"Freedom 'Ain't Free" and Other Contradictory Absurdities

Phew! Haven’t been here in a while. My apologies go out to the two or three regular readers I don’t have. The thing is, I have run into a problem with the blog format. This blog began as a tribute, of sorts, to the general ludicrosity of an exuberant lifestyle. However, as my intuitive roommate is quick to remind me, “Dana, you’re just not very exciting.” Never has the truth been more poignant. Thus have I been at a lack for blog-worthy material, being neither foolish and drunk enough to re-ignite myself nor, lately, hugely fond of the herbal intoxicant that fostered my seminal blog entry. I guess, at 30 years old, I just feel a little less interested in college “road trip” adventure stories and a bit more interested in the usual, opinionated chatter that so many intellectual adults idly engage in. That said, my ravenous fans will forgive me for any change in direction that comes over this once young, vibrant, and “exciting” blog.

So, to get to another point, I recently was floundering about, drowning in a sea of MySpace commerciality, when I ran across a bulletin post entitled “Petition to Remove the ‘Fuck The Troops’ Group from MySpace.” A little MySpace background, for the woefully uninitiated: bulletins can be posted by any of your online “friends” (who, on MySpace, are often as not internet prostitutes) that you have picked up in your hitch-hikings through the worldly wide web. You can read them, respond to them, and even repost them so that your own set of “friends” can be exposed to your rants, thus resulting in some sort of twisted, informational pyramid scheme where one post can travel the highways of MySpace from one group of friends to another. Groups, such as the one previously mentioned, are started by people who want to connect to more friends with similar interests or affiliations. Groups such as “UCLA Alumni,” “Knitters Worldwide,” and “Raging Alcoholics” are good examples of the range of interests supported by the wonderfully tolerant MySpace program code.

So, I recently logged onto MySpace and came across the aforementioned bulletin (which, for academic integrity, is cataloged at the end of this entry). The purpose was for each person who agreed with it to add their electronic signature (also known as a “name”) to the list that it provided, repost it, and thus increase the size of the petition. Allow me, once again, to get tangential here. This idea is inherently flawed for two reasons:

1. Each time someone reposts this, the list changes, meaning that instead of having one comprehensive list, there are, in actuality, countless competing lists clogging up MySpace, garnering names. Remember the pyramid scheme idea? As the list splits from its original users, the chances of users later down the lines crossing paths becomes more and more unlikely, thereby spawning a wealth of petitions with entirely different name lists, all of which, at some point, fade into internet obscurity as they reach end users who don’t care to repost them. Which brings me to… 
2. Tom, the guy who “runs” MySpace, and to whom the petition is meant to reach, will never read it. There are millions of MySpace users. MySpace recently announced that it gets more daily hits than Yahoo! That is some pretty serious bandwidth there. This thing, one bulletin amidst countless others, will not fall into Tom’s lap but by unparalleled good luck, and, even if it did, he wouldn’t do anything about it since it is as unofficial as any petition could possibly be. So, basically, the petition exists as a way for enraged military folks to say how much they hate “tree-huggers” and other peace loving folks. Which is really what I wanted to talk about in the first place.

So, this bulletin…what to say? The more I read, the more astonished I was at the contradictory nature of many of the posters. You see, more than just signing names, as the bulletin went on posters started to add their two cents into the mix. Some were short and sad, wishing well for husbands and sons engaged in situations overseas that I’m sure are little less than horrifying. Others left angered rants against anti-war advocates, often declaring their willingness to eliminate these “Americans against freedom” that surely comprised the “Fuck The Troops” group. In any case, it got me thinking, and I began to think that maybe a different perspective was in order:

To be honest, though some may think I’m unpatriotic, I really don’t have a problem with a “Fuck The Troops” group. Its not that I entirely support what they are saying, but I adamantly support any system that gives them the right to say it. Freedom of speech is a fundamental right that is one of the few left in this increasingly fascist nation. How is it fascist, you ask? I would cite the Patriot Act, quietly renewed a short while back, that allows the government to collect information regarding the types of books its citizens are reading, or the type of websites they visit. Every time I logged onto a computer at San Diego State University, I was reminded of that via the notice that warned that all my actions on that computer could be monitored by federal authorities. How about the suspension of the writ of Habeaus Corpus? Anyway, I’ll avoid another tangential exercise here. You get the idea.

What happens when you and your friends start a club called “Meat Eating Aficionados Unite” and a group of angry, militant vegans decide that you are ruining the earth and shut down your group meetings? Is this ok? You cannot silence the Klu Klux Klan for the same reasons you cannot silence those who say "Fuck The Troops." Being a real American isn't about being happy; its about being tolerant. Very few Americans understand that, which is why I often distance myself from my countrymen. Humanity seems to be filled with people who want to tell others what to do. Only tyranny comes from that.

Of course, I can say all I want, but why not let the petitioners speak for themselves? I quote from the bulletin the following entries (my commentary is in brackets):

"These people need to be eliminated, the men and women of our armed forces are the only reason why there is myspace right now!!! If it wasnt for our soldiers keeping us safe god only knows where we would be!!!" [Actually, Al Gore is the reason you have MySpace. At least, that is what he would tell you.]

"GET THESE MOTHER FUCKERS OFF THIS SITE!!! THEY DESERVE TO GO TO HELL!!!!"

"haha, i didnt even know about these guys, we should invite them all to a 'tree hugger hippy lets get high and complain together' discussion campout in the middle of the woods somewhere and then proceed to hunt them down in military fashion with nothing but rusty K-BARS and C-Wire dipped in pigshit, then hang them feet first from the trees and let the technis/gangreen kick in all the while giving them chinese incision torture..... yeah that sounds about right" [That’s the spirit.]

"......being Ex Military...thats shit is fucked up...start a group called "fuck Bush" I am fine with that..." [This one is great because the writer has no problem with proverbially “fucking” something, so long as it isn’t the group he is affiliated with.]

"we all have friends or family in the military. so we should all be supporting them. stand behind the troops or stand in front with the enemy." [You’re either with us or with the enemy, right El Presidente? At least you know some of your voters listened.]

"Its funny how 'americans' decide to bad mouth those who protect their rights as americans" [Hmmm, you mean, the rights you are trying to take away right now? Your position appears weak, oh great military philosopher.]

"GET THOSE IDIOTS OUT OF HERE!!! I WISH WE COULD SEND THEM OVER THERE!!!!! BET THEY WOULDN'T HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY THEN!!! LOL" [Ha, yes, it is funny to force people to do things. Especially when they are directly opposed to it.]

"fuck the troops? FUCK YOU! if it wasnt for the u.s. military, you wouldnt have the fuckin right to bitch and moan about anything. try living under a dictatorship like saddam hussein then talk." [Another brilliant entry. Because, you know, a place where we are free to eliminate groups that speak in ways we don't like isn't like old Saddam's regime at all.]

Because, after all, a nation made up of different viewpoints is wholly intolerable.

"I don't care if they get romoved or not. I pray to God that these people find themselves in need of some help one day just so I can extend my hand to them, , , then watch their faces as they realize I'm holing a pistol." [Nothing says “American” like wishing hell and torment on others. Other than atrocious use of the native language. Oh, wait...he DID get that one...]

"SUPPORT THE TROOPS EVEN THOUGH YOU DONT AGREE WITH WHAT THEY ARE FIGHTING FOR... HELL SOME OF THEM DONT AGREE BUT STILL THEY FIGHT." [One of those "just doing my job" lines. How can someone support something they don't believe in? Sounds very collectivist to me. If one values their independence, their free thought, their free will, then mustn’t they likewise live in and work in a manner consistent with that? To me, that would surely entail doing a job that does not force one to act in a fashion contradictory to one’s philosophical beliefs.]

"All gave some; some gave all. Remember those who give you the right to speak your mind, you have freedom. But exercise it wisely .. or I'll beat your ass." [This one is so classically, so beautifully, contradictory! The idea of free speech entails NOT having to exercise it wisely. Otherwise, it isn't free.]

"SSgt Darryl Johnson 609 Air Communications Sq- I did my time out there and if it wasn't for the past fallen troops they wouldn't have the right to say shit like that freely..." [Yes, Sergeant Johnson, this is true, and isn't it wonderful that they DO have that right. You might have been able to say you agree, in fact, until your actions superceded your words as you signed this petition.]

I've noticed a lot of people saying "the troops are just doing their job!" and this, I'm sure, is true. Does that make it better? If our job is what we are (and in ultra-capitalist America, this is daily more the case), then isn't "doing our job" relevant to the type of person we are? I find the "just doing our jobs" line entirely invalid as an excuse for perpetrating acts that, to the actor, are philosophically unsound.

To sum up here, I don't hate the troops. I feel bad for them, having gotten stuck in an awful position after signing up for something they didn't really expect. At least it seems that that is true for most of them. Free speech is important. What you do for a living is important. We must reflect upon these things more carefully and not blindly charge ahead with only loyalty to light our way. Loyalty, bereft of thinking, is tyranny, for it is defined by the idea that one will follow any order given, regardless of intention. Intention is what makes us what we are. Think.

Paths to Maturity and the Role of Fireballs, part III

Continued from Part II

To the squeamish: At this point, the story becomes a bit more graphic. I wake up the next morning feeling hung over, but oddly, not in pain. The night’s events come flooding back to me. I slip the sheet off, which is a bad idea since it is partially stuck to my legs. Luckily, I can’t feel anything. According to a surgeon I talked to, 3rd degree burns destroy the nerves in the skin and muscle tissue that they damage so that no sensation of any sort is relayed to the brain. Hooray for that. Anyway, my lower legs are both now two gigantic welts. Seriously, they are pretty gross. So I enlist a friend to take me to the local hospital whereupon telling my tale I am derided and otherwise humiliated by the staff for my stupendous idiocy. They wrap me up and tell me that their hospital isn’t equipped for an injury of this magnitude (they really did tell me that), sending me instead to Van Nuys where, by some luck that I’m sure I don’t deserve, there lies the Grossman Burn Center, ranked #1 in the world for treating 3rd degree burns. Thus begins my two week stint in a bed, including such highlights as skin grafts for my legs, 6 days of constipation resulting from the intense pain killers I was on (ending in a self-administered enema…one hell of an experience), and a visit from my friends that had them kicked out of the hospital for doing wheelies down the hall in my wheelchair.

My Dad seems a little too full of glee in this picture.

My first moments in the joint involved the doctor cutting off the skin from my legs while I watched since, after all, I couldn’t feel anything anyway. Actually, that was pretty cool. Then I get stuck in a hospital room with some old, cranky guy who proceeds to tell me how he thinks skin grafts are the most painful thing he has ever been through, and he had, he says, been shot twice in Vietnam. This is the day before I get my skin grafts. The next day they ask me where I want the living skin taken from: my inner thigh, or my ass cheek. Is this really a question? Why not just ask me if I would like to stand for the next month since I can’t sit down on my butt without screaming in intense pain? I chose the thigh. So I guess they use something which is the equivalent of a surgical cheese slicer to remove living skin and transfer it to the parts of my body where my brilliant ideas had sought to remove it. Here is one picture and another, of my healing legs, which, seriously, you should avoid if you don’t like gnarly looking things. After about two weeks the hospital deemed me capable of self-care and I was discharged. Thus ended my time at the burn center, though I’m still on their mailing list. Why in the hell does a burn center have a monthly flyer? Are they hoping for repeat customers?

Some interesting things I learned in the burn center:

You watch a lot of movies because you are bedridden, but you have to be careful what you watch because people who have been “victimized” by fire (they actually use this term…as if fire “meant” to get you) are weak-willed and apparently freak right out anytime they ever see fire again. I picked out End of Days from the hospital’s stunningly shitty collection only to find out that it, too, truly sucked. I was warned, however, before viewing it, that it was laden with fire images. Hospital policy. The only thing I freaked out about was Arnold’s acting. I don’t see how he could possible be a worse governor than he was an actor in this flick.

By the way, in case you wondering, here is a plot summary for that movie: “At the end of the century, Satan visits New York in search of a bride. It's up to an ex-cop who now runs a security outfit to stop him.” Ok, ok, its true. I deleted the “elite” they had before “security outfit.” But still!

Another thing I learned:

When you sit in a bed for two weeks without using your legs even once, they don’t work anymore. I had them raised to keep the blood flow and thus the diabolical pain out of the re-growing nerve endings and I never even attempted to walk on them. Apparently, since leg muscles expect to get used repeatedly and on a daily basis, denying them that motion, even for the briefest amount of time (two weeks…), causes them to atrophy. I guess that’s why NASA made the astronauts run gravity-free loops in the shuttle and stuff like that. Needless to say I was on crutches for most of a month afterwards relearning, at 22, how to walk and taking showers in a plastic lawn chair my mother was nice enough to bring inside for me. Lesson? Don’t sit down for two weeks straight.

My parent’s knew, of course, that I was in the hospital, but I didn’t want them to think I threw a huge rager at their house. My story to them involved me on the beach in Santa Monica at a bonfire where I had to cover up a girl from an exploding beer can in the fire and was thus exposed, myself, to fiery debris. Actually, the exploding beer can is a real story, but I’ll save that tangent for another time. I think my parents believed that story for about a week, but I bet my dad thought the world of me for those seven days. Go chivalry.

So that’s pretty much the whole story. Well, almost. The afterwards to this story reads like a letter to Big Brother (a skateboarding magazine that Larry Flynt chose to stop publishing in 2004), submitted, with pictures, by the aforementioned accomplice #1, which they printed in the front of their November 2000 issue. I guess the fame did come full circle.

A special thank you goes out to my sister for not only having the amazing timing to be able to catch the fire photos in the insanely short time frame each was provided, but also for tending to a maddeningly drunk and injured brother for the rest of the night. Breaking leaves off of the aloe plant in the backyard to apply to my legs was really heartfelt. Kudos to her, also, for having a stomach of steel and taking the included hospital photos. She’s a trooper.

So, the answer to the burning (haa) question in your mind: have I become more mature through the trials of this incident? Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t really regret the fireball trick. I’d do it again, if the moment called for it. Only, sans the part that didn’t work. I guess I learned that if you are going to play with fire, do it right. And fire is a victimizer that haunts hospital patients in the form of Governor Schwarzenneger. Like you didn’t already know that.

And don’t ask me about the fire story. I’ve done told it.

Paths to Maturity and the Role of Fireballs, part II

Continued from Part I

Ok, back to this story. When last I left you, I had learned of the non-dairy creamer-fireball secret, but had yet to envision its far flung ramifications. Enter alcohol. You all remember the first time you got drunk, right? It was like a revelation. Everything suddenly became exciting. Sitting around the house was suddenly a party. Jumping off roofs into pools becomes “the coolest” idea ever, lifted from its former rank of “dumbest.” Before I digress into further reminiscing, though, a little theme music, regarding one’s man desire to reach beyond his limitations.



Kind of like those cavemen in Quest for Fire, who, as chance would have it, were doing the same sort of thing I was doing.

Between this and Hellboy, how has Perlman not won an Oscar?

The only difference is I didn’t have to wait for lightning to strike in order to get a flame. As we shall see. It’s the summer of 1999, back at my parent’s house which apparently is the staging ground for every mistake of my life. The folks are out of town for a couple of days, which instantly equates to "keg party." The locals are invited. The kegs are rolled in. You’ve seen this movie before. Anyway, the party is going just primo and as the hours wile away, the keg starts to get lighter and lighter. You get to that point where you are trying to get a beer from something that is floating around in a pool of water that your dog wouldn’t drink from. I, intoxicated, captain a mission to acquire money from the party-goers for “another round.” This, as those of you who’ve tried it know, is a futile effort. I’m quite literally able to round up less than $10 from about 45 people. Never a quitter, I start thinking about what on earth can be done with such a small amount of money. As my mind starts racing, I think back, back to when life was simpler, back when I had to entertain myself without alcohol, and WHAM, there it is. A big can of non-dairy creamer, apparition-like, waving about a banner that reads “Happy Joy Fun,” tempting me into my fate. I realize that this is yet another activity that has yet to be enhanced by the empowering effects of alcohol and I hasten to procure the creamer. Minutes later, I’m on top of the trellis/arbor thing in the backyard, staring down at the partygoers 10 feet below me. I set my buddy Matt (hereafter known as “accomplice #1”) to stuff the end of an 18 foot pool sweeper arm with newspaper in preparation for a fireball of epic proportions. He swings the flambeau, lit, into position and I unload the 24 ounce can into the sky and watch fire fly with beer-laden glee.

Taking hold of the flame.

I mean, could this have gone off with LESS of a hitch? The partygoers were enthralled and placated over the loss of keg beer, and I was Master of Fire. From Neanderthal man’s point of view, this really was the shit. As might be imagined, thanks to the 2 second duration of this event, an encore was requested. How could I but oblige? Minions were sent off in search of yet more creamer and I briefly, oh ever so briefly, enjoyed my position on top of the heap. The creamer quickly arrives and I go into production mode again. This time, the canister is as epic as the fireballs themselves have been. I have no idea how big it really was, but I’m guessing it was at least 60 ounces of greek fire. I desire greatly to ignite the entirety in one ridiculous fireball, but I also understand theatrics and instead decide, in a moment of utter stupidity, to go at it another way. Oh, and by the way, this is the part where I go to the hospital. I recruit Matt’s brother, Nick, who shall be forever remembered as “accomplice #2,” to join me on the trellis. He climbs up as I’m unloading half of the powder into a big pan. So, here’s the “plan”. When I think of plans, I usually think of intelligent ones, thus the quotations. Nick is going to throw out the pan of the powder, thus creating a fireball similar to the one that has already successfully been performed. I, in the pursuit of “self-birthing fire,” am planning on holding the half-full creamer canister and hitting it on the base, so as to punch repeated puffs of powder into the initial flame, thus creating a fireball that will reignite itself ENDLESSLY. In theory, this was only a partially good idea. Practice would prove it to be even less so.

Intelligence, personified.

The play by play: Matt is in position with the torch. Nick throws the powder (and, might I add, promptly shuffles WAY out of the way to the other side of the trellis). I scramble into his former spot and start the powdering. Now, I don’t know how familiar you guys are all with fire, but let me tell you something: fire moves really, and I mean REALLY, fast. Especially with fuel of this nature. My hazy memory recalls one, perhaps two, punches on the creamer can before something painful is happening. In detective-style retrospect, I can relate the whole story. The fire, ravenous for the powder (and my soul), chases the first “hit” of it back up to the canister. I’m drunk, though, and am slow to react, so I still hit a second time. The second “hit” immediately ignites right in front of me and I’m, all of a sudden, wreathed in flame. Fire, apparently, hurts, and in momentary shock I drop the canister and try to pull one leg out of the way. I’m wearing a shirt and swim trunks and most of the fire is below me (as the powder is falling), so my legs, below the knees, are really what are hurting me. I obviously can’t pull both out of the way because I will then fall, and I cannot really move out of the way entirely because I’m standing on a tiny wooden beam that is one of the many that make up the interlacing timbers of the arbor that I’m on. Since I don’t happen to be a ninja (yet!), such a quick movement would surely bring me crashing to the bricks below. The moment, frozen:

Note the black arrow, included for your convenience, that points at my right leg. To the right of that you can see my left foot, pulled away from the destroying fire due to a wonderful sensation that was coursing through it. The torch can be seen getting pulled away and if you look on the far, right side of the trellis, you can see Nick cowering in fear of the Great Explosivo. The moment in that picture lasts about 2 seconds before the fuel expires, at which point I grab one of the beams and swing down, making a sprint for the pool. Diving in, I ponder the intense pain running through my lower legs. I look over at the partygoers and realize that the fire has mastered me. Thus does the party descend into decline. Things get extra hazy for me at this point because I request a bottle of Goldschlager (that had somehow found its way into the gathering) from which I literally start pounding until pain, sight, and consciousness are cleared from my frontal lobe. What other events transpired that night are beyond my recollection. The next morning, however, is another story…

Concluded in Part III

Graduate Student Humor

Secret insight into my thesis chair's hopes and dreams...

http://www.theonion.com/content/node/48461

...and I swear I'll get back to the fireball story shortly.

We Interrupt This Broadcast...

In a cruelly ironic twist, whilst writing this bit about the time I put myself in the hospital I actually ended up in the hospital per an entirely unrelated event. Last weekend, after enduring several hours of wrenching pain in my digestive track, I finally succumbed to my roommmate's will and took a trip to the hospital. I was therein informed that my appendix would have to be removed within the next few hours. Being unable to perform such an operation myself, I resigned to the doctor's knife and got down to business.

What a worthless organ the appendix is. What the hell is it? What does it do? Whence has it come? All worthy questions. Wikipedia defines it as such: "Currently, the function of the appendix, if any, remains controversial in the field of human physiology." In my body, however, the function of the appendix seems quite obvious: to fall victim to inflammatory, catastrophic failure (a failure of an aforementioned, unknown function) and render me susceptible to great pain and general physical misery.

Thanks to this wonder-filled, vestigial organ, I underwent a laparoscopic surgery, which means instead of one, big cut into my abdomen, they made several small ones. Then they pumped my abdomen full of gas so that they could fit more things than there already are in this overly crowded area. Little cameras, knives, and other surgical-type instruments. Then they cut up my appendix from the inside and removed it piecemeal, sort of like some strange male abortion.

I spoke with one of my friends recently who, in reference to the ER story I interrupted to tell this ER story, called me "Captain Hospital." I felt the title was a little unnecessary, being that two visit to the hospital in 30 years hardly seem worthy of giving me a Captain rank and insignia. Not to mention this one really was outside my control. On the bright side, my nurses were cute. On the other hand, they collected my pee bottle the morning I was there. Nothing says handsome and self-reliant like dumping out someone's pee bottle. I shared a room with this crazy Persian guy who kept telling me how good he felt in between fits of vomiting blood in the bathroom. I think he had e-coli or something, though he was confident he was healthy. He works at P.F. Chang's in La Jolla and promised me free drinks, if anyone wants to head out there. Assuming he isn't dead or something.

While I've been house ridden, recovering from surgery, I chanced upon a film of some doctors actually performing a laparoscopic surgery. They had all the tubes and cameras and knives inserted into this person's abdomen and they were going to town, wrenching things this way and that, jerking things around and really using little to no gentleness whatsoever. I wondered, had my doctor been so violent? Then I started to think about how even the nurses and everyone else in the hospital would just jab and poke me and go about their job like it was a JOB, not like there are real humans on the other end of the needles they prodded around. I guess they were hardened to it and just wanted to get on with their days, which meant sticking one needle here just to move onto another needle in another arm. Needless to say, I think a little bit of courtesy and gentleness would go a long way. I mean, it isn't like I asked my appendix to burst. In the long run, I guess all of this is good since it offers me further incentive to stay out of the hospital. I can only hope that "Captain Hospital" is not a foreshadowing of things to come.

Thanks folks, for taking the time to appreciate my coincidence filled moment, and I now return you to your regularly scheduled program...

Paths to Maturity and the Role of Fireballs, part I

You know how musicians, over the course of their careers, tire of playing the songs from their early days? How authors stop talking about the same things they did when they were younger? How actors bore of answering the same old questions that they’ve been plagued with since they first hit the scene? You can feel the analogy coming, no? Well, for the umpteenth time I was asked, yesterday, to painfully relive the moments surrounding my now (amazingly) legendary two week trip to the Grossman Burn Center in beautiful Van Nuys, California. Sighing deeply as I launched into a spirited-as-possible retelling, I decided it was high time I recorded this tale in lurid and detailed fashion in hopes of warding off future tellings. Needless to say, with this only the fourth blog entry (and really just the second, thematically), such an early excavation of the memory archives is an ominous warning about its longevity. Alas, we will live in the moment. Err, the past moment…

But first, some background. Its early into my undergraduate years at UCLA and over one summer my pal Patrick and I were hanging out at my parent’s house wondering how on earth to entertain ourselves. We were, of course, still too young to buy alcohol, or this story never would have happened. Striving to cure our mental lethargy, Pat launches into hysterics (as is his style) over the revelation he had had at college concerning non-dairy creamer. I will summarize: Non-dairy creamer, in powder form, has unusually combustive properties.

The Burninator

Now, this isn’t in any way due to its chemical makeup, for if you throw an open flame into a pile of it on the floor, nothing will happen. However, its physical composition is another matter. When thrown into the air, the particular density of the particles of powder that disperse, slowly returning to earth, are highly flammable. This is also the case with other household items, such as flour, certain grains, and sawdust. In any case, Pat chooses to go with the creamer and the next thing I know we are standing in the middle of the street, him with a can of creamer and me with an improvised newspaper-torch thingy. It had all the makings of a dark ritual, so luckily nobody was driving on the road at the time. I light up My First Torch© and hold it out towards Pat in the way that kids hold road kill when they are carrying it home for their friends to see. In one swift motion Pat sends the 12 ounces of canned hell airborne in my direction. In what is a seeming blur of excitement and grandeur, a mini-fireball lights up the dark avenue and Pat and I run, laughing our asses off, back up my driveway, having dropped the still-lit torch in the middle of the road. Something is burning my arm, though, and as I look down I realize that some of the flaming matter has landed on my shirt sleeve and left a strange, chemical-like burning mass. I ditch the shirt and disregard this portentous omen (Nope, this isn’t the hospital story yet.). About five minutes pass before a police car shows up and while Pat and I observe from the shadows, he uses his fire-extinguisher-of-no-fun to douse the still burning flame and a shovel to move the mass into his trunk. Though Pat and I consider getting another can of creamer, the thrill is gone and one boring night succeeds another until the summer becomes the school year. Somewhere inside me, though, a memory of semi-controlled fire lingers...

Continued in Part II

The High Cost of Local Weed, part III

Continued from Part II

Ok, where was I... Oh yeah. Well, as many of you already know, I’m not a big man. Its not like I’m short or rail thin, but I’m probably below average in the weight category when it comes to my fellow Americans. This girl was big. Bigger than me. Bigger than most girls. Her face? Not a monument to symmetry. Again, I’m not trying to be mean, I’m just trying to do my best to explain the level of unattractiveness that this girl had about her. So I was leading the way home from the ATM with an uncertain dread in my step while she traipsed behind me like an elephant in ballet slippers. She seemed happy. I was feigning it, though the prospect of herbal promised land was admittedly putting a bit of a hop in my step. The wine might have been helping.

So we get to my hotel room, which, as you should know by now, I’m sharing with my buddy Wyllis. Now he had managed to procure a girl that he actually wanted to try and make out with and had been out with her all night, so I didn’t expect to see him, yet there he was. Lying in bed. Looking miserable. I walked in looking at him with a “What the hell is going on?” glance. He takes one look at my companion and returns the look. Tangential story follows: Apparently Wyllis took his girl out to dinner and afterwards brought her back to our place. Things were looking good for him and as things began to get heavy he remembered that I would eventually be returning. I guess he didn’t feel like having me walk in on the middle of a session, so off he goes to her place. Little does he know that she shares an apartment with some muscle-head that is secretly in love with the girl he is about to violate. Ladies? Really, after we take you out to dinner, even if you aren’t going to give us anything in return, you really must, in all fairness of etiquette, let us know if we are about to get beat up by jealous suitors. We don’t expect you to fight for us. Just warn us. Especially if the guy is huge. So, anyway, by all accounts Wyllis is dripping off this girl when he walks into her place only to look up and see a large, Conan-esque figure clad only in boxers (really living up the barbarian role) who appears about to explode in a rage normally only attributed to Muslim zealots. Now, ladies, if you fail to warn us that we are walking into a war zone, at the very least do not do what this girl does, which is to turn from Wyllis and immediately run into her bedroom and lock the door. So there’s Wyllis, alone, in someone else’s house, facing a half-naked brute with sexual rejection on his mind. As with all those of us who find ourselves in a losing physical battle yet with the ability left to put a hefty intellect to use, Wyllis tried logic. As usual, any sense of explanation or reason falls short with the unreasonably muscle-bound and Wyllis finds himself being pushed down a staircase backwards while listening to the smooth sounds of sonically unadulterated anger. So, as you already know, Wyllis is waiting for me when I get home.

After hearing about Wyllis’ woes, Maine-ite and I take seats on my bed and proceed to feast upon the bounty that is mediocre east coast marijuana. Wyllis’ depression abates a bit with the introduction of THC to his system. I, instead, start to spin a bit and realize that maybe I shouldn’t have had quite so much to drink before leaving the bar. And so the battle begins. My supplier, I assume, takes note of my incapacitation and proceeds to tell me how she actually lives on the far side of the island and has no ride to get home. Ahh, touché, darling. What is one to do? I’m just about sober enough to make it to the car. Almost. But that is about as far as I could go. “Do you mind if I just crash here and you can drive me over there in the morning? I don’t think you should drive right now.” Score: Her – 1. Me – 0. I resignedly give up the battle, preparing for trench warfare.

Shall I cut to the chase? The lights go out. She’s in my bed. As am I. Wyllis in his. Now, I see what is going on here and I go in with, as they say in Trek-land, “shields up.” I slide into bed with my shirt on. AND my jeans. I’m thinking to myself “No way she gets through this barrier.” Oh, ye of little faith. It was the underestimation of the summer. In less than minute she’s kissing me. Fine. I’ll admit it. I kissed back. What the hell! It was dark. I was drunk. And stoned. I couldn’t see anything. I could smell things but, well, let’s not even talk about that. In any case, I’m ok with this. A price I would have to pay, right? Little did I know just how high the cost of local weed would become.

Within minutes she is taking my pants off. Taking my damn pants off. My defenses! I’m kind of trying to stop her, but at the same time I’m lost in male-limbo as I realize that a girl is taking my pants off for me. Girls, you won’t understand this, but such a scenario puts a man’s mind, especially a drunk man’s mind, into a tail spin. Needless to say, she gets them off. And the boxers. I’m suddenly hit with an adrenaline-like burst of sobriety and I turn away from her to avoid the “grab” that I figured was inevitable. She takes the hint and settles down, but not for long. We’re lying there for a bit and I turn over to try and get more comfortable and she grabs my hand. At least it wasn’t the grab I was dreading. Unfortunately, it was almost as bad. She takes my hand and puts it directly on her naked right breast, stating “Just wanted to let you know that was here.” Now I’m confused. Does she think I actually don’t know what I’m doing? Does she think I’m such a massive sexual novice that I’m scared out of my wits right now and want to get down but don’t know how to start? Shall I defend myself with an act of sexual proficiency that will put her in her place? Whoa. Wait a sec. Stoner paranoia. I mustn’t let this tactic confuse me. Now, you know how when you’re high everything moves more slowly? Those last three thoughts probably took about 4 or 5 minutes to work over in my mind. Meaning that for 4 or 5 minutes I’ve been lying there, silently, with my hand dumbly resting, palm down, on her breast. God knows what she is thinking. God knows what Wyllis, who I’m praying is actually asleep by now, is thinking. It takes all of my combined, inebriated wit and will to pull my hand back. But she’s not done. No, how could she be?! She starts to slide over after my hand detraction and makes another move at my face, but I parry. I quietly tell her “You know, I can’t have sex with you tonight.” Now, girls, what would you think if a guy told you this? Would you think he had a girlfriend that he didn’t want to cheat on? Would you think he simply wasn’t into having sex with you (which would have to mean that he really wasn’t attracted to you because, seriously, guys will have sex with a lot of substandard women)? Either way, wouldn’t you be done with him? I was begging God to let her hate me for the comment, but she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t even want to know why. “That’s fine, let’s just make out. Come over here,” she says, I imagine smiling in amorous contentedness all the while. So, yes, to bring the sexual exploits to a grand, if anti-climatic, end, I submitted. It was the only way out. No, I was not forced into any fetishized anal escapades, though thanks for the imaginative commentary, folks. I gave her a ride next morning, blinded by both my hangover and her appearance in actual sunlight. I dropped her off, took a deep breath, clutched my remaining weed, and had I not been in my car would have knelt, NFL style, and thanked the Christian gods for allowing me procure this victory, despite the cost.

On a final note, I had so much weed left over and so little time on the trip that Wyllis and I basically spent the next 72 hours in a haze that rivals my best undergraduate excesses. The final couple grams or so were still in our possession as we returned the rental car at the airport and since we couldn’t smoke it where we were, we ate it. I thought nothing of it until I sat down in the plane and it all hit me for the most entertaining 5 hour flight I’ve ever been on. Though the stewardess kept looking at me funny.

On an even finaler note, contrary to popular belief my life does not revolve around acquiring weed. Weed is much easier to get in San Diego.

The High Cost of Local Weed, part II

Continued from Part I

Ever heard of “PBR”? Its not entirely common out here on the west coast. It stands for “Pabst Blue Ribbon” which, if you don’t know, is one of the worst beers ever brewed in a country that is known for making the shittiest beer on Earth. Now, even here on the hallowed western seaboard, you can find PBR. Usually in cans. Typically in a 30-pack. Some of the low stoop even lower to carry one of these so called “cubes” out to their car, but PBR isn’t well known, for the most part, in this part.

Shift scene. Bar Harbor, Maine. PBR, in all its glory, is being served on tap. A rarity, I surely thought, though I was soon to find out more than I ever wanted to know about this rustic brew. The Maine-ite female, yes, yes. Well, it is perhaps my fourth or fifth night in Bar Harbor. As previously stated, I’ve been cruising the local scene for a shot at bag of weed. I make my way into one of the bars I haven’t yet plied and quickly spot a girl sitting at the bar on her own. Now, I’m not one to flaunt my sexual history. I’ve had some hits, and hell, I’ve had some misses, but when it comes to misses, this one wouldn’t have hit the board. Some people have a defective physical feature or two. This is normal. We’re used to it. Few of us are flawless. This girl, though, was the perfect storm of physical disaster. I mean, God really threw his back into pulling all the disparate parts of unattractive into this one, concise package. In her defense, she was perfectly nice (c’mon, I’m not a complete asshole), though her personality is actually irrelevant to this story.

So there she is, drinking a beer, rolling a cigarette. An American Spirit, no less! I’m mildly buzzed and also thinking about “borrowing” a smoke (who ever returns the butt?), and as I’m moseying over, my eagle eye strikes. You’ve seen a pouch of rolling tobacco, right? A plastic pouch often with a zip-seal of some sort and a large, plastic flap to pull over the reseal-able opening? As she is closing up her pouch of tobacco, I notice a bulge in the flap that is, usually, quite flat. I didn’t have much time to study it, but years of practice have taught me to recognize the shape of a bag of weed when I see it, and I knew it was. I was invigorated. I grabbed an empty bar stool next to her with renewed enthusiasm and immediately struck up conversation. What line did I use? What other could I use?

“So whatcha drinking?”

“Oh,” says she, “PBR.”

“PBR on tap?” I return, gesturing to her pint glass, “I didn’t know anybody cared that much.”

And thus did I willfully submit to 30 agonizing minutes of mindlessly banal conversation regarding her family’s connection, via some obscure and tangential marriage over a hundred years ago, to the brewers of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

They swear by the Ribbon out there.

She, in fact, was certain that her constant intake of Blue Ribbon was helping to support family members that she subsequently was unable to either name or relationally identify.

Luckily, I seem to have found some of her brethren.

 

After ordering a glass of wine in hope of soothing my now frayed nerves, I further pursued my quarry. I asked her if I could have a cigarette, and as she opened the pouch I pulled one of those wow-I’m-surprised-and-No-I-didn’t-peek-at-my-Christmas-presents-in-the-closet-last-week kind of looks as I again ogled the bulging bag of what must be pot in the pouch’s flap.

“Is that…” I offer.

“Probably,” she says, smiling (still I shudder, remembering the first inkling of premonition I had), “what do you think it is?”

Needless to say, I was right. She then went on to inform me of the massive weed drought that had been affecting the east coast, as if to insinuate that I might have to do something extra special to secure my own stash. Luckily, since I was steadily getting drunker, I didn’t get the chance. Though she did promise me weed, she just as quickly disappeared among her local friends and the next thing I knew, she was gone. Stymied!

Now, though, I had a scent, so for the next several nights I repeatedly visited this same bar in hopes of reacquiring the target. No signs. I was severely bummed. Sobriety had taken on religious tones. The trip, however, continued, and it was with some degree of sadness that Wyllis and I left Bar Harbor for a week of adventure out on Penobscot Bay. It wouldn’t be long, though, before we were back.
 
Seven days out and our return path found us again in Bar Harbor for the last three days of our journey. Wyllis quickly set to work on some gal he had met during our former stay and left me to my own designs as far as evening fare was concerned. Is it any surprise that I was back at the same bar? Fate, it would seem, could not be undone. There she was, again, same spot, same drink. I saddled up to the bar again. She gave me one of those sidelong “you again?” looks. There were only three days left on this trip and at this point I was frustrated and honestly pretty indifferent as to the acquisition of weed, so I promptly set to work on a bottle while I let her initiate the conversation. It didn’t take long. It was, perhaps, the second or third thing out of her mouth when she told me that she had scored a bag for me and had been waiting for me to pick it up. I was shocked into action by the turn of events and scrambled for my wallet to see if I was ready on my end. I wasn’t. “No problem!” she says. “I’ll come with you to the ATM and then maybe we can smoke some at your place.” My evening was darkening...

Concluded in Part III

The High Cost of Local Weed, part I

It was the sixteenth day of a twenty day trip. Between the gorgeous vistas of the national park, the accumulated dust of our third rate motel room without air conditioning, and questionable, tourist-ready local culture, is it really any wonder that I needed it? I don’t have much of a defense for the deplorable act, but had you been in my shoes, you might have done the same. Judge not, lest ye be judged, or so I’ve heard it said. “Don’t bring it with you,” Wyllis kept telling me. “You’re going to get caught.” It sounded like the kind of advice I’d get from my grandmother. Wyllis was wrong. I could get it through. I had a plan. The only possible way it could fail is if there was a sniffing police dog at the airline inspection point, and really, how often have you seen one of those? It was foolproof. I was going to take the weed, and not much, mind you, in my very own pocket. Putting it in either my stowed bag or my carry-on was an out and out bad idea. My stowed bag was out of my control for far too long, and it is anybody’s guess who or what might be rummaging through it at any given moment. My carry-on was going to be x-rayed, and nothing says suspicious like one of those half-sized Ziploc bags that surely are manufactured exclusively for the illegal drug industry.

As if having Scooby Doo on the bag isn’t enough of a give away!

But my own body, they weren’t going to x-ray that. And marijuana isn’t metal. The detector wouldn’t pick it up.  A dog, yes, I admit, was the snag. My roommate suggested getting Wyllis completely stoned before we got to the airport, making sure that he was engulfed in large enough clouds of THC haze to keep the smell on him, and sending him through the inspection point first, sans actual weed, to see if a “surprise” dog would pop out of a hole or something, but I dismissed that plan as ludicrous. If there was a dog, it would just be sitting there. So, as I figured it, all I had to do was get in line. If I saw a guy with a dog on a leash, I would get out of line, head straight for the bathroom, and proceed, with great lamentation, to send the pot to whatever greedy sewer rats were waiting below. The plan was ready to go. I was confident. Then George called. We all know that George is more paranoid about drugs than any man on Earth. He once told me it was a bad idea to grow a single pot plant in my house because the FBI fly around in helicopters with special scanning machines that can see the specific heat signature that a solitary marijuana plant leaves. Of course, George also told me that there is a specialized receptor in the brain that activates only when it encounters THC, thus proving that man is meant to smoke pot. Why else would such a receptor exist? Anyway, despite George’s lack of credibility, he hit me with something profound (if, perhaps, not necessarily true – I never did actually validate it): Airports are technically federal territory. Federal law regarding illegal drugs is harsh to the tune of a year in jail for basic possession (according to George, that is). This, I should note, is information that was given to me the day before I was flying out of town. In retrospect (especially considering the twisted path this tale will leave me on) I should have just gone for it, but I had suddenly lost my nerve. I left the weed at home and flew without incident, little knowing what new incidents were slowly fermenting in the wake of this poor decision.

It was towards the end of our first week of the trip and I had been hiking, with my friend Wyllis, throughout the stunningly gorgeous Acadia national park which lies along the seaboard of Maine.

Only weed could make this cooler.

 

Now, lest you think me one with a problem, I will say that I didn’t need marijuana to have a great time out there. The landscape was really so beautiful that I hadn’t the least problem appreciating it sober. Yet, there was something missing. That wonderful twist to the brain. That eye behind your eye, roaming in and about the countryside, that is active even when you are standing still. That sophomoric giddiness of being completely high while deep in untouched nature that only good marijuana can offer. I wanted some pot. Is it a crime? Well, yes, I suppose, technically, but that’s beside the point. Needless to say, I was, evening after evening, trolling the night scene of Bar Harbor (the town we were staying in), hot on the scent of any hippie-looking types that would or could be purveyors of the plant. Now, little to my fore-knowledge, it turned out that the northeast coast was suffering from a massive shortage of marijuana. I don’t know any details. I’m not a black market economist. The result, though, was that, try as a might, I couldn’t get any weed. And I was asking. Oh, I was asking. Even asking the wrong people. People with collared shirts on. You know its bad when you are asking a guy in a polo shirt if he can score some herb. Then, out of left field, a glimmer of hope. I call it a glimmer because that is really all I could see of the light that was shadowed by the 190 pounds of Maine-ite female who was standing in front of it...

Continued in Part II