My Exclusive Interview With The Ocean

I meet the Ocean on an overcast beach near the coast of New Jersey. The Ocean is looking a bit grey on this day and greats me with a relatively loud roar as if we are old friends even though this is our first interview. The Ocean invites me to sit near some rocks and we make small talk as I get out my recorder for the interview session. I have my coffee and the Ocean seems content with water. There are few people at the shore today but I can still sense the impending crowds of summer.

Me:
Well I'd like to thank you, Ocean, for joining me today as I know you are always busy and I appreciate you giving me a few minutes. So, I guess we may as well get right to the oil issue because that is what the hot topic of the day is. Let me ask you, what your thoughts are on Brittish Petroleum now that this well has broke?

Ocean:
My view hasn't really changed at all. As you probably know I generally do not make judgments on what people do for a living and I've always tried to be a giving thing in nature. The consequences aren't mine to determine. I think BP is like any other company. Something went wrong with them somewhere or there wouldn't be a problem today.

Me:
So are you saying that what is happening in the Gulf of Mexico doesn't bother you?

Ocean:
Well of course it bothers me because it's happening to me.

Me:
You mean it's happening to one of your Gulfs.

Ocean:
No, see that's where you're wrong and I think it's part of the problem. Human's compartmentalize very easily and almost out of necessity. The primary way of handling this for most humans is to see the Gulf of Mexico as something separate from where they are physically. It makes you feel safer and less anxious in the moment. Water doesn't do that. A pebble tossed in the Indian has an impact in the Gulf of Tonkin and so on.

Me:
So what would be the equivalent for a human?

Ocean:
Well, it would be like if someone put a needle into your intestines because they wanted to extract the bile and acids that are in there. Now those materials are OK if they're contained within the intestine and can be pulled out by a contained needle. But if the needle broke and the acids and such started billowing into the rest of your body well, that stuff would start to eat away at your body and you'd probably get very sick.

Me:
It must be somewhat frustrating when you can't speak to humans and yet they have such an impact on you?

Ocean:
That's another misconception that most humans have. I really never shut up. Did you know that when there was no industry you could hear me talking from hundreds of miles away because my voice would echo through so many valleys. But now I can be heard only within a short range. But I've pretty much always been saying the same thing.

Me:
What's that?

Ocean:
Well, it's pretty simple. You just take care of me and I'll take care of you. It's that simple. Like if you just treat me ok, I'll have lots of things to give you for a very long time. Evrything you humans need, I have. And I don't mind giving it to you. But you have to play nice with me in the sandbox so-to-speak.

Me:
Do you get anything from humans, besides headaches, these days?

Ocean:
Of course. There is nothing like the exchange I have with humans on my beaches and in my water. It is a huge part of what makes me ebb and flow like I do.

Me:So can you tell us how bad this oil spill is going to be because no one seems to know.

Ocean:
All I can tell is what I think. I'm no doctor. I'm an optimist generally and I don't want to think the damage will be that great but I also know from experience that it will be a very long time before I can clean this wound. And even then, I can't control what happens.

Me:
Do you have any other advice for us?

Ocean:
Yes. Just do the next right thing and stuff will work out. For example, it's probably not "right" to buy oil and gas since these companies are so uncaring, lax and greedy. But if you can't stop buying oil and gas, you can find ways to use less of it and work toward eliminating it from your diet. When you go to bodies of water, pick up a piece of garbage and throw it away. And if you see a BP executive, or a garbage dump executive, etc. you tell them they should be ashamed for not playing nice in the sandbox. And if you can effect someone and get them to do the next right thing, then get them to do that. If people do that it will be the same as the valleys carrying my voice hundreds of miles inland. The only other choice is your death, so it should be fairly simple.

Me:
I think a lot of humans will find it hard to believe that you don't seem angry about this. I think a lot of humans believe you'd want them to go kick some BP ass.

Ocean:
That's your thing not mine. I can't tell you what your next right thing to do is. I can only do mine. I keep doing what I do with whatever you leave me with to do my job. That's all. It's that simple, Man.

I Blew Myself Up: PTSD

Interestingly enough, just prior to having blown myself up on March 23rd, 2008, I had been working with adolescent girls who have severe emotional dysregulation and, among other things, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). In fact, I was supposed to be finnishing my last week at the school in Boston when, instead, I accidentally blew myself up and now here I was, lying in a hospital after four days and a skin graft to my abdomen, chest, arms and shoulders.

While I have much empathy for people, it is based primarily in trust, not necessarily in experience and having never experienced PTSD in my adult life, I always had difficulty understanding the concept. In my capacity as a special educator, I would hear the psychologists and sometimes my students, talk about nightmares, inability to sleep, depression, etc., but I have to admit, I was pretty much just trusting that their struggle was real to them. I could not truly understand it.

My reality has sunk in a bit more now. They say I will be here at least ten days, maybe back to work in three weeks and healed in one year. It doesn't sound so unmanageable. But I have no idea what I will look like when all the bandages are gone. Will a woman ever be able to look at my bare chest without being grossed out? What about my arms and wrist? Will I be able to play guitar? Because right now, my wrist is in a lot of pain and doesn't feel like it can stretch straight.

It's approaching midnight and I'm heavily sedated. I can't really remember the last time I was fully asleep...sometime earlier in the day I think. I turn off the TV and start to nod off. A few minutes go by.

I awake with a jolt...I was almost asleep...I nod off again...I start to dream of smoke...blue smoke....after a few minutes

I awake with a jolt...I was slightly asleep...I nod off...it's a little harder this time...I'm almost asleep. After a few minutes

I feel my hand moving and I slap myself on the chest.

I awake with a jolt and a bit of pain. What the hell is going on? I turn on the TV and watch a little...I start to nod off. After a few minutes-

I awake with a jolt...

This routine continues through several doses of medication made to make me sleep, and through the next day. I tell the doctor and he has a clinical psychologist come to see me. She comes down from the psych ward and asks me what is wrong. She is a tall, blond, attractive med student with a Eastern European accent. I explain that I can't sleep, etc., etc., etc.. She states that this is normal and that once I get out of the hospital I should seek counseling. She orders me more pain medication and maybe an anti-psychotic? I am not sure.

The night comes. Every time I start to fall asleep I start to dream about fire, explosions, and smoke. I hit myself in my sleep and this wakes me up. I awake with a jolt numerous times and I start to believe I am losing my mind. I realize that I can't sleep, I'm exhausted, I'm sedated and it's just one big cycle that never ends.

I call the orderly. This big dude comes to my room.

Now I know I said earlier that the most humiliating thing was crying while naked in front of a nurse. But women are used to that. However, crying in front of a big, hulking dude definitely ranks up there in the high humility range. I'm trying to explain the madness cycle of not going to sleep to this guy. He seems to understand and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't walk out. No, he just says that I WILL fall asleep and he says he'll leave the door open and that he's right across the hall if I need anything. He says I can call him as many times as I want.

Phew............now that I know that even the big, hulking, nurse-dude even cares, I can finally fall asleep.

I Blew Myself up: Living with 1 layer of Skin

OK..here's the deal.

I came out of surgery with a thin layer of skin taken from my right leg (knee cap to hip...alll the way around) which was then put through a meshing machine to spread it out (like playdough through the playdough press) and then grafted (laid over and stapled) to my abdomen/chest, arms and a little bit on my shoulders.

I can't do the pain justice.

Doing ANYTHING with my leg other than lay down, the blood rushes to my the limb where there is one layer of skin gone. There's really nothing to compare this to.

I would lay in my bed until I had to go to the bathroom. The nurses would tell me to use the bed pan but I knew that longer I stayed off the leg, the longer it would take to heal (leg needs fresh blood flowing to it to help regeneration of cells). So I'd say screw them and feebly sit up in the bed. Then I'd anticipate the pain.

I let me leg slowly fall over the edge of the bed. The pain is really not bearable. It feels like my leg is a humongous pimple that is about to burst. I tear-up and slide off the bed hobbling on one leg. Why does the movie "Misery" come to mind as I limp out the door?

I moan all the way down the hall and quietly hum to myself- because if I don't hum, I'll cry. I guess I'm using my 'inside" voice to cry?

When I finally get to the bathroom, I sit down. Really, my bodily need to relieve myself is completely secondary to my need to manage the pain. It's like my body and my pain are two different things. The body goes to the bathroom while "I", the real "me", hums songs, counts numbers, swears, spits, goes a little crazy, until I can stand up again and hobble back down the hall to my room.



Back in my bed I feel the sweet relief of having my leg up. Besides that, I bask in the glory of having kicked the pain's ass. Well, Ok,at least I feel like I "beat" the pain. A guy has to have something to hold on to in situations like this. The fact that I'm alive isn't enough anymore. That was so "yesterday."

I blew myself up in 2 seconds: It's NOT FUNNY

I took quite a break from writing about the explosion for several months. Mainly, life has had other things in mind for me and I'm a fickle writer by nature. I go through periods of inspiration and periods of writing insomnia.

However, I also stopped writing for awhile because I wanted to seriously consider whether or not my story could be hurtful to others who are burn victims. Gone are the days when I could give two-shits about what I said or did in the name of brutal honesty. The question here is not whether I want to be honest (I am honest), but whether or not I'm writing for the right reasons.

There was another man who did exactly what I did. I read about him back this past Summer. Unfortunately, he had burns over 80% of his body while I was lucky enough to only burn about 15% of mine. I wonder is someone who has had their face burned off would read my story and feel angry or hurt because I can take such a cerebral view of what happened to me. Would I write the same, find the humor and surreality in it all if I had burned my hands, face or penis off? No, I imagine it would be different. But at the end of the day I only have my experience. I imagine, being who I am, I would probably continue to find those same characteristics regardless of the severity of the experience.

I started writing this Blog because NOWHERE could I find any support for burn-victims with medium burns like me. I know it must exist and I did find a few sites but no support groups, no blogs, etc.. No, I didn't burn my face off and my heart goes out to those folks with serious, serious burns. I can only say that no matter what a person's tradgedy, it ultimately becomes their strength.

Stay Tuned: Next time I tell about the one-time changing of all bandages and the staple that got stuck in my wrist.

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!