Bloomers

There's a weird Kali kinda feel to this spring already. I know, yeah, it's not spring yet. Look, the clocks were turned ahead so it's spring in my head.

Back to the Kali thing. Lotsa my circle of beings have walked thru minefields the last couple of years. But it seems that all the battle blood was really a sort of sacrifice for good big things coming around now. And in chrono order, too. Not all at once, but in layers or steps, each bit a little better, at a nice pace. Those who've suffered the most and longest are lifting up at last. And this in spite of what's happening in the world and our corner of things. The only common thread I'm seeing is a collective of us all becoming more ourselves. As if luck and sanity came together at once and good stuff results. Who knew?

The strangest thing is that I'm looking forward to what'll happen next and not brooking pessism very well. I sarcastically cracked myself up at a pal's whining last month. In her face. Not pretty. But I've lost patience with the terminal fear crowd.

Fear is so, like, 2008.

Herman Slater

Living in NYC is unique. You see famous people up close on the street. Sometimes, you work for one.


Herman Slater was my boss on and off for 5 years, then he died too early of AIDS. We fought a lot; I quit twice and he fired me twice. The last time he fired me I determined not to speak to him for 6 months. He died in month 5. We never got to make up.


He founded and owned The Magickal Childe, a well-known witchcraft and occult publisher and retail store in Chelsea. It had been on Henry St in Brooklyn when I was a kid and named The Warlock Shoppe. Herman and Ed Buczinski, his partner, founded the Welsh Tradition of Witchcraft in the US there. My mother took me there when she went shopping for money oil or candles. A tiny store, crammed full of books and incense and candles. People winced at the use of "Warlock". In the early seventies the new Wiccan movement was trying to establish itself as a religion apart from Satanism and black magick. The term "Warlock" is defined as a traitor and never used by Witches except derisively. But once Herman moved to Manhattan, changed the name to the Magickal Childe, the business became an institution. A legend, even, to East Coast Pagans. Though a self-proclaimed "Snake Oil Salesman", Herman and the Childe prospered.


Buying rights to or finding public domain occult titles, Herman built up his publishing list of titles. He began a paper, Earth Religion News, and from it did worldwide catalog sales, wholesale and retail in all flavors of magickal traditions. He used the backroom of the store as a temple, where Pagan Way classes and OTO members mingled. Even the entrance to the back (no longer a temple by the time I went to work there) was classic- what looked like a shallow closet holding robes was a door on a hinge. People would shriek when it opened and someone emerged from out back.


Which brings me to the atmosphere of the shop. Over the years and a huge number of employees, shelves were built, an oil office evolved, antique showcases were bought at auction. The walls themselves were brick, the ceiling pressed tin and nothing had ever been modernized. The flooring was a patchwork of linoleums. The impossibly loud rattling air conditioner sat in aisle 1 between the candle shelves and audio tape showcase. It was 7 ft X 3 ft and regularly broke down on the hottest days. But aside from the eclectic look to the place, it had the aroma of hundreds of oils, incenses and herbs. One wall held the herbs in gallon size glass jars on irregular dark wood shelves. Under the shelves ran a 20' counter that held our own blends of incense and the antique scale. Under all that were the herb bins, where bags of every herb carried were held in stock, which fed the healthiest mice in Chelsea. Part nasty old New York store, part whimsical and dark yet Disneyesque (indeed, they filmed there) spookhouse, the Childe was enigmatic.


Behind it all was Herman, hiding at his desk in a makeshift office in the front corner. From there he'd bellow orders, insult everyone and now and then charge out to throw a customer out of his store. If someone asked if something really worked, he'd answer, "Not if you ask that question." If someone balked over a price, he'd take it from them, say, "You can't have it!" and throw it in the trash. Then throw them out. One boring afternoon he and I had fried chicken for lunch. Herman, with a twinkle in his eye, said, "I can sell these bones." I argued. It was a crappy thing to do. People wouldn't fall for that; we'd look like bastards. He won, of course, and put them on a piece of velvet in the showcase by the register. "Bones for your Magickal use" said the sign, "Only 2 dollars!" They were gone before dark. And Herman made back twice what he'd paid for our lunches.


I can't now think of one employee there who wasn't a character. True, it wasn't a place people thought of as a useful tool to a career, or even much where you'd work for the experience. And the money wasn't the best. Working for Herman was tough. He got his every penny's worth of everything. That included people he employed for the shop or his bedroom. Herman had certain affinities that nobody would do for love. "I sent him home to eat beans," he'd say of some new hustler he'd found. These guys would also have a job with the store in some capacity for as long as his interest held. Usually they'd be the general gopher, but they'd sometimes end up the Shipping Clerk or floor worker. The regular staff referred to them as "The Dogwalker". That was partially correct, as Herman had 2 or 3 Salukis all the time and couldn't walk them with the tuberculine hip he had. So someone had to walk them. Herman's apartment on West 16th St was a revolving door of hustlers, drug addicts, clingons and admirers. People thought he was rich, which he wasn't. He spent money too foolishly. And he had no care for appearances, his own or anyone else's. My memories of his apartment are all brown and odiferous.

Herman was an unique man. Very bright, almost schizophrenic, fiercely loyal one moment, then your brutal enemy the next. I loved and hated him so many times in turn that it's all a blur. He'd call and get my answering machine and in a whining moan say, "This is your spiritual father." And in a lot of ways he was. I learned a lot about life, love and survival from him. See ya, Herman. BB & 93.

The Man That Got Away

Well, there's more than one. But the one that's classic, the "have to say goodbye but don't want to" kind, is who I'm writing of this Valentine's weekend.

It was March of 1998 and I was in Englewood, Florida. On the beach at Englewood's island I saw him. He was on a dune buggy, dressed in the green uniform of the Parks Dept. He was big and tan with wavy brown hair, cut like Morrison's in the Staver's pix. In fact, if Morrison had cleaned up and not died, he may have looked like him. Him's name, I misunderstood, was Nick.

I was working on a friend's property, doing heavy landscaping. Nick was working along the coastline and brought me the piers they were replacing. We cut them down and used them to line the driveway. On afternoons when it was too hot to work I went to the beach, and he'd be there. My heart would jump when I'd see him appear out of nowhere. His big smile under the reflective sunglasses made me smile.

Then one day he stopped by the house to say goodbye. He was going back to his ex-girlfriend's mother's house to live in mid-Florida. I was in no place to say, "No, stay here." I barely knew him, really. We stood in the dark, looking at each other, lost for words, mosquitoes feasting on us. I said, "Well, then good luck, Nick." He smiled that smile and said, "My name's Mick, as in Michael." I laughed and asked why he'd never corrected me. He said it didn't matter. He said maybe he'd stop by again before he left. Then he was gone. I never saw him again.

Ah, well. It's long ago and far away. But I felt and knew he felt, that we really knew each other. There was something beyond our chance meeting, but not something we'd work out at that time or maybe even this time around.

Wherever you are, Mick, Happy Valentine's Day.

Put A Bandaid On It

I'm watching what exactly they treat a friend's injury with and for, and comparing that sitch with my own and 2 other people's disability processes. Four of us have motor functioning issues as well as pain and site-specific joint and spinal problems.

He is the second medical field worker I've watched, too. I assumed that medical folks would be treated better than laymen by their own, and to an extent that's true. They are, in my experience, given total pain relief from the beginning. He was given the same drugs, in the same order as I was. But he was given narcotics right from the beginning, where I didn't receive them for years. And he was given higher doses from the beginning. He can call his narcotic script in, where I have to have someone pick it up and fill it.

However, that seems to be the end of special treatment. As in my case, where only surgeries will change anything (and they won't do it til I'm 60), they are saying the same treatment course I took should be his course. Namely, steroid shots, antiinflams and narcotics and then surgery. (Though they'll operate on him when he wants it, as they did the other med pro).

In short 4 of us are being treated for effects and never going near the cause. In my case, they know the problem but won't fix it. In other cases they don't really know what the problem is but want to go in and look. The other disabled folk I'm referring to have had surgeries but haven't been relieved of either condition nor pain. They are on a combo of drugs and have started to have complications from the drug use. But none of us are quantitatively better at all.

We have all undergone steroid shots, which are painful and do nothing, and actually can cause more damage. A nurse finally intervened in my then-Ortho surgeon's office, telling me I shouldn't have had so many cortisone shots as I'd had already. In research, the protocol says 4-6 and no more, as cortisone breaks down cartilege. I had either 8 or 9. Since I'd started with little cartilege to begin with, the cortisone removed what little I had left. Then I had lydocaine shot into the hip joint and the pain was numb for roughly 18 hours. While that was a pleasant change and it was nice to walk up a flight of stairs like a person, was it worth it? The procedure required a surgery room; though I only was given a local an anaesthetist was in on it. The doctor had a hard time getting the flexible, 6" needle around a hook that had formed on the edge of my femur. I watched the whole thing on a screen, with him. He was very nice, and apologized when he saw me crying from the pain. It took 3 times longer than he'd planned and I was numb in the leg from all the local shots the anaesthetist kept shooting me with to finish the deal. The next morning it was as if I hadn't had a shot at all, except for the huge bruises on my hip. All the pain plus some new from the needles and the interior efforts at getting into the joint.

The sum of our combined medical bills must exceed a million dollars. One of the group has had 14 surgeries around one nerve. His last neck surgery was a success only in that it didn't make him worse and he wasn't paralyzed, which was the risk. I've had more CT Scans, MRIs and x-rays than a person should have. Doctors have halted procedures in flagrante because other docs sent me back to radiology too soon. That's not a commonality to the others. However, each of us has been thru so many tests that availed doctors nothing that I have to wonder if the tests were necessary at all. It does seem to be the system they employ blanketly. But does it do anything else besides keep radiology busy and billing?

Ever have electrically charged needles pushed into your nerves to raise a noise on a machine? That's an EMG, an ElectroMiloGram. If you didn't have neuropathy before it, you will afterward, and for years. It's a pain you'll never forget, it will make you cry, it will change your outlook on life. It's what they use to measure nerve damage. There's no pain relief, barely a human element at all, as neurologists really aren't the warm type. But if you're being evaluated for any injury or unknown cause of pain, you'll probably be told to have one. Don't do it. You have the right to refuse. I consider it as barbaric as trepanning. Or waterboarding.

So is this just another rant without purpose? Well, yes and no. There's the point that though med pros may get a bit better care, they get the same carnival of souls treatment as the rest of us down the line. So where's the real dividing line in treatment? It's pretty apparent to me that it's economical.

For instance, I can cite 2 people who've needed hip replacements. 1 is an old acquaintance who's an importer with fabulous private insurance. The other is a local on Disability.

The importer had both hips replaced within 2 years and never lost a day to being disabled, as they replaced his hips at the first signs of degeneration. The first hip healed within 2 months after surgery and he was back traveling; on a cane for a while, but getting around nonetheless.. The second hip healed a little more slowly but he still lost only a couple additional weeks to PE before he was taking off to Europe on a buying trip. He has full use of his legs and you'd never know he has total hip replacements.

The local lived for 6 years in pain, becoming more and more unable to walk. They gave her a cane, then a walker. They wouldn't give her a motorized chair. Eventually she became housebound, then bedridden. She became morbidly obese. Her mental and emotional states were horrible. People took advantage of her incapacity. To her, it was a choice of being ripped off or being alone. Finally, someone advocated for her and she got her hip replaced. However, they'd waited so long that her leg was 2 inches shorter than the other, too much of a difference to adjust the parts to compensate. So she has a limp and a lift. She also got minimal PE, and now, 2 years after the THR, she is still on a cane or walker and some days she can't walk until she's pumped on narcotics. She won't be going back to work. And she's nearly ten years younger than the importer. And me.

Yes, medical care is given, but it's certainly based on how much money you have. Hers is the most glaring example, but I know of many, many others. Right down to a retired policeman on Medicare, denied a prescribed third hormone shot due to the expense. Or the AIDS patient on Medicare, a flaming queen, who was told he was just panicking when he'd had a stroke. The overweight new mother on Medicaid, told she should go home and take some antacid and not eat so much, when her gallbladder was about to burst. I'm certain that poor patients are treated as second class citizens. I see and experience it all the time.

So how to adjust this? I'm not sure even SPH would fix this. The insurance companies won't go out of business, so private insurance will continue, and doctors will always go for the full dollar over the 86% or whichever Medicare/aid pays now. Perhaps it would make a difference if unions and large companies dropped BC/BS, GHI, etc. and joined the rest of the public in a national health system. With that large a consumer pool, they'd be hard pressed to give poor care to those who have an option and aren't poor. In fact, the doctors' office staffs could no longer say "Medicaid, right?" with a sneer. They wouldn't necessarily know the poor from the middle class.

All of this is not to say that you're treated like filth to your face. Most of the time there remains the stonefaced politeness everyone gets. Nurses most often are the most alert and concerned for patients' wellbeing. Personally, I've had nurses that were angels and nurses that should've worked at Gitmo. It's further up the chain that the prejudice really shows- in the nontreatment, in decisions left to the system rather than the patient. And while it continues, patients are more beaten down, nurses become sick and tired of the stress, good docs do what they can and shake their heads.

It was recently disclosed that several local doctors are being investigated because of all the money pharma companies have been paying them. The docs and drugs in question are all psych specialties.

I once lived with a young doctor. He and his friends all became docs for the money and prestige, and no bones about telling you that with a dismissive laugh. I'll spare you their horrifying other stories, all told with laughter.

Sorry, no answers, no happy ending. I just know that nobody talks about these things and I'm determined these facts get out there. It really is true that there are things you can't understand, things you may deny, until it happens to you or yours. But they are happening. It's just that nobody tells you. Why don't people talk? Fear. Especially in small towns, if a doc has a problem with you, your name will be Mudd. It's medical blackballing, and I know 2 people who've been denied treatment by new docs because of what the old doc said. It's corrupt, it's lousy and it's true.

So if you're monied, congrats and expect good med experiences. If you're poor, lower your expectations. And your life expectancy.

Ego Fugis Ab Mea Gluteus Maximus

Fall came and went, winter started early and stayed, and I forgot to blog.

A surprise email brought me back here and while here, I thought may as well update.

Tommy is still healing, veeery slowly. He took a fall on the ice and rebroke a couple things, but he's hanging in there. He was sad he couldn't sing for Christmas services, but he's looking forward to Easter. He said this was the second best holiday he remembers, so that's cool. He's down to 160 lbs, as skinny as he was in HS. Ruth worried herself down to a size 8. Bet I wouldn't even recognize them. Scott spends most of his time out of the house, natch. He's 20 and in college. So all's pretty well in PA.

Billy has decided no more surgeries and who can blame him? He's drugged to the gills but goes to work every day. I worry about him driving in NJ that way. Mac stopped PE on her new hip too early and is still gimping around on it. It didn't change her back problems anyway. They're getting new windows on the house.

My grandniece Colleen beat us all by getting her book on a library shelf first. Her volume on the local cemetery will stay a research resource forever. All else is much the same with those out west, aside from things too personal for a blog.

We have a new president, and it's Obama. At some point I'll blog about that alone. I'm still blown away that it actually happened.

The holidays of double-aught 8 will be remembered as almost perfect, and so analogous to the holidays of 1969 that it makes me smile. Except I didn't miss singing "O Holy Night" in the Junior Choir solo this time. But I came down just as sick and slept all wrapped up on Kathleen's couch with the fireplace going. Christmas morning was like being kids again, tearing into presents and Harley getting in the mess.

Neglected Thanksgiving! A great day, with people coming and going and watching seasonal movies and then music. It was great to have Stevil back in form. The Cromptons were fun, Chris and Lise and Nancy and Ten.. good friends, lots of laughter.

And now it's 2009. I survived 2008, an annus horribilus, and made it to the other side. Disability came thru the first time (Thanks again, Bernie and Gretchen). No retro for the last 2 years, but who cares. I'm at least living on the poverty line now. The bills are paid, there's food in the house and I have some to share. Can't complain. There are still plenty of things to deal with (does that ever end?) but ya do what you can and let the rest go. The world's a strange and wondrous place. Just when you think you're sure of something, something will happen that makes you change what you know. I just try to fly by my ass.