Honoring our Veterans, Eythor disappears, and Bart the Oaf comes calling

Let me offer my deepest gratitude and appreciation to our nation’s veterans on this, our Veterans Day Weekend. Having had a father and uncles serve in war, and now siblings serving in the Armed Forces, I am acutely aware of the painful sacrifices these men and women have given for our nation’s security. I ask that we keep our vets foremost in our hearts and minds this weekend, and when possible, to honor their sacrifices with our gratitude.

For me, I’d like to see veteran’s benefits increased along with their pensions. In this time of fiscal cliffs and neo-austerity, we must remember our veteran’s commitment to us by honoring our commitment to them. As such, if you know a vet, thank him or her for their service; if you don’t know any personally, why not make a donation to you local VFW office, or service group of your choice? A little goes a long way.

By the way, and once my book is released, I’ll be doing my part by giving away free copies of my book to any vet who asks for one. Yes, none shall be denied; my contribution, if you will…


Still very disturbed by what’s been happening in the wake of Superstorm Sandy, the looting and the increasingly-ludicrous response by our government, or lack of response, especially on Staten Island. I’ve heard several firsthand reports now of the nightly roaming gangs wreaking havoc on their neighbors, and I’m dis-heartened, horrified and, quite frankly, a little pissed off at both the looters and our government.

Yeah, I know it’s ‘human nature’ to take advantage of one another during crisis, but it still isn’t right and it still makes me churn. As for our government, yeah, I’ve heard it, how everybody should have been much more prepared for the storm surge, with gas and water and whatnot all stored in preparation, but that’s all well and good on paper but the reality is, it is very difficult to be fully prepared for something of that magnitude, and there should be an expectation of at least basic government assistance, and initially, it seemed their response was strong, but in the days since the massive media campaign to highlight our overseers’ concerns for us, an appalling ‘dichotomy of response’ has, perhaps predictably, unfolded:

Power and service have been restored to the, uh, wealthier sections of the city, while those of, uh, more modest means in Rockaway and Staten Island have been, uh, prioritized at a different degree of necessity. Typical, really: the wealthy cry and get what they want, the poor and the workers, well, once other priorities have been met, then, well…

In the meantime, the thugs have a field day, and the situation goes from damn tough to damn fucking tough and not getting any better any time soon…

And with those sentiments in full view, I will shift to something here in my world, and not all that pleasant.

I’d begun the week high on the news that my publisher, Seaburn Books in New York City, while getting their asses kicked by Sandy, had been able to return to work and was near to setting a release date for my book, How High Should I Jump? The Satirical Guide to Pleasing Today’s Woman. Yes, yes and more yes, can’t wait and I’m finally seeing the…what’s this, someone banging on my front door? Let’s see what the problem is…

(It is important I pause here and make an admission: most of you are probably not aware that I have been confined to a wheelchair for over 13 years now. Yes, I am completely paralyzed from the chest down, but no, I do not complain of my condition and, every day, do everything humanly possible to both mentally overcome its limitations, and to physically ignore the constant, searing electrical misery which roars about my lower body. It ain’t easy but life is so damn good, even paralyzed, that bitching, moaning and whining just isn’t gonna happen in my world. I am blessed to have the wife, life and love that I enjoy, but I must mention my disability here as it has, uh…some bearing on the story about to be told.)

As I rolled across the house to answer whoever was pounding away at the door, I was careful not to disturb the heavy bandage on my left side, a bandage that came as a result of my having fallen asleep on my heating pad a few days earlier in a futile attempt to alleviate a migraine. Not only did I not deal with the migraine but, upon waking, I found I’d created a massive 3rd degree burn on my left hip, thankfully not in an area where you sit with pressure, but still, yet another unappreciated and untimely health interruption. Damn, this wound I’d better be careful about or it could degrade into a nasty pressure sore, something those who know my story will remember I dealt with here rather recently and do not want to repeat! Days, months, hell, years in bed, everything out on hold again, no no no!

So I’m careful about the bandage, can’t screw up and let the wound get infected or I’m fucked, so I come to the door figuring I could dismiss whoever it was with my obvious health issue, only to find my neighbor, we’ll call him Bart, a large, oafish man who we’d known since we moved into this area nearly 20 years ago. Bart was not happy to see me.

The region where I live is mostly 2-5 acre parcels among a few 1000 acre ranches out in the Northeastern California foothills; gorgeous valley tucked into the hills, and everyone out here usually getting along pretty well, though with our dust-ups of course, but an easy-going, peaceful vibe pervades our valley. Here was Bart, outraged and seething, ready to kill.

I’d had dealings with Bart in the past, but I’d always thought we’d resolved them and moved on. Not so in Bart’s mind, who was there to both answer the charges my wife had made that he had just driven across our front yard, carving another large swath into our grass, before driving to his house, and to share some…well, let’s just call them long-held resentments. I’d left a message saying, ‘hey, we need to talk!’ and Bart, to his credit, decided to talk. And man, did he talk!

I haven’t had the pleasure of being called ‘a fucking asshole cock-sucker‘ in quite some time, nor have I had it delivered with the fierceness and severity this man exhibited. Suddenly he unleashed a flurry of invectives and suppressed grievances that, frankly, caught me somewhat by surprise, a list of colorful slurs which normally would make me simply laugh but, in this case, with Bart there at my door on the verge of violence, I knew I’d have to take seriously. Bart declined my offer to come inside, so I decided to allow him to vent his spleen with some good ‘ol provocation, “Alright Bart, you got a big mouth, so when you’re finished calling me an asshole, what then? You wanna kick some of my paralyzed ass, is that it? Come on then, you coward, come on in close here, you fucking pussy!”

Bart stood a couple feet front me, glowering with hatred; you could see the veins on his forehead pumping, but then he suddenly just turned and began walking away. Maybe he saw the absurdity of fighting with a guy in a wheelchair, as I’d come to the door naked from the waist down with a huge bandage on my side, which became exposed while he was ranting, offering him a perhaps chilling view of my disgusting, recently-cooked 3rd degree flesh, but now I was lit up and not willing to let it go:

“Come on, Bart, hey,” I shouted, “I thought you had something to say, wanted to kick my ass, come on ya fucking punk, here I am,” but he kept walking away, raising a middle finger once in salute.

I finally went back into the house…to hear the phone ringing: Bart.

What followed was a stream of hatred the likes of which I haven’t experienced…well, maybe never, and certainly not with the finishing graces he completed his tome with, “...and I hope you rot in hell in your fucking wheelchair!” Slam! went the phone.

Well, that wasn’t very generous, Bart, and as I’d like to get in a word or two, I call him back, only to hear, “Don’t you ever call this number again, you fucking prick!” Slam!

I sat for a few moments feeling the anger welling up in me, before I just as quickly diffused it, relating the tale to my wife before both of us headed outside to enjoy the remainder of our day. Reflecting, something had immediately hit me in the moments after his call: yeah, while his reaction was to over-react, and his hatred completely displaced, I wasn’t ready to grab my AR and respond; in fact, I soon felt pity for him, a man who’s wife had left him and who had taken to increasing medicating himself with that ‘ol standby, vodka. Not known as an expressive or even sensitive guy, he’d been holding in his pain and hiding behind his bottle. Further, he was now dealing with his errant, only son and his decision to drop out of school and drift, something I knew must have been killing him, a son who he placed all his hopes in and a son who we had seen long ago having some serious behavioral issues. Clearly that was weighing on him, along with other factors, and my phone call provided him with the trigger he needed to unleash his backlog of resentment.

Yeah, I should pity rather than hate him. Now, that doesn’t mean I felt a great surge of compassion and wanted to give him a hug, but it did meant I backed off my reaction in the light of this man’s swirling internal ir-resolve. The guy hates himself and I’m an easy target, and I’m offering this scenario here to draw a parallel to what I see throughout our society, this tendency to simply vent, often suddenly, whatever negative feelings we have upon the nearest and usually weakest victim we can find. Gone are the days when men dealt with each other ‘as men’, facing and revealing to each other the details of the dispute before reaching some reasonable compromise, or, if all else fails, duking it out with fists and fists alone. Nope, nowadays you explode and follow that out with a weapon or some other act of vengeance, or else, as in Bart’s case, someone who’s been good-naturedly filing away all the shit that gets shoved down his throat, awaiting the day he can release his venom on some unsuspecting and undeserving schmuck, yours truly in this case.

Hell, I’m fine, this shit doesn’t phase me, and I go on with the knowledge that I have always been ethical with not only Bart but everyone I deal with. Everyone. Ethics, or my connection to my ethos, rather, leads me constantly and allows me not to return hatred with hatred but to quickly pull myself from such reactions and see the situation for what it is: a man suffering from the ongoing collapse of everything in his life he believed in.

Sure, and maybe he’s right, maybe I am a prick…though after doing my usual self-inventorying, I do not find his charge credible, yet I understand the power from which he made it. The guy feels like shit, and my incidental phone call was enough that he could take it no more and simply had to vent, and there I was. I may not like it, but I do understand, and yes, I extend him some pity…


And I would extend even further pity to our friend, Eythor and his ongoing nightmare, but he didn’t check in this week so I can’t offer any updates on his situation. I pray he has not done anything rash but will await further word.

My moral for these anecdotes: we must extend pity and understanding in situations that, on the surface, are difficult or even don’t appear to warrant it. I could ruin my weekend by reliving the vitriol of Bart’s verbal outpouring, but I won’t. I could worry and become afraid for what he might do, but I won’t, and I could worry and become afraid about so many damn things that occur, but I won’t. No, I won’t yield to that son-of-a-bitch that threatens to disturb my peace, Fear. Fear stalks me constantly, yet I won’t give in. Oh, I’ll use Him for fuel, but I’ll never yield, understood?

I’ll never yield! Fuck paralysis, fuck the limitations, fuck the concerns and general living worries which are ever-present, I only want Love and all the manifestations of said. Just Love, and I’m getting better at it every day, too. And how do I know I’m getting better at it every day? ‘Cause I feel better every day, and every day, it’s taking me less time to reach over and grab some Love, to save me from Fear.

I don’t like Fear, I like Love, so that’s what I’m getting better at every day: liking Love.

Book’ll be ready soon, yet on this day, our veterans and their service must be at the forefront of our minds and hearts.

Until again, take care…

3 Responses to “Honoring our Veterans, Eythor disappears, and Bart the Oaf comes calling”
  1. Myron the moron says:

    Hi milt its a tuff time for me and my girl friend for 14 years . Little while.back a guy she meet try to hit a home into here pussy hole she stop him it never happen again . My life is the worest then it every been im try to not do any thinge crazy going,to make a opt at doctores on,tusday my bodys in pain and my mind see what happens myron the moron Et

  2. Mr. Moron, can you tell me a little more about you and your girrfriend? Is this, in your mindm, a betrayal of your relationship, or do you have an oppen relationship and now, with her out with other men, you’re having trouble handling it? You can honest here, everyone who reads this is going through sometthing similar, so feel free to lay out your story and I’ll see if I might help, Milt

  3. great review here anyway thanks for posting a valuable one again… lista de emails lista de emails lista de emails lista de emails lista de emails

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