily have killed me in New York City. It would have come as a
considerable surprise, but I've lost some good friends to something
like that. I am not immune, though I remain lucky. And luck counts.
George Armstrong Custer was also lucky until one last day in Montana
Territory. So, you don't depend on luck, though you don't drop it when
it lands in your hand.
I'm not smoking anymore. Pity. I miss that. I might sneak one or two in
the coming months, but no more than that. Pity. I'll miss the habit.
Dr. B, however, was very positive on that.
What the hell, I've made a new friend. Dr. B is a really fine chap. His
professional skill is, shall we say, noteworthy, and he's an easy chap
to talk to. I've met worse men than he. None better, however.
And I still have a book to finish.
So, that's it for now, guys.
TC
AFTERWARD. 12-13-06
I am now two months post-op, and I am recovering nicely. Just got back
from TOYS 'R US in preparation for my newest daughter's second
Christmas. I do good Christmas, and she's a cute little beast. So, now
I get to watch her grow up. She's #5 for me. It really does get better
with age.
You'll be seeing me here in a few weeks to dodge the bullets and
spears. Have to learn a new software system. This is traumatic for Mac
drivers, but I can probably figure it out. Until then, you guys know my
e-mail address on AOL.
TC
David E. Powell
Stay safe and mend up, sir. Best to you and yours.
Chris Vail
"Harold Hutchison" <hch...@gmail.com> wrote in message
news:1166048320....@f1g2000cwa.googlegroups.com...
Tom Clancy writes:
(snip: much of the reason he sells millions of books and I don't)
> You'll be seeing me here in a few weeks to dodge the bullets and
> spears. Have to learn a new software system. This is traumatic for Mac
> drivers, but I can probably figure it out. Until then, you guys know my
> e-mail address on AOL.
Bless you TC. We are all delighted that your ticker is
still ticking. We are even glad you gave up cigarettes.
Maybe JPR can tell us in his next biography how that
struggle goes.
We can wait on the book--barely. Stay healthy and
enjoy the kid. Write again soon. We look forward
to hearing again from you, both in print and in the NG
that bears your name.
Chris
BlackBeard
Harold Hutchison wrote:
> Nothing particularly on topic--not that you guys ever let that stop
> you--but something that might be of passing interest to those who read
> my books.
Oh just great. To read this after I make the what then was meant as a
joke, ut is now a crass post comparing TC's recent output to the late
R. Ludlums...
Sheeesh, it's all in the timing...
Since I was already planning to raise a glass of good malt tonight
for Vince's (smn) father in law (RIP)
I will raise a glass to the continued speedy recovery of TC,
and one to see if the fine Islay malt can wash the flavor of my foot
from my mouth.
An afterthought, I was also in that alternate void of major surgery two
months ago. I thought I saw someone vaguely familiar in there... ;)
BB
Fred J. McCall
I guess we'll have to forgive TC for not turning out a book on the
expectations we had for his timeline. :-)
"Harold Hutchison" <hch...@gmail.com> wrote:
:
:Nothing particularly on topic--not that you guys ever let that stop
Thomas Soininen
I'm not what might qualify as a regular poster, but I've read most of
your books and follow this group enough to keep up with the chatter.
This note on your recent experiences touched close enough to home for
me to type up a few lines.
I was born with a congenital heart defect serious enough for me to
have undergone a total of three rib cage intruding surgeries. These
included patching up my interrupted aortic arch with some synthetic
material also a hole in the wall separating the lower chambers of my
heart, using a piece of gore-tex.
The tube in my aorta became too small as I recovered and grew, and
with me aged 6, a second tube was added to allow sufficient amounts of
blood to flow to keep me up and running.
Wishing a speedy recovery, and a peacful Christmas.
//Thomas Soininen
-------------------------------
Turku, Finland
http://www.med.umich.edu/cvc/mchc/parint.htm
http://www.med.umich.edu/cvc/mchc/parven.htm
Loren Pechtel
wrote:
>AFTERWARD. 12-13-06
>
>I am now two months post-op, and I am recovering nicely. Just got back
>from TOYS 'R US in preparation for my newest daughter's second
>Christmas. I do good Christmas, and she's a cute little beast. So, now
>I get to watch her grow up. She's #5 for me. It really does get better
>with age.
>
>You'll be seeing me here in a few weeks to dodge the bullets and
>spears. Have to learn a new software system. This is traumatic for Mac
>drivers, but I can probably figure it out. Until then, you guys know my
>e-mail address on AOL.
Get yourself healthy again--your books are too good to lose!
tnyde...@yahoo.fr
Je n'es jamais pleuré en lisant quelque chose, mais là, whaou !
Merde, mon francais est peut etre aussi mauvais que mon anglais,
cependant, TC, j'espère que tu resteras sur cette bonne vieille terre
encore un long moment... Je ne comprend pas pourquoi ce texte me
bouleverse autant mais les faits sont là, je suis completement en
larmes... merde, c'est pas digne d'un homme ! Je viens juste de finir
les Rainbow six... et je ne m'arreterai pas là. Alors Tom, continus
avec moi, je continue a découvrir tes oeuvres alors continue de vivre
bordel ! Soit fort, et reste en vie car même si je ne connait de toi
que tes oeuvres, tu m'es chère, pourquoi ? Je ne sais pas, peut etre
un lien qui se crée entre Auteur et Lecteur, merde, reste de ce monde,
je ne veux pas apprendre aux journaux que le célèbre auteur Tom
Clancy est décédé... J'espere que tes romans t'apporteront en tout
cas l'imortalité que tu mérites... mais pas maintenant.
Reste avec nous... faveur d'un fan qui te respecte et que ta maladie
attriste profondement...
Bizare la réaction d'un jeune homme de 17ans non ? Moi même j'ai du
mal à comprends pas... TC, tu es mon héro...
Antony.
Fred J. McCall
:I don't want to speak with my bad english so, I'll speak french...
Thereby assuring that practically nobody will understand you.
:Je n'es jamais pleuré en lisant quelque chose, mais là, whaou !
cMAD
> tnyde...@yahoo.fr wrote:
>
> :I don't want to speak with my bad english so, I'll speak french...
>
> Thereby assuring that practically nobody will understand you.
>
Notre troll-en-résidence ne comprend pas ce que vous dites, Antony,
mais ceux qui importent,
ça veut dire ceux qui s' intéressent parfois à l'opinion des autres,
vous comprennent assez bien.
Mais pourquoi citez-vous Général Cambronne si souvent?
cMAD <- Excuse my French.
kurtu...@yahoo.com
cMAD wrote:
> Fred J. McCall wrote:
> > tnyde...@yahoo.fr wrote:
> >
> > :I don't want to speak with my bad english so, I'll speak french...
> >
> > Thereby assuring that practically nobody will understand you.
> >
> Mais non!
>
> Notre troll-en-résidence ne comprend pas ce que vous dites, Antony,
> mais ceux qui importent,
> ça veut dire ceux qui s' intéressent parfois à l'opinion des autres,
> vous comprennent assez bien.
>
> Mais pourquoi citez-vous Général Cambronne si souvent?
>
> cMAD <- Excuse my French.
>
This from the man who noted that there is a fine and subtle between
being forgiveably and
unforgiveably French.
cMAD
> between
> being forgiveably and
> unforgiveably French.
http://groups.google.com/group/rec.arts.sf.tv.babylon5.moderated/msg/71888dd34856c854
Ahem. So you consider Babylon 5 a Serious Screenplay?
cMAD <- Hamburger, not a Brussels sprout!!!
Chris Vail
"Don Root" <don....@nospam.gbis.com> wrote in message
news:enbjq2553e7l5stnr...@4ax.com...
>
>
> I be never cried by reading something, but there, whaou! Shit, my
> French east can be as bad as my English, however, TC, I hope that you
> will still remain on this good old woman ground a long moment. I does
> not include/understand why this text upsets me as much but the facts
> are there, I am completely in tears. shit, it is not worthy of a man!
> I have just finished Rainbow six. and I will not stop there. Then Tom,
> continuous with me, I continue has to discover your works then
> continues to live brothel! That is to say extremely, and remains in
> life because even if I connait of you only your works, you are
> expensive to me, why? I do not know, can be a bond which is created
> between Auteur and Reader, shit, remain of this world, I do not want
> to learn with the newspapers that author Tom Clancy celebrates it is
> deceased. I hope that your novels will bring the imortality in any
> case to you that you merits. but not now. Remain with us. favour of a
> fan who respects you and whom your disease saddens deeply. Bizare
> reaction of a young man of 17ans not? Me even I have evil with do not
> include/understand. TC, you are my héro.
<insert obligatory French joke>
His English isn't so bad.
Chirs <--mine, on the other hand...
kurtu...@yahoo.com
cMAD wrote:
> Ahem. So you consider Babylon 5 a Serious Screenplay?
>
>
looking
forward to the DVD coming out soon.
Kurt (However I am VERY concerned about plans to "update" the Prisoner)
Ullman
Paul Gordon
wrote:
What DVD are you refering to?
I've had all five seasons of B5 for some time now.
Also DVD's of the B5 movies, and even its' spawned successor "Crusade".
Is there something new here scheduled to come out?
Thanks.
Paul Gordon (gor...@airmail.net)
"When faced with a problem you do not understand,
do any part of it you DO understand; then look at it again."
(Robert A. Heinlein - "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress")
kurtu...@yahoo.com
Paul Gordon wrote:
> On 14 Jan 2007 18:32:57 -0800, "kurtu...@yahoo.com" <kurtu...@yahoo.com>
> wrote:
>
> >
> >cMAD wrote:
> >> Ahem. So you consider Babylon 5 a Serious Screenplay?
> >>
> >>
> > No, I consider b5 Five years of serious screenplays and I am
> >looking
> >forward to the DVD coming out soon.
> >
> >Kurt (However I am VERY concerned about plans to "update" the Prisoner)
> >Ullman
>
> What DVD are you refering to?
There are a series of direct-to-DVD shows coming out. Principal
photography has been completed and JMS
is in post production. Here is the URL to the Lurker's Guide to B-5
about the project.
Fred J. McCall
:Fred J. McCall wrote:
:> tnyde...@yahoo.fr wrote:
:>
:> :I don't want to speak with my bad english so, I'll speak french...
:>
:> Thereby assuring that practically nobody will understand you.
:
:Mais non!
So far, I'm still right. "Practically nobody"... :-)
--
"Well, I met a girl in West Hollywood. I ain't naming names.
She really worked me over good. She was just like Jesse James.
She really worked me over good. She was a credit to her gender.
She put me through some changes, Lord.
Sort of like a Waring blender."
-- Warren Zevon, "Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me"
Fred J. McCall
:
:His English isn't so bad.
His English is much better than practically everyone's French that was
likely to read his article. Hence my remark...
--
"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable
man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore,
all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
--George Bernard Shaw
tnyde...@yahoo.fr
Thank you,
But you know, I just want you to know that although you can't
understand what I've wrote, when I wrote it it was for express my
feelings when I read the text and... I'm french so... the better I can
wrote is in french... This message was a feeling more than a message
in fact...
I hope you'll understand what I mean this time...
Fred J. McCall
Quite clear. As I said, your English is better than the French most
folks here could muster (certainly better than mine, which is pretty
much non-existent).
I don't know if anyone has said it yet or not, but let me offer the
alt.books.tom-clancy Memorial Greeting...
... Welcome to the Jungle...
--
"Rule Number One for Slayers - Don't die."
-- Buffy, the Vampire Slayer