I Blew Myself up in 2 seconds: The Skin Graft

When last we met I had just had my burns scraped down and was finally brought to my room, a lovely private space in the Westchester Burn Unit. I had a TV and an adjustable bed. I also was given a regimen of pain medication every 4 hours. I don't remember what they gave me but certain injections had a much more profound impact than did others. They would sometimes tell me what they were giving me and other times they just lit me up. But then sometimes they only gave me pills and I couldn't figure out why. I know at one point I inquired about the meds but I was so spaced out by then I couldn't remember one conversation from the next.

What I do remember quite clearly was that the Unit was completely devoid of life.

The windows are kept closed and the air is kept sterile in an attempt to keep the burns from getting infected. At night the temperature vaccilates between hot and cold and this torture is enhanced by my inability to regulate body temperature due to the damage to my sweat glands.

For two days I lie back in a constant stupor as Television shows all blend in to one running commentary that I can only describe by the image in my mind of a young adult sinking to his death in polluted quicksand while hysterically grabbing at Pizza Hut Bread sticks? (A reasonable metaphor for America's public life I think).

Through the haze of pain medication I feel a continuous, searing sensation around and over my bandaged arms, torso and chest.

Finally, I am prepared for surgery.

The Doctors have told me they won't know whether they will be grafting skin until they get me under the knife. Then, they will cut into my skin, layer by layer. If the skin does not bleed at the first layer or two, it is a sure sign that the skin is dead and new skin must be grafted. If they graft, they will use something akin to a cheese slicer and take off a thin layer of skin the whole circumference of the right leg from the knee up to the top of the thigh. This skin will be put through a mesh system that flattens it to so as to allow it to cover three times as much area. The skin will then be put as one large piece over the entire torso/chest area, and other pieces over the relevant portions of the arms, and then stapled in place.

Needless to say, I didn't bleed and therefore had the skin graft placed from my waist to just below my nipples. Somehow, my belly-button did not get burned and somehow my nipples did not get burned (thank God for small miracles!).

When I awake from surgery I no longer feel the painful burning sensation under my bandages! I am quite amazed. The staples hurt a bit, but aside from that I feel very little in the way of burn pain. Apparently, the skin graft was a success!!! But remember that saying about taking from Peter to pay Paul.

I begin to sense a new and unusual pain. It takes me a minute to locate the source. I feel around below the sheets and then on my right leg I notice a bandage surrounding my knee and thigh. Then I remember that my leg is where they were going to graft the skin from. This is a wholey new pain that I have only felt on a tiny level once when I scraped my knuckle. But now the scrape covers the entire area of my right leg. The top layer of my right leg is gone. When I try to stand up I can only let out a moan and cry that becomes a muffled scream as I bite down on the bed sheet I am holding.

But the fact that my leg feels this painful isn't what worries me. What really worries me is when I find out that the leg has to be washed daily. How in the hell can you possibly put anything on this wound, I wonder? The feel of a slight wind blowing over it, let alone water and soap, makes me want to puke. Well, you can do it yourself or they'll do it for you. Either way it's going to be the worst pain I've ever felt, next to the emotional humiliation of crying, nude, in front of a nurse every time she has to wash me.

"it will go away eventually," she keeps telling me.

xxx

What They Did to Pat Tillman

As we reach another grievous anniversary in the disastrous War that is America in Iraq, we relive yet another chapter in this sinister act.

June is the month when, 7 years ago, the truth began to surface about fratricide killing of Spc. Pat Tillman.

First, the facts:

Pat Tillman's story is well documented, but basically Pat Tillman was a 24 year old Safety for the Arizona Cardinals in 2002. He was offered a 3.6 million dollar contract that year which he turned down in order to volunteer with the Army. He became an Army Ranger and was deployed in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Pat Tillman was killed in Afghanistan on April 22, 2004. On May 7, 2004 the Army’s official casualty report stated that Tillman was killed by “enemy forces” and “died in a medical treatment facility.” This was later proved to be a lie which the military was aware of. Tillman's body armor, fatigues, weaponry, and all other traces of evidence were burned in the following days. And, another little known fact, although he fought and served out of a sense of duty and loyalty, Pat Tillman was seriously questioning the War. He was scheduled to meet with Anti-war activist Noam Chomsky after his deployment ended.

When Pat Tillman first entered the Army he was hailed by The War's main supporters as a hero. Sports telecasters around the country spoke of the bravery and courage of this man who was walking away from millions to serve his country.Conservative War Hawk mouthpieces like Ann Coulter described Tillman as "an American original--virtuous, pure and masculine like only an American male can be." Donald Rumsfeld sent him a letter calling him a hero and the President used the Tillman name often to garner support for the War. And, immediately following Tillman's death the military and the the Bush Government said that Tillman was killed by the enemy while heroically leading a charge against them. They initially tried to use the death of "Pat Tillman" as Propaganda. The only problem was that they lied.

In reality, Pat Tillman was killed by three bullets to the head which came from someone within his platoon who fired during an ambush by Afghan rebels. The Military knew of this the day after the killing but rather than tell the truth, they hid the facts, tried to cover up the story and have ever since reversed course and attacked Pat Tillman's family accusing them of being "disgruntled atheists" simply because they want to know tthe truth about how their son died.

The best proof that our Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq are wrong is that our Government and Military have had to lie in order to "make" heroes for us. The stories of Pat Tillman and Jessica Lynch are a testament to that.

To be sure Pat Tillman is a hero. He is a hero because he stood for what he believed even when his beliefs changed. He not only courageously walked away from millions of dollars to serve his country but he also questioned the War he was fighting while being in the middle of it.

Supposedly, in the real "friendly fire" incident that resulted in Tillman's death, Tillman was mistakenly shot from 70 yards away amidst smoke and chaos.

How does someone who fires from 70 yards away amidst smoke, fighting and the chaos of battle manage to put 3 bullets into his buddy's forehead?

Just a lucky shot?

Who Will Speak for the Trees?

If you remember Dr. Seuss's book, The Lorax, then you remember that woeful, pleading of the mossy, bossy little-man, "Who will speak for the trees?"

For the longest time I thought of this story in the context of humans doing something for nature. Someone would ultimately "speak for the trees" because it was a "good" and "right" thing to do. However, I have recently learned, first hand, that there is a lot more to it.

Last Summer I had 25 trees cut down on five acres of land that surround my house. I was a little anxious about it. I was admittedly worried about causing some kind of environmental problem. Basically, I felt guilty. But somehow losing 25 trees out of about 200+ just didn't seem unreasonable. Besides, I was getting a much needed $1200 infusion of cash.

After the tees were cut, the first thing I noticed was how ugly it looked. It was like a bomb had been dropped. I knew that at some point other trees, plants and vegetation would grow, but to look at it I felt a great loss of something beautiful. I just tried not to look at the area too often and wanted to quickly get through the Summer, Fall and Winter so new growth would cover the "wound."

This Spring I was very busy planting my garden and plants around my house and I was happy to see growth begin to cover the areas where the trees had been cut. But then I began to notice something very different from previous years. One of the things I have always loved about where I live is that I wake up in the morning to the sounds of what feels like hundreds of different bird songs. But this Spring I heard relatively few birds, mostly right up around the house. The deep and vast sound of birds' songs echoing throughout the woods was gone. Nearly every morning now I wake up missing the greatness of that sense of life and awesomeness of bird song.

It has become clear to me that the concentrated removal of those 25 trees has greatly reduced my quality of life and my sense of the largeness of the world around me. I miss the diversity of birds and the feeling like there were hundreds of them. It's as if a city of life is gone. It makes me understand even more how the mass-destruction of the environment must be adversely impacting the senses of human beings: making us lonely. I wish I could give the $1200 back because it in no way has an equal value to what I've lost.

I'm not sure what the trees would say if they could speak words. They'd probably say something like, "You'll miss us and the birds when we're gone." And now I know that the real question is, "Who will listen?"

I blew Myself up in 2 seconds: The Scraping!

After a little bit of a break I will now return you to the ongoing saga that is my personal story of a burn victim.

If you will recall, I had blown myself up in 2 seconds...and lay on the ground for 20 minutes awaiting 911. The first responders came and loaded me on to an ambulance and then a helicopterand I was flown to the Westchester Medical Center Burn Unit.

They wheeled me into a holding area that was kind of like a basement waiting room. They propped the stretcher up and I sat and waited. By this point I was pretty drugged-up and still in shock so I didn't feel much except a burning sensation that gnawed at my arms, stomach and the left side of my face. The Doctor came in followed by two graduate interns. We did the usual hospital formalities:

"How are you feeling on a scale of one to ten?"
"Oh, I'd say about a 9," - (it's trulu only a 7 but I REALLY want more morphine!).
"OK," says the Doc, "We can take care of that for you...now, how did this happen?"

I explain the whole thing and I've already altered the story slightly so I don't sound so stupid. Then the Doc starts asking the interns what they think of the burns. They point to my stomach and use terminology that I don't quite understand. I interrupt and would like to know if they will have to graft any skin? I am terrified of the way grafted skin will look. They say they're not sure and tell me I have to wait two days for the "burns to set." But, really, they know they are going to be grafting skin. The Docs' leave.

Along comes the Hospital minister. He's a strange older man who asks me if I need anything. I tell him that I would like a bible. He says he'll see what he can do. He leaves. He comes back 10 minutes later and says that he can't find a bible. I say "OK" and he leaves again... (hmmmm...I wonder why religion is dying?).

There's a lot going on down here. In the next room there are about 10 people, three cops, two orderlies, two nurses, two EMT's and someone else, arguing with a lady who is clearly out of her mind. They want to give her a shot, she goes back and forth between saying she'll let them give it and then pulling away when they try. The cop tells her a dozen times he'll have to restrain her if she doesn't take the shot. Where the hell am I? It's like something out of a Kafka novel. My training in behavior kicks in and I really want to yell out that the cop needs to just tell her once that he'll restrain her and then do it or else she'll never comply because she's getting to much attention AND avoiding the shot.

Finally, two nurses come in, a young man and young woman, and introduce themselves. They are very nice and seem like they really enjoy their job. They make me feel very comfortable. They tell me they have to "clean me up" and then they will take me to my room. I'm thinking I'd like to be cleaned up.

They wheel me on the stretcher down the hall and transfer me to a HUGE metal stretcher with plastic on it. I'm thinking that this stretcher is awfully large. I can lay on it with my arms and legs sprawled completely out. I'm wondering why I need such a large stretcher and why there is plastic on it?

They then wheel me into what I can only describe as something that looks like a Jiffy Lube garage...complete with nozzles and hoses hanging above the "bay" they wheel me into. Then they explain:

"This is probably the worst part"- (I would find out later that though this part sucked, it was not the worst part)-
"We have to scrub the wounds with a brush, water and soap."

Did she just say they were going to "scrub" me where I am burned?
Holy Shit.
I can't really get my head around that...
...meanwhile, they assure me I can have as much pain medication as I need "But," they add on, "no amount of medication will completely take the pain away."

I really don't remember the scrubbing that well. I was in a lot of pain and screaming to be sure. It was the kind of pain that goes beyond tears. The tears come as a natural part of what your body does but you're not sad or even scared. It's just that sensation is such a weird combination "searing" and "hot" that you can only scream. I imagine that this is what being stabbed with a knife is like.

As I am screaming I start to wonder what kinds of things different people who have been in this very room have screamed before. The nurses keep telling me I can scream and call them names if I want to. I found it interesting that they said I could call them names. I had no interest in that and it didn't seem to me that doing that would make me feel better. I kept screaming "Oh Fuck," and "Motherfucker." But it wasn't like I blamed them. They gave me assurances every few seconds, "You're OK," "You're doing great," "Almost done," "I'm sorry, I know it hurts," etc..

They finished up and then they immediately wrapped me in towels. I was lifted into a wheelchair and then they dressed me in gauze bandages from my waist to my shoulders and on my arms. Then we were off to my new room...a single.

XXX
Next time: Read about the worst pain you will ever have!

Ronald Reagan's Biggest Blunder

You know how every time the United States intervenes in another country's affairs we hear the media's popular refrain, "Only time will tell if this was the right move." Well I consistently hear this refrain from the Conservative shock jocks as they fall over themselves trying to revise the historical reality of our failed war in Iraq. But this is a refrain we must remember because history has not been kind to the Christian Conservative Right Wing-nuts.

Remember the Reagan Doctrine? In the 1980's that was the Republican Party's foreign policy. It was basically the Domino Theory applied to the entire world. The reasoning was that if one country went "socialist" (read: "communist"), the rest of the countries in the region would follow. Moreover, by defeating just one socialist state, America would be protecting Democracy itself and the American way of life for decades to come.

The Reagan Doctrine's best salesman was Ronald Reagan himself. He would come on the TV with that stern look befitting a concerned parent and proclaim that, although the rest of us didn't realize it, fragile "Democracies" were budding all over the world and we had a duty to support them. For example, under Reagan's administration our country supported the Taliban in Afghanistan, the English in Ireland, and the white minority in South Africa. And then would come the inevitable Reagan moment. The moment when he would get that "aww shucks" kind of grin that mesmerized the public and made people forget the ultimate immorality of his policies. How could a guy that innocent be anything but completely trustworthy?

Of all Ronald Reagan's evil adversaries, Nicaragua's Daniel Ortega was the most demonized. Ortega was a leader of the Socialist revolution in 1979 Nicaragua that overthrew US sponsored dictator, Anastasio Somosa. Reagan and the Republican Party saw this as the expansion of Communist influence in Latin America. They made Nicaragua the poster child of the Cold War and were determined to defeat Ortega and the Nicaraguan Revolution in the name of protecting the fragile, budding Democracies of the region.

Make no mistake about it, Ronald Reagan could have cared less about Ortega personally or the people south of our border. What he recognized was that the ongoing battle with the so-called "Communists" of Latin America got Republicans all in a tizzy. The poor Latinos south of the border were people they could pray for. If that didn't work they could fantasize about it being God's will that we invade. In other words, Nicaraugua was good for political business because it motivated the Republican Party base (cooky as they might be). But remember that refrain, "Time will tell."

So, what does history tell us, all these years later, about the Reagan Doctrine and, for that matter, about the wisdom of the Republican Party?

In 1986 at the height of Reagan's power and a time when Republicans were resolutely applying the Reagan Doctrine to Latin America, there were 11 governments in that region friendly to the United States. Indeed, in 1990 Reagan got his wish and Daniel Ortega and the Nicaraguan Revolutionaries were voted out of power. Following Reagan Republican logic, the region should have given birth to even more "budding Democracies." However, today there are only 5 conservative governments in Latin America while there are 13 Socialist or left of center governments. And many of them are openly hostile to the United States.

Face it Reaganites, your biggest prize was your biggest blunder.

Oh yeah, did I mention that Daniel Ortega is currently President of Nicaragua?

To hell in a bucket: At least we enjoyed the ride.

The thing I find most interesting in the chaos that is the United States economy, is the steadfast certainty of Liberal and Conservative pundits about what direction the country should go in. If you lean toward the Democrats then you want to let bygones be bygones and get on with the "new" way of doing things. If you lean Conservative then you want nothing short of a new President. Pundits on both sides of the aisle provide templates for economic success which just appear to the rest of us as more of the same old blather.



While I can understand the desire to have certain questions answered: "What happened?" and "Where do we go from here?" I think we can do a little better than that. The least all of us could do is own up to two things: First, we all share blame, albeit in varying degrees, for what has happened to our economy. Secondly, let's face it, no one knows what to do or what will truly work. As the most powerful economists will tell you, no one really knows how our economy is working; not the President, not the Congress, not the SEC Chairman, not the Office of Management and Budget, not even the economists who spend their entire careers studying our economy. No one really knows how much our real debt is. No one really knows what are actual revenue is. It's a numbers game pure and simple. But this should not surprise anyone. It is what our country was built on.

Our economy has always been a seemingly strange one that has born boom and bust cycles. Recessions after the Revolution, in the 1830's, 1870's, 1890's, early 1900's, 1930's, 1970's, late 1980's into early 1990's and in 2001 have all been followed by recovery and boom bubbles. However, far from being unusual, this is a perfectly normal cycle for a nation built on con-games. We have willingly put our economy (budget) at the mercy of people who are larcenists. A con artist doesn't take advantage of you, he takes advantage of your trust, hope and optimism. Think of our country as a large fairgrounds where there are consumers, vendors and game/ride owners. If you can understand the world of the carny, you can begin to understand our economy. Sadly, few people who took advantage of us broke the law. We all just chose to ignore the possible consequences of our actions because we were having too much "fun at the fair."

At the end of the day it does start with each individual. While there are many good people at all levels of our society, knowing that Capitalism has become the equivalent of a huge binge party where a few greedy people have set up shop to take advantage of us is the first step to economic "recovery." Simply put, you (we) can no longer afford to be trusting. Follow the basic principles of managing yourself and we will ultimately make this country better than what it has been.

I Blew Myself Up: It's been one year

I am taking a break from the narrative story of my accident to give this one year anniversary update.

I blew myself up in two seconds on March 23rd 2008. It was a very strange time for me and I had spent the previous 365 days struggling with most aspects of my life. Several times that year I was on the verge of nervous breakdowns. I had challenges making decisions and healthy choices. I was challenged by my ego and my lust for over stimulation. I was challenged by my perceptions of relationships and friendships and by my sense of self-worth.

Though I made many mistakes, I made 3 very good decisions that year. One was to sever an intimate relationship with a girlfriend who deserved more than I could offer at that time. Another decision was to sever a friendship with  my band-mate of 15 years. The third decision was to leave an upwardly mobile job in order to simplify my life and refocus on figuring out what is important to me. Once all three decisions had been made, on March 23rd, 2008, I blew myself up.

Interestingly enough, in the Hindu religion (though I am not Hindu), there are 7 primary Chakras or "energy" locations on the body. Each Chakra has an associated set of motivational behaviors. The 3rd Chakra of the body is located in the naval section and corresponds to the human motivations of desire, ego, and struggle to make life better. The 4th Chakra is located in the heart section and corresponds to the human motivation to achieve balance. The fact that the bodily damage from my accident was centered from my navel to my heart (where I now have newly grafted skin) and came at a time when I was struggling with the human motivations corresponding to these Chakras is...well... interesting.

I am happy to be alive with all my faculties and organs in place. I have always had a knack for losing just enough to show me what I have. Everyone should be so lucky.

The Wind and Rain

I walk through the valley of the Thunder Gods
near the foothills of the Catskills
Oh don't you know that I made my lodge
on the banks of the Catskill Creek.

Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
I wash my soul in the wind and the rain
Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
turn, turn, turn to the wind and the rain

I'm walking on the path for I don't know how
and I smudge my flesh with a sage stick
I wade into the fire up at Harry Brown's farm
and then I pray to the wind and the rain

Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
I wash my soul in the wind and the rain
Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
turn, turn, turn to the wind and the rain

The unbearable lightness
of being just who you are
And we're falling through darkness
dancing under the night stars

Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
I wash my soul in the wind and the rain
Whoa ho, the wind and the rain
turn, turn, turn to the wind and the rain

Oh my friend if only you knew
the things that I wanted for though and thee
The time for us has come and gone
given to the wind and the rain

I Blew Myself Up In 2 Seconds: Holy Helicopters

We reach the Freehold airport in 10 minutes. Meanwhile I am injected with some sort of pain medication which, like a rolling pin on dough, kneads out my pins and needles. I am still throbbing and burning but now it is acceptable. The pain and I will live together as long as the medication maintains it's current approach with me.

I am lifted out of the Ambulance. I keep my eyes closed because I can see trails and surreal designs under my eyelids from a combination of the sun, the juice and the spinning of the helicopter blades. And then I am hoisted into the helicopter and it prepares to depart.

This sucks. I'm in a helicopter and I can't see out any windows. I am strapped thoroughly into the "stretcher of life" or whatever it's called. The EMT on the copter, true to policy, asks for insurance information.

"I'll tell you if you give me some more medication."

"I can't give you more medication until you tell me."

"What if I don't have any insurance."

"Then you have two choices. You can suffer or we can throw you out the door."

I trade my insurance information for another fix as the EMT's, apparently not having much to do, start talking about something irrelevant to me. This really pisses me off as I have just blown myself up and would like a little more sympathy.

We land at Westchester Medical Center and I am rolled into what looks like a large airplane hanger. I wonder about my job.

(In the next episode, learn about the Hospital Minister and my mother's first reaction to seeing me).

Revolting Thoughts

1. Any revolt must take into consideration trucks and trains. Buy a CB and learn the lingo. 

2. The western Left has always made a terrible mistake by assuming that you need to model yourself after a diversity of people that may be very unlike you. Not correct. You must be who you are to the best and learn whatever you can about others, shedding your own baggage and helping them shed theirs.

3. Know the terrain around you.

4. There is no need to break any law for immoral reasons. Any law that should be broken MUST be broken because it is the right thing and moral. Poor economic conditions will only continue to make certain current legal obligations immoral.

Morning Dew

It was late in the evening and the people were tired, nearly exhausted. And then came the sound. Can you imagine the roar of the spectators in the Coliseum, Rome, 500BC? This was the modern equivalent. And the familiarity of this particular sound, low to high, pushing away all thoughts except one. And this one thought was unique in everyone who heard It and yet It joined them.

The applause. It was steeped in the light fog of dawn which began to open on the wide expanse of daylight across the land. The people applauded not for American Idols but for the gift of something new: Hope, amidst the culture of cynicism. Out of the thunderous applause came a spiraling and winding down of human emotion as the people settled into their thought. A light timber echoed gently off the air and you noticed the human next to you subtly swaying to the sound. It was nearly silent except for that and the interval hush of jingling bells and whispers of air caused by human movement.

"Walk me out in the morning dew my honey."
"Walk me out in the morning dew today."
"I cannot walk you out in the morning dew my honey."
"I cannot walk you out in the morning dew today."

And there, in the Coliseum, everyone met. The people knew that they were safe. These moments were saved. They could never be removed and they brought everything and everyone closer to the time when it wouldn't matter anyway.

A woman touched me gently on the shoulder and then moved on.
Somewhere a young man moaned.
Somewhere a baby cried.

Revolting Thoughts 2-20-2009

1. Those who are losing their homes through no fault of their own (laid-off and/or fraudulently misled about mortgage terms) have a right to defend their homes...take the last mortgage payment and buy a shotgun. Explain your reasoning for defending your home. Eventually, the police will not have the will to arrest you and, instead, they will turn on the banks.

2. If you have more than 1 acre of property, give the rest away or sell for a reasonable price to like-minded folks who are in need. Now you have more people to defend your combined interest and you have done much to alleviate the country from the unreasonable dynamics that catalyzed the recent chain of economic events.

3. The first step in revolutionary change is preparing your "thoughts."

4. The second step in revolutionary change is aligning positive action with your thoughts.

5. The third step in revolutionary change is knowing "when" and having some idea of "how" to land the sucker.

6. The last step in revolutionary change is happiness. If there is no happiness then you haven't changed anything.

Exploiting the Final Frontier

Language is dead.

Our writing and use of words grows smaller and more efficient with each new technological advance. We really don't need our words anymore so we should stop encouraging our toddlers to "use your words." Instead, we should teach them to "use your gadget." 

There is only one frontier left that has not been exploited: and those are our Thoughts. Don't worry, that will happen.

How do you get on the cutting edge of the "deadness" of something? How do you make profit when there is nothing left to mine?

One day I will send my latest manuscript: a single blank piece of paper--  something nice of course, perhaps 100% cotton, vanilla-almond shaded--  to the newest, most fashionable, up-and-coming book publisher. Upon receipt of the envelope, a confused clerk will send the page on for review. The agent will look at the page and their stomach will flip.

"Ohhh... mhy... Gawwd!

She will immediately pick up the phone and call her  publisher in. Excited, he will come running into her office asking what has happened.

"Look at this! Look at this! Can you fucking believe it!"

Both will take turns holding the blank page, turning it over, examining it, considering the possibilities.

"I can't believe this!" says the publisher.

"It says Soooooo much by saying so little! In fact, it says everything by saying nothing. It's as concrete as they come. Like a plain, white, turtleneck! WE MUST SIGN THIS AUTHOR!"

Thus will begin the exploitation of the last frontier.

I Blew Myself Up In 2 Seconds: Shrinkage

While I was outside on the ground the air was cool, probably 50 degrees, and the burns only hurt at about a 9 on a scale of 10. Once I was in the ambulance the pain level went up to about 12 on a scale of 10.

The ambulance begins to pull out of my driveway. The actions of the EMT's- two men and one woman- are giving me a sensory overload. One of them is cutting my pants off (' do I have clean underwear on?'), one is on the phone asking the local hospital if they should take me to Albany or have me airlifted to Westchester, the third is trying to figure out which pain medication to give me. Amid the action my entire physical being throbs with pins and needles and I continue a meditative groaning.

For just a split second I make a feeble attempt to find some humor in all of this. In fact, I try to think of some wise-ass comment to make to the EMT's. Then I realize that at this moment there really is nothing funny, and my mind returns twice as clear to the pain. While my pants and long-underwear are cut off I can only muse about "shrinkage."

The EMT who was on the phone hangs up and directs the ambulance driver to take us to the Freehold Airfield. Finally I feel lucky. We couldn't be farther out in the boonies and this little village actually has an airfield! But then again if they are airlifting me that means I must be in pretty bad shape.

The one and only thing that brings me comfort in this 10-minute ride to the Freehold airfield- is this chain of events:

The female EMT says, "Your doing good," and in spite of my current state something in me responds to her voice. I manage to look at her and I recognize that no matter what pain or what situation a person might be in, the soothing power of a woman is remarkable. And the fact that I can have this thought at this moment is remarkable.

I immediately feel guilty and try to apologize to the EMT's. I'm not sure what for. I probably just want more sympathy. Typical male.

Revolting Thoughts 2-5-09

1. We need a way to get whistle-blowers from all walks of life (cops, firemen, politicians, businessmen, etc) to give us information that we can use to revolt.

2. Any revolt necessarily includes gaining control of air-space and Air-Force-1.

3.  Children are not the problem. It's the adults we need to cure.

A Tale of Two Yippies

With the recent election of Barack Obama, a colleague and I were discussing the history of the 1950's and 1960'e era Civil Rights Movement. While my friend was quick to heave praise on the CRM she was rather apologetic about the cultural changes of that time. I found myself in what has now become an akwardly familiar position: defending the legacy of the 1960's to the obvious dismay of an activist from that period.

When I pushed her to explain why she felt such gall about it, she pointed to the example of Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. "One killed himself and the other sold-out." She said, "That kind of sums it up." This kind of reaction, although not new to me, did cause me to ponder the very intriguing tale of these two Yippies.

Abbie Hoffman, in spite of ego and chauvenism, will always remain a hero to me. I read his book, Soon To Be A Major Motion Picture when I was a 16 year-old high school dropout. I wasn't infatuated with his writing just because he spoke out against authority figures. He had an ideology and a clearly defined belief in the power of young people to bring positive change to our country. It was the first time I'd ever heard an adult say that someone like me was important and relevant. Plain and simple, he gave me hope. It was at that point I began to learn about the powerful passion of the 1960's era and different media, methods and strategies of the time- including the loveable antics of the YIPPIES.

I never really knew what had become of Jerry Rubin. I'd read his book, Growing Up at Thirty-Seven, in which he painfully describes how the streets he once loved now seemed to have nothing for him; how he felt as politically confused "now" as he was politically sure "then." I recalled feeling disturbed by this book and fearful of it's meaning. In many ways Jerry's coming of age represented mother's terrible curse: "When you get older you'll change." Change in and of itself wasn't a bad thing. The real question was "what did you become?"

I knew that Abbie Hoffman continued to speak and fight for a host of ideals that helped to loosen society's often oppressive shackles. The day Jerry Rubin died I was frantic to hear what the "world" made of this man. I watched TV and listened to the radio all night. There were hours and hours of the typical collage of pointless and irrelevant nostalgia pieces. "Jerry Rubin's last radical act: J-walking." and "Jerry Rubin, the Yippie turned Yuppie." "Was Rubin a sell-out?" "Jerry Rubin proved the Sixities didn't work." "Jerry Rubin, clown."

I fell asleep and awoke with a brain-numbed, dumb-media, hangover. Blury-eyed, I rolled over and tuned-in to what felt like the last bastion of free-expression: the Howard Stern show. Please, Howard, save me!

Caller after caller made their appeals, "Yes, Howard. I don't think Jerry Rubin is worthy of talking about. You can't compare him and Abbie Hoffman. He sold-out while the rest of us kept fighting for change." The next caller, "I think Jerry Rubin should have been shot for what he did during the Vietnam War. Hoffman too. They were both criminals!" Call after call it was the same thing: bickering and petty statements dripping with some kind of dysfunctional passion. Proudly, Howard told them all to "shut-up and go to hell." He explained, in usual Stern-fashion, that both Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were great people who fought for free-speech.

As I thought about the morning's social commentary and that of the previous night, what I found myself sensing was an underlying passion-- a pleading really-- behind every cheap media spot and comment. No matter what people felt, no matter what the story angle was, it became clear that the message was delivered with a desire to be proven "right!" As if the way that anyone listening made up their mind about Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin was so important that it would determine not only their own personal fate, but, indeed, the fate of our Democracy. It occurred to me how these two long-haired freaks, their lives and their deaths, seemed to reflect something back to America about her collective Id and Ego.

Stern went on to talk about what Jerry Rubin was doing when he died. He explained that Rubin had hooked-up with former Black-Panther, Bobby Seale, and they were organizing gang members to go door-to-door in the Oakland ghetto selling Bobby Seale's new BBQ cookbook.

It was about this time, eyes closed, radio in the background, slipping into a zen-like state of peace, that a knowing smile came to my lips and a chuckle bubbled up from my gut:

Think about it for a minute. Gang members going door-to-door in the ghetto selling cookbooks, making an honest buck rather than shooting each other or selling drugs. Now if that doesn't sound a lot like a Yippie plot to undermine the government, I don't know what does!

I Blew Myself Up In 2 Seconds- It's Bad

Finally, the ambulance arrives. several EMT's jump out like a SWAT team. The State cops try to look like they were doing something important and then slowly dissolve into the background.

The main EMTbarks out orders to his helpers:

"I'm going to need a sheet, oxygen and scissors...get the scissors ready! Get those boots off him!"

He asks me my name and then says,

"Well Randy, I'm going to level with you. It's bad."

My mind tries to comprehend what that means. What is bad? My melted wrist? My white, and now hairless, stomach? My Face (which I can't see)? For a few seconds I don't feel the pain because I want to know what he means by "bad."

"You've got third degree burns over about 18% of your body."

I try to do some math and can't. The pain flushes back over my stomach, arms and face. I try to speak but can only moan. This really sucks because I want to ask questions and I can't get the words out before he give me another wave of information.

"We're going to get you to the hospital. OK? How do you feel?"

I try to lean up a little and I ask how bad my face is. He takes pause and measures my face with a critical look.

"Your face isn't that bad...looks to be just a first degree. Did you get any flames or fuel in your mouth or eyes?"

He sticks a tongue depressor down my throat.

Meanwhile, a male and female EMT take my shoes off and cut off my socks. I wonder if I'm wearing clean underwear. I begin to realize that this will not be a quick ride to the hospital, ice-cream, and then release home with pain-killers. I start to wonder if I can avoid having a skin-graft.

The EMT's and police lift me onto the sheet and then lift me into the Ambulance. The ambulance is warm and this makes my skin BURN like hell. I fall into a deeper wave of pain as the ambulance pulls out.

Nitzsche

We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.

Abbie Hoffman

It's OK to yell "theater" at a crowded fire

Unfortunately, there is no "I" in "Union"

There are few things I dislike more than going to a Quaker Meeting where you are supposed to sit in silence unless moved by the Spirit only to experience the non-stop preaching of bleeding hearts. One thing, however, I dislike even more is a unionization campaign that lives up to every bad, right-wing cliché Rush Limbaugh could come up with. A Union is meant to bring workers together so that they can negotiate situations where they are being oppressed. I don't use this term lightly. I mean situations where, in the old days, workers were in danger of dying in horrible working conditions or, these days, where workers are robbed by corporations making huge profits while they are paid peanuts.

Somewhere in between meeting the very real needs of people and bringing them together has developed the pitiful practice of too-educated, paid union "organizers" who have absolutely no idea of what working people want or where unionization is needed. Enter my Local branch of the New York State Teacher's Union and their attempt to organize a handful of disgruntled employees at the school where I work.

Thus far the Union has aligned itself with employees who have sent anonymous hate emails to fellow workers, made ridiculously untrue statements and tried to pass them off as "facts," and whose organizing attempts have been so easily diffused with simple, logical arguments that it makes even the most committed radical long to stay underground. Who the Union has aligned with is only outdone by the Local's organizing ineptitude. After numerous meetings and a real opportunity to educate people, no employee can articulate what they actually want from the administration. It's almost as if Winnie The Pooh got the animals of the 100 acre Wood together and then forgot what he wanted to tell them. What, then, has surfaced in this vacuum is an Eyesore-like pessimism. Apparently no one has taken a moment to stop and ask themselves "What do I want?"

Solidarity just for unity's sake may feel good... but it won't win you a good contract.

I Blew Myself Up in 2 seconds- First Response

As I lay on the ground dazzled by the fact that I had just blown myself up in 2 seconds, I could only moan. I had not only been on fire but had been in an explosion which left my mind boggled, eyes rolling around and all...even a little tweedy bird chirping. I also had the taste of gasoline-heat-ash in my throat.

Here I will not go into what my father was doing and how he was acting while calling 911 and then my mother and then my internet-girlfriend whom I never met and, as it turned out, became something of a stalker. Those stories are for another time.

Let me tell you that for the first 3 minutes I felt very little pain. Here are my thoughts:

'My stomach looks OK, doesn't it? A bit white...too white...maybe just a short ride to the hospital, a few bandages and some ice cream and I'll be fixed right up. Boy, I hope this doesn't take long.'

With every passing minute, however, the pain is clarified. It comes in 10 second waves, expanding and contracting like a heartbeat or labor. I feel this primarily on my stomach, chest and arm. I look up at the melted flesh on my wrist.

'I wonder if I can put that skin back and smooth it out instead of leaving it all twisted like that? Oh, shit! Is this the hand I strum the guitar with or the hand with the fingers that push down on the strings? Left hand, so definitely the wrist that needs to bend over the neck of the guitar. Shit!'

The State police arrive and, having no idea what to do, start asking me insurance questions while inspecting the barrel and what was left of the gas-can. My moans get louder. The only thing that brings me any comfort is moaning. Now I know why the word "Ohm" is sacred in the Hindu religion.

"Ohhhhhh"....'that feels good'...."Ohhhhhh"...'that feels ok'...."Ohhhhhhh"....'It fucking hurts'....."Ohhhhhhhh"...'where the fuck is 911?'

I look down at my stomach

'Hmmm...my nipples are not burned but my chest is. How can that be? Hmmm. Ohhhhhhh....that hurts.'

Pins and needles attack every part of my body.

'Shouldn't I throw-up? Should I pass out? Wait. If you pass out do you die? "Ohhhhhhh"....'where the fuck are they.'

Being "Fair Weathered" Isn't Just for Liberals Anymore

I recently had an interesting argument with my cousin revolving around ex-President Bush, the War in Iraq and our new President, Barak Obama.

Here's the set-up:
My cousin is a professed Born Again "Christian," and also a self-proclaimed "Conservative" and he says as much on his Facebook site. In the vast rush of Facebook "updates," "Wall comments," "little green patches," and group "invites," that he has sent, I've never seen anything remotely resembling an anti-war statement. What I have received are statements like "God Bless The Troops" and video links on Creationism.

Now, being a rather left-of-center dude who is relishing in the current demise of neo-cons, I naturally confront him on his Christian Conservative support for Bush and the War effort. I want to stick the knife in...and deep! However, I am utterly astonished to hear him say, "When have I ever supported George Bush? When have I ever supported the War? How do you think Barak Obama got elected if not with our votes?"

And then I start to realize that, all of sudden, he's not alone! There are now millions of Christians and Conservatives saying exactly the same thing! I hear it daily on the news and in discussions and blogs, the CC's distancing themselves from the War and the Cheney/Rove agenda. My God! What a turn of events! Amazing Grace! Divine intervention-

Naw....it's just the latest evolution in politics. Apparently being fair-weathered isn't just for Liberals anymore.

3am Raisin and Spice Sugar Shot

If you're like me, you like to get up at about 3am and eat sugar. Sometimes all you have is Raisin and Spice instant oatmeal and milk. It takes time to get a bowl and heat it up and you want to get back to bed. So here's a great tip on how to cut out the middle-man:

Ingredients:
1 packet of Raisin and Spice Instant Oatmeal (substitute your own favorite flavor).
1 Carton of milk.

Recipe:
Open packet of instant oatmeal by tearing just the top off the packet. Form packet into a funnel. Lean your head back and pour a tablespoon (about one mouthful) of instant oatmeal into your mouth. Quickly open the milk and pour a tablespoon into your mouth. Begin chewing. As you chew, the oatmeal and milk mix into a delicious blend of sugar-milk.

Repeat until contents of instant oatmeal package are gone. Go back to bed. No messy bowls or silverware involved.

Revolting Thoughts

1. It is important for citizens to "think."

2. Progress comes in unexpected leaps, not organized stages (Sorry to all you Dogmatic Marxists).

3. One of the responsibilities of citizenship is to seek AND SPEAK the Truth.

Finally, Proof that God Exists

There was a boy sitting at his desk in school.
The boy, Carl, and his class were learning about the beginning of humankind.
The Teacher said:

"God created Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden which was a paradise of Heaven.
And that is where Mankind began. How do we know this is true class?"

And the class intoned, "Because it is written in the Bible."

Carl raised his hand and asked, "When we read the Bible are we reading a story?"

The teacher replied, "Yes, it is the story of Mankind told by God to his children who wrote it down."

"How do we know that the story is true?" asked Carl.

The teacher walked over to his desk, took out a yardstick and brought the thin, wood plank squarely across Carl's face with a loud "WHACK!" Knocking Carl and his chair over as the rest of the class sat in horror.

"That is how we know the story is true."

World War I 1916

With the German and Austrian regiments about to over-run them, a group of Russian soldiers showed their usual stoicism. When asked what they were going to do? With a laugh, they replied:

"But of course...We will retreat to the Urals and by the time the Germans and Austrians get there they will only be one soldier of each army left. As is tradition, the Austrian will surrender and we will shoot the German."

The Last Capitalist

The Last Capitalist 

Will Sell The Rope to 

The Revolutionary Who Hangs Him.

When All Else Fails

When every other avenue has been exhausted 

You can always count on Americans to do the right thing 

Thoughts of Peace (Kim's Song)

Thoughts of Peace, Thoughts of Praise,
They bring me closer to you these days.

Let grace pick me up,
and spin me around,
Then put me back down right where I belong.

Wake me up
To this place I have come.
To see that It's all around and It's in everyone

Like a bird that sings a song so sweet
You bring me
Thoughts of Praise and Thoughts of Peace

I blew myself up in 2 seconds

It was a brisk, beautiful Saturday morning, March 23, 2008, about 10:30 am, when I blew myself up. It certainly was not planned. I had burned leaves and other flammable items probably 20 or 30 times before. It gave me great pleasure to rake up the leaves, pick up loose pine branches and sticks that had fallen to the ground and drop them in the now rusted and burnt barrel that I bought for $10 at a farm down the road. I'd toss in the occasional cigarette butt to ignite the whole thing.

10:31:17 am - I notice the flame traveling in a line straight up to the nozzle of the plastic, 5 gallon gas can I am holding. I begin to pull the gas tank up and away from the burn-barrel.

10:31:17 am - I look at the gas can and see that the flame follows it and goes in the nozzle. I begin to say the word "Oh" (as in "Oh Shit!").

10:31:18 am - I hear a loud "pop" and see a ring of fire emanate from the gas can down and over me.

10:31:19 am - I feel a hot blast of heat searing through my arms, face and stomach.

10:31:20 am - I see flames on my sweatshirt, hands and pants. My voice is no longer mine. It belongs to some primitive part of my genes turning the word "Oh" into a hideous groan that ends on a strange high note.

10:31:20 am - I think to myself, "I'm on fire." And drop the can.

10:31:21 am - I initiate trying to pat out the flames

10:31:21 am - while turning away from the barrel

10:31:21 am - and one third gallop, one third stumble, one third fall due north.

10:31:22 am - I consider whether to stop, drop and roll or pull flaming sweatshirt off up and over my head.

10:31:22 am - Decide to pull sweatshirt off.

10:31:23 am - Initiate process of pulling sweatshirt off and second scream bubbles up from some place deep inside through my throat and out. The sound of this scream frightens me.

10:31:23 am - I run into the side of the porch about 10 feet from the barrel and bounce of going due east. Third scream emanates from within me.

10:31:24 am - Sweatshirt is up and over my head.

10:31:24 am - I throw sweatshirt to the ground and see that my pants are on fire.

10:31:25 am - I stop, drop and roll. No more flames.

10:31:26 am - I lie on my side. I hold my left arm up and see that the skin going from my wrist to my hand is twisted and curved... melted really.

10:31:27 am - I thank God I am alive.

10:31:28 am - I wonder if my penis is ok?

10:31:29 am - I use my right hand to pull the pants away from my waist.

10:31:31 am - I see that I am ok and thank God again. Then I begin to wonder about my face.

10:31:35 am - I yell to my father to call 911.

10:51 am - Paramedics arrive.