Sorry folks, if some of your favorite bloggers have sent you over here for my part of a series of themed posts, and you found bupkis.

With the new job, my orientation schedule is chaotic, my sleep schedule is disrupted with the shifts I’ve been doing, and frankly, I’m just tired and stretched too thin. I’m overdue on several paid writing projects, editorial review on another book, and I haven’t posted on Star of Life in a coon’s age. I’ve been worried about a couple of friends, and it would seem the stress has finally caught up with me.

This blog has always been my stress relief and my creative outlet, and what sucks now is that the fatigue and stress has accumulated to the point that even my muse has deserted me. Matt, Marko, Tamara, LawDog and Labrat…sorry I dropped the ball, guys. There’s just nothing in the tank.

The job is fine, it’s just the transition and the training schedule that sucks.

I’m not shutting down the blog, or even taking a hiatus. But what I am going to do is knock out these paid projects this weekend, and take some time to recharge my batteries by spending some time with KatyBeth and an old friend I had thought was lost to me, someone who has miraculously reappeared in my life.

If anyone can bring back my muse, those two can. I’ll post something good for you guys on Monday.

When you partake in your Memorial Day barbecue today, try to remember a few things.

When the smoke from the grill blows into your eyes, try to imagine the terror of the young pilot as the smoke fills the cockpit of his F4 Wildcat, spiraling into the sea off Guadalcanal.

When you sample those pork ribs, remember the Iowa farm boy whose life blood stained the surf at Normandy.

When you eat a bite of potato salad, think of an Idaho preacher’s kid who died with a prayer on his lips, asking God to forgive him for the enemy soldiers’ lives he had taken.

When you welcome your niece’s new boyfriend to the table, remember the black kid from Mississippi who died right beside his white buddies in Vietnam, though he wasn’t even allowed to eat in the same restaurants back home.

When you scold your misbehaving grandchild, think of the little boy whose only knowledge of his father will come from stories told by family, because Daddy died on a dusty street in Fallujah while he was still in the womb.

When you fetch your wife another glass of tea, think of a young wife living in base housing at Fort Benning, as she hears the news that her husband died at Ia Drang.

When you invite Grandpa to say grace before the meal, think of young men cut down by a hail of fire from a Maxim at Belleau Wood.

When you reflect with pride on your daughter’s recent graduation, think of a young woman cartwheeling into the sea in her F14 Tomcat after a failed carrier landing.

When you look with distaste at the tattoos on her new boyfriend, think instead of the former gang kid from Detroit who found a way up and out of poverty in the Army, only to die from an IED blast in Baghdad. And remind yourself that what matters is how he treats your daughter, not the ink on his arms.

When you sit at the table, think of a Navy Captain, a husband and father, who died at his Pentagon desk on September 11. His death was no less honorable.

If you’re traveling today, think of the passengers of United Flight 93, for in a field outside Shanksville they became the first soldiers in our war on terror.

When your boys fight, as boys will do, remember the boys on both sides who died at Gettysburg.

If a loved one can’t make it to the gathering today, think of Mrs. Bixby and her five sons.

While your kids play in the pool this afternoon, think of other kids not much older, trapped below decks as the Arizona went under at Pearl Harbor.

When you take a shower tonight, think of young men reeking of machine oil and sweat, desperately trying, and failing, to surface their wounded submarine somewhere in the Pacific in 1943.

I tell you of these things not to spoil your appetite or your day, but to remind you that the things we enjoy in our lives are made all the sweeter when you consider what made them possible.

Remind yourself also that your sacrifice is infinitely easier. All you need do is sacrifice a moment of your time every few years to pull a lever. The way to honor a dead soldier is not simply to fly a flag on Memorial Day. Vote to preserve the freedoms they died defending.

And stop by your local Veteran’s Cemetery and put out some flowers on the grave of your choice. It need not even be the grave of someone you know.

Bring your children along, and explain to them why. It’s important.

NROM (waking with a start): “Shit, did I fall asleep? What did I miss, Dude?”

AD: “Something along the lines of ‘welcome to the largest, most bestest ambulance company ever, 75% employee-owned, warm, fuzzy, and with our best interests at heart’, I think.”

NROM: “No really, what were they saying?”

AD: “They’ll buy you three new uniforms every six months, match your 401k contribution at a 4:1 ratio, all the health insurance is free, with no deductible, 10% cost-of-living raises every year, and they’ll give you a pony on your first anniversary with the company.”

NROM: “Shit, no foolin’? That’s pretty good for a – hey, wait a minute…a pony?”

AD (winking): “Or something like that.”

NROM: “You’re not going to tell me what I missed?”

AD: “It’s all in your packet, Dude. Don’t sweat it. They did say they’ll pay us a $25 bounty for ratting out any co-worker who falls asleep in orientation. Thanks for paying my cable bill this month.”

NROM: “Don’t mention it. Wake me up when we’re dismissed.”

NROM (yawning and stretching): “About time. Hey Dude, what’s with the mannequins in the front of the room?”

AD: “I think those are the uniforms.”

NROM: “No way! Even the one on the right?”

AD: “That was the original uniform from the 1970s. Nice fashion statement, ain’t it?”

NROM: “Who the hell designed it, Herb Tarlek?”

AD: “I was thinking maybe Ralph Furley, but that works, too.”

***** after lunch *****

Orientation Coordinator (calling roll): “New Recruit Older Medic?”

NROM: “Yo.”

Orientation Coordinator: “Ambulance Driver?”

AD: “Call me AD. All my friends do.”

NROM (whispering): “Ass kisser.”

OC (haltingly): “Uh…this is a tough one…Gee-ya-co-mo?“

Impossibly Eager Brand Spanking New EMT (hotly): “That’s Jock-a-moe!”

OC (dubiously): “Guacamole?”

IEBSNEMT (gritting his teeth): “Jock. Uh. Moe.”

AD: “Forget it, kid. That’s one nickname that’s gonna stick.”

***** that night *****

NROM: “Shit, don’t tell me this is where we’ll be sleeping.”

AD: “Yeah, it does have kind of a summer camp kind of feel to it, doesn’t it?”

NROM: “I thought they were putting us up in hotel rooms.”

AD: “Well, when you pay $15 million bucks to build a facility, I suppose you want to start using it right away. Look at it this way: everything’s brand new, so no splooge stains on the mattresses. Where you gonna find a hotel that can say that?”

IEBSNEMT (peeking in the door): “Uh, is this Room 117?”

NROM: “Hey, Guacamole! Come on in and meet your new roomies!”

IEBSNEMT (bristling): “My name is Jock-a-”

AD: “Don’t argue with us, Guacamole. We’ve been medics since you were still shitting your namesake. How long have you been an EMT?”

Guacamole: “Thirty-six days.”

"color:rgb(0,0,153);">NROM: “How old are you, kid?”

Guacamole (blushing): “Nineteen.”

NROM: “You thinking what I’m thinking, AD?”

AD: “Yup. We have found our designated driver. Throw your shit on the spare bed, Guacamole, and grab your keys.”

Guacamole: “Where are we going?”

NROM: “To the nearest place that has beer, hot wings, and the Hornets game on television.”

Guacamole (smugly): “I know just the place. There’s a good titty bar right next door.”

AD: “Guacamole, this looks like the start of a beautiful friendship.”

Guacamole: “These damned blankets are thinner than dish towels, damn it! And your feet are touching mine now!”

AD: “Would you rather be playing footsie with him, or smelling his funky feet?”

Guacamole: “I’d rather be in a damned hotel room by myself!”

NROM: “Just go to sleep, kid. You’re gonna need your rest.”

NROM: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

AD: “It means that I sleepwalk, and you may be up all night leading me back to bed. I like to spoon, too, so if I crawl into bed with you, don’t make any sudden moves.”

Guacamole (laughing nervously in the dark): “You guys are just messin’ with me, right?”

AD (grinning evilly): “Good night, Guacamole. Pleasant dreams.”

***** fifteen minutes later *****

Guacamole: “Aaaaaaaaggghhhhh! What the hell was that?”

AD (creeeping stealthily back to bed): “God, I’d forgotten how fun rookies are!”

NROM: “Yep. Good for hours of fun and enjoyment.”

…on whether the ambulance driver had a basic grasp of the English language, and the ability to form coherent sentences.

But it may indeed explain why he’s only an ambulance driver, if it took him eight years to complete four years of medical school.

…I have a new column up at EMS1.com.

I’m putting on my Nomex skivvies in anticipation of the indignant howls of protest by Mr. Fixit, Detail Medic and others…

…which imitates life, which in turns rips off stories from some guy named Ambulance Driver.

I’ve just had my Major Caudill moment, although mine wasn’t as traumatic as Marko having one of his better essays ripped off and passed around teh Intarwebz and attributed to someone else.

Actually, I found mine rather funny.

I was going through some conference evaluations that arrived in the mail today. Inside were the usual mix; 90% excellent evaluations, some beefs with the venue’s sound system and climate control, a smattering of people who obviously wandered into the wrong session or didn’t bother to read the description in the program, the usual five percent or so that think I have a potty mouth, and ten or so that reminded me that my closing keynote speech should never run fifteen minutes long, especially since it was the last session of the day and there was, you know, beer to be drunk.

Nestled among the evaluations was this gem:

What a load of BS. The guy just told a bunch of stories straight off an internet site like they had actually happened to him.

Heh.

Aside from the popular jellyfish story – which I identified as a possible internet hoax – all the personal anecdotes I shared were either straight from my book or this blog. They have appeared nowhere else.

That means, as far as I can tell, that the fellow I’m accused of plagiarizing so blatantly is…me.

For some reason, that just tickles the shit out of me.

You’ll find last year’s ode to my mother on my left sidebar: A Love Song For Joyce.

Aside from being a professional martyr, my mother also was a talented artist with a wickedly funny sense of humor.

On a Mother’s Day over twenty years ago, she presented all each of her children with an identical painting – five in all. The painting depicted a peaceful cemetery on a lovely spring day, fresh flowers colorfully adorning each headstone…

…and smack in the middle, one ugly headstone fashioned to look like a beaten, weathered outhouse. The inscription on the door read:

Here lies Joyce Hazel Felts Wroten Grayson,
Who lived without an inch of backbone or an ounce of spine.
If you missed your chance to shit on her in life,
Please feel free to do so now.

Heh. That was my Mom.

And yes, I was on the crapper when I remembered what today was, and that memory came wafting back, so to speak.

Mom would be so proud.

That’s the ratio of patients I’ve seen to the patients the nurse has seen, over the past two shifts.

You know, the nurse that gets paid 50% more than I do. The one who is actually supposed to be assessing and triaging these patients, rather than just affixing her signature to the charts as she flits through the department every few hours like a phantom.

I think I’m about to go jam a pack of cigarettes up somebody’s ass.

…but my muse is on life support.

What with being unwillingly single, overworked, stressed, impending job changes, and just plain being depressed, I haven’t found much worth writing about. Everything that comes out just has no…flow.

And for someone whose best writing flows straight from brain to keyboard without much thought, that just sucks.

Bear with me, though. Go read my archives or something. I’ll be back up and posting something worth reading in a day or so.