Monday - July 20, 2009

I got this in the e-mail this morning. I thought it would be a great start for the week.

If you have ever used an electric fence or know someone who has one, you should read this. If you don't laugh hysterically at this, CHECK YOUR PULSE. This is funny... and true. This was sent by a retired dentist.

We have the standard 6 ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city. To make sure this never happened to me; I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence.

Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence. I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, and drove it 7.5 feet into the ground. The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.

One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6 hp big wheel push mower. The hot wire is broken and lying out in the yard. I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger. I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way.

It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.

Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the 1.7 giga-volt fence wire in the other hand. Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.

Time stood still.

The first thing I notice is my pecker trying to climb up the front side of my body. My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain. Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head. I was literally at one with the engine.

It seems as though the fence charger and the piece of shit lawnmower was fighting over who would control my electrical impulses.

Science says you cannot crap, pee, and vomit at the same time. I beg to differ. Not only did I do all three at once, but my bowels emptied three different times in less than half of a second. It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and BAM BAM BAM, you just crap your pants three times. It seemed like there were minutes in between but in reality, it was so close together it was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy.

At this point, I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire. My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go. I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences, but Dad always had those pieces of shit chargers made by International, or whoever, that were like 9 volts and just kinda tickled. This one I could not let go of.

The 8-foot-long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil. At this point, I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take it, until the lawnmower runs out of gas.

“Damn!” I think, as I remember I just filled the tank!

Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough. It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it.

Covered in poop, pee, and with my vomit on my chest, I think “Oh God please let the mower die ... Pleeeeaze die.” But nooooo, it settles into the rough, lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.

So here I am, in the middle of July at 104 degrees, 80% humidity, and standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me. God did not take me that day. He left me there covered in my own fluids to writhe in the misery my own stupidity had created.

I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire. I woke up lying on the ground hours later. The lawnmower was besideme, out of gas. It was late in the day and I was sunburned.

There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot where the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume I finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.

Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep, I realized a few things:

1- Three of my teeth seem to have melted.

2- I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).

3- Poop, pee, and vomit when mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.

4- My left eye will not open.

5- My right eye will not close.

6- The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now. Seriously! I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.

7- My nuts are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.

8- I can turn on the TV in the game room by farting while thinking of the number four (still don't understand this?).

That day changed my life. I now have a newfound respect for things. I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.

The good news is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.

Friday - July 17, 2009

I'm reprinting this from an e-mail I received the other day from an old friend from my childhood in Miami, Florida. I left Miami for Vietnam in 1971, and have only returned occasionally for vacations and family funerals. This is the kind of story every American needs to hear.

Michael Jackson dies and it’s 24/7 news coverage. A real American hero dies and not a mention of it in the news.

Ed Freeman

You're a 19-year-old kid. You're critically wounded and dying in the jungle in the Ia Drang Valley , 11-14-1965, LZ X-ray, Vietnam. Your infantry unit is outnumbered 8-1 and the enemy fire is so intense, from 100 or 200 yards away, that your own Infantry Commander has ordered the MediVac helicopters to stop coming in.

You're lying there, listening to the enemy machine guns, and you know you're not getting out. Your family is half way around the world, 12,000 miles away and you'll never see them again. As the world starts to fade in and out, you know this is the day.

Then, over the machine gun noise, you faintly hear that sound of a helicopter and you look up to see an unarmed Huey, but it doesn't seem real because no Medi-Vac markings are on it. Ed Freeman is coming for you.

He's not Medi-Vac, so it's not his job, but he's flying his Huey down into the machine gun fire, after the Medi-Vacs were ordered not to come. He's coming anyway. And he drops it in and sits there in the machine gun fire as they load 2 or 3 of you on board. Then he flies you up and out, through the gunfire to the doc tors and nurses. And he kept coming back, 13 more times, and took about 30 of you and your buddies out, who would never have gotten out.

Medal of Honor Recipient Ed Freeman died on Wednesday, June 25Th, 2009, at the age of 80, in Boise , ID.

May God rest his soul.

Medal of Honor Winner Ed Freeman! Since the media didn't give him the coverage he deserves, send this to every red-blooded American you know.

THANKS AGAIN, ED, FOR WHAT YOU DID FOR OUR COUNTRY.

MAY YOU REST IN PEACE... FINALLY.

Thursday - July 16, 2009

Every day is a new adventure. The effects of the drugs are gone, but the effects of the withdrawals are ever present. He sweats, he binge eats then doesn't. He has a hair-trigger temper right now, but then there are times when the real Chris comes out. He smiles, he hugs, and he shows how much he really appreciates us.

The trap is set... now we wait out the demons.

July 15, 2009

Nobody ever tells you what the withdrawal symptoms from Ecstasy are. This isn't any fun for my son or my family.

Tempers flare. He's very touchy right now. His hands shake and he doesn't want to eat or sleep. His girlfriend, Jasmine, is the best thing for him right now. Her patience and understanding are the rock that he sits on when all else is falling apart around him.

Luck seems to be on our side, because he's working his way through this with great will power and a little kick in the ass from the rest of us.

Monday - July 13, 2009

The weekend was a mess. Maybe this week will bring a fresh and more livable view of the world for me.

My Son is a Drug Addict

He woke up this morning, finally, but he can’t remember much of the night before. He can’t remember the shouting match with his mother, telling her to “F” off and that he’ll do drugs as long as he wants too. Or the fight with his girl friend that ended with him passing out on the couch.

His name is Christopher, he’s my seventeen-year-old son, and he’s a drug addict. No, he’s not the kind of addict depicted in the movies or on television. He doesn’t sleep in alleys and creep around trying to find his next “fix.” He’s not disheveled or unwashed, though the clothes kids wear today kind of express that. No, he’s a middleclass kid from the suburbs that got off the road somewhere and can’t find his way back.

Ecstasy, “E,” “smackers,” “fizz.” It doesn’t matter what you call it, he takes it and he can’t, and won’t stop. His mother and I sit for hours trying to figure out where we went wrong, and you know, we’ve come to a conclusion that may not set well with others: we haven’t done anything wrong.

We put him through school and made him study, but the drugs took over and he quit going to school.

We taught him the difference between right and wrong, but the drugs took over and the difference to him became muddled and cloudy.

We taught him that it’s not the money or the fame, but hard work and diligence that equal success, but the drugs took over, and he no longer even wants to look for a job or accept work from anyone.

We taught him respect for others, but the drugs took over, now his hair-trigger temper kicks in and he lashes out at everyone with such anger, and distain that we fear he’ll hurt someone one night in a drug-induced stupor.

Finally, we taught him love, and not by merely saying it to him. We expressed it to him every day by example and by our actions with him. But again, the drugs take over and he yells at me in the front yard that he hates me and wishes I were dead.

No, we did everything we could to ensure that he became a good man and a positive contributor to society… but the drugs took over. We can no longer control him because his defiance is to such a point that he won’t obey anyone.

Now we’re trapped between our love for him and the knowledge that if we do nothing, he’ll eventually hit bottom, or worse.

So, there you have it. Where do we go from here? I don’t know, but we’re not going to sit still. Would an intervention work? I don’t know, but we’re going to try it. Would a stint in re-hab work? I don’t know, but if it comes down to it, we’ll try it.

I won’t be writing my articles or working on any literary projects until this crisis with Christopher is over. I’ll miss it, but not as much as I would miss my son if he were to die, and I didn’t commit everything I had to preventing that.

Friday - July 10, 2009

FRIDAY... Yipeeeee. The eve of the weekend, the doorway to rest and relaxation, and the day of the week that my Wife, Joyce, is furloughed from her State of California job.