Your blindness is temporary; do not be alarmed



Of the many disorienting, gratifying and horrifying things people have said to me first thing on a Friday morning, one is likely to remain near the front of my memory: "You are about to experience eight to 10 seconds of blindness. Stay calm."

Several masked, gloved and capped Lasik doctors leaned over me, seemingly fascinated by my impending sightlessness. Over 28 years' worth of hospital visits, I've noticed that the more concerned you are about a procedure or exam, the larger the crowd of people surrounding the patient seems to become. Right now, I was seeing a damned battalion of laser jockeys and a sizable detachment of corneal infantrymen, fixing bayonets as they marched inexorably toward my face. In reality, there were probably about two of them.

Until a month ago, I'd worn contact lenses for years. Early this year, my left eye decided this arrangement was no longer acceptable and started turning red and swelling whenever I so much as thought about putting a lens in it. In addition to granting me a striking resemblance to Bill the Cat from the old comic strip Bloom County, it itched like hell, which made me constantly irritable and distracted. Not that that distinguished me from most other reporters these days, but I was still eager to correct things.

My optometrist knew immediately what was wrong but had no advice other than to stop wearing the contacts and see what developed. What developed was a raw spot on the bridge of my nose that hadn't been there since junior high — the last time I'd worn glasses for weeks on end — and an aura that reportedly made me "just adorable like Harry Potter" (and, for a trying several months, just as dateable). After my eye showed little improvement, I puffed up my chest and called a Reno Lasik doctor who does business with my dad.

Which was how I found myself prostrate under what looked like the bombing sight from a B-52 with a microkeratone (pronounced: a freaking eye blade) poised a millimeter from my pupil and a purple stuffed snake clutched in my hands. I gallantly refused the snake at first, but the nurse told me he was part of the procedure. Patients holding the snake were less likely to fidget or throw up their hands at unfortunate times, such as when the computer was making microscopic adjustments, she said. After brief consideration, I shelved my masculinity in favor of not vaporizing parts of my anatomy that I might need later. She smiled at me like I was just adorable and passed me Snakey without further comment.

Thanks to the world's most expensive eyedrops, I couldn't feel the blade when the doctor sliced a tiny trap door in the first eye, but I could sure tell when he went to work. Surgeons use a pressurized ring to hold your eye still while they're cutting, and if the sensation of having your whole head manipulated by the eyeball isn't precisely painful, it's far from pleasant. As he opened the filmy door, I watched one of evolution's proudest achievements progressively break down until eventually I couldn't see at all.

Of course they had prepared me for this. In fact, the blindness only lasted about six seconds followed by a minute or so of extreme blurriness. But it is an odd experience to feel your eyelid wide open and know that your eye is pointed at a face two feet away and see only darkness. At that moment in the procedure, I bet every patient has essentially the same thought: "Well. I certainly hope THAT comes back."

Thankfully, it did. After a few moments of positioning, I was directed to look through the haze at a starburst of yellow light. The actual laser is invisible, but staring at a fixed point helps the computer focus. I'd also bet that giving patients a simple task to consider helps divert them from the James Bondian event that is about to transpire.

I'll try to relate the dreaded laser phase of the procedure for those of you who have never had the privilege of having your eyes cooked in your head. Imagine staring through an incredibly dirty windshield into a powerful flashlight while the passenger burns a handful of dog hair.

About the time the smell hit me, some primitive part of my brain screamed, "This is ridiculous. THEY ARE SHINING A LASER DIRECTLY INTO YOUR EYE. We've screwed up before, but wow..." My knuckles went white around Snakey's ribs, but I held still.

All told, it took about three hours to make my vision passable and now, a month later, it's well within the range of the average person who doesn't need glasses. Within three months, I should be as close to 20/20 as heredity will allow.

Lasik is far from a miracle: I was essentially bed-ridden for several days, one eye remains noticeably weaker than the other and my night vision is still touchy. But the procedure's ability to change a basic fact of my life — that I cannot safely travel farther than the kitchen without some type of optical technology on my head — has been stunning. I recommend it to anyone who's simply tired of worrying about their eyes, or just curious about how they might smell in the microwave.

The people's business

A lot of people are unclear about what it is that I do every day. They know, of course, that there are times when I hold officials' feet to the fire, speak with stars and charge headlong into incredibly dangerous situations with no regard for my own safety or indeed anything but The Story.

And that's true. Part of the reason I got into this gig is that I get to do the whole charging thing and nobody shoots at me. But as any cop, firefighter or combat veteran will tell you, it's all about hurry up and wait, and that goes double for those of us a few lines back. I often share with you all the hurry up, which admittedly involves some gun play, loose women and dead bodies.

So I give you a taste of Carson City's Dave Morgan. He's a man whom I respect deeply; a guy who has sold his soul to journalism. If you have even an ounce of understanding of what it is to grasp and convey the people's business, he'll stun you to silence and make you ashamed of whatever pursuit you've made of your life. Even if you're a self-promoting (albeit handsome) emo jerk like me.

And still you may watch this and ask yourself: Really? Is this what it is to cover public affairs? And you'd be right. The job is 85 percent boring. Folks go to meetings; say things and do things that only occasionally matter. And yet there are those rare times when it means everything. The time comes and context is all and if you don't get what has happened over the past nine months you don't get what is happening now.

Things spontaneously combust and you can't understand the mechanism because combustion has not been your sole pursuit over the past several months. But it has been for someone, and Dave Morgan -- not Keith Olbermann, Sean Hannity or me -- is that person. Watch now the master at work and weep at his sacrifice because, shockingly, he does not appear on camera at any point.

Happily, I do. If you're checking, look stage left of the large gentleman in a white sweater and you may spot me taking notes in a brown sweatshirt. The difference between Morgan and me is that his story is done as you watch this and mine struggles on until my Friday deadline. That, and I occasionally meander into the realm of petite brunettes. Purely by accident.

City’s newest coffee shop stops Carson Street traffic

(Reno Gazette-Journal)

Related photo gallery@Rgj.com


By Matt Farley
mfarley@carsontimes.com

Weekday morning slowdowns are nothing new along South Carson Street, but the staff of Java Girls brought an entirely different meaning to the term "stopping traffic" at the coffee shop's grand opening last week.

Shortly after 10 a.m., Bernadette Kunter and Breanna Querin stood on the sidewalk near the shop, working to call attention to the new business. Kunter was dressed in a revealing devil costume and Querin wore a black bustier and matching shorts.

"I guess people are just interested in taboo things," said Querin, a 19-year-old Gardnerville resident. "Some people might not like us, but they're still talking about it."

Brake lights flared and several male motorists courted whiplash as the women danced, waved signs and pointed to the former Espresso To Go. Down the block, two men in a silver Ford Mustang made an abrupt lane change and swung into the lot.

"We had a mother and daughter from out of town drive through this morning," said Gardnerville resident Stephanie Mesler, mixing a latte while dressed as the world's earthliest angel. "They saw the outfits and were like, 'Well, we're definitely in Nevada.' But they were really cool with it."

The enthusiastic reception went exactly as planned, owner Don Emborsky said. He and his wife, Stephanie Streenan, opened the only Nevada outpost of the Washington-based coffee chain after considering a variety of businesses, he said. The couple makes no apologies for the controversial concept behind Java Girls: That coffee is best when served by attractive, friendly young women in swimwear and lingerie.

"It's a unique business model," he said. "The guy who owns it (Steve McDaniel) has already proven it in Seattle. He was getting put out of business by Starbucks, then he reopened with this idea. Now he's running right with them."

As part of the application process, the six barista-models who work at the shop had to meet with Streenan while wearing bikinis before signing on.

Hiring criteria included a good attitude and "cute, girl-next-door" appearance, Streenan said. It did not, however, focus heavily on previous food service experience, meaning the women had to take a crash course in coffeemaking before the shop could open. After training, the owners loaded their final picks into a limousine and drove them to Carson City's adult lingerie store Naughty or Nice to select their uniforms.

With winter looming a few months away, some workers intially worried about wearing bedroom attire to work, Streenan said. But the shop's powerful heater coupled with multiple espresso machines running in close quarters should prove equal to any cold snap, she said.

"In the winter, we get long-sleeved Santa jackets, " Kunter said. "I think it'll be fine."

In spite of some rumblings of disapproval, locals have greeted Java Girls with open arms, Emborsky said, noting that the Chamber of Commerce and other groups have endorsed the shop. More than 70 cars had passed through in the first hours of operation Thursday, many simply investigating the cluster of scantily clad women.

"Uh, we're here because it just seemed like a nice day to get coffee," joked Danny Esquivel, a passenger in the silver Mustang. "Anywhere but Starbucks, right?"
He jerked a thumb at the driver, Ricardo Contreras.

"Actually, I'm lying," Esquivel said. "This guy doesn't even drink coffee. I really think this place will work out."