The Importance of Being Frank

I had the extreme good fortune of seeing Frank Zappa perform a half-dozen or so times...the show I recall the best was Salt Lake City, circa 1985. FZ was originally booked to play at The Salt Palace, a god-awful sports arena with acoustics that were so bad it pretty much didn't matter what band was playing- all one heard was the sound of permanent hearing loss.

Luckily (for the fans) , Zappa didn't sell enough tickets for the Palace, so they moved the show next door to a small auditorium designed for symphonies- the sound was impeccable, the view from our third row seats was unbeatable and the skill of Zappa's band was on a level I have yet to see surpassed by anyone of any genre - and I have seen a lot of bands since 1985.

Frank would often light a cigarette and watch as one of his bandmates- such as Steve Vai- played a solo...after few minutes, he'd stick the cigarette in the strings of his own guitar's headstock, which was the signal that he was about to play his solo, which he would do until the cigarette was almost burning the guitar...oh, man...nobody had guitar attitude like Frank Zappa. Frank was better than almost anyone alive and he knew it. He didn't have to boast or talk it up, he just played and when he did there wasn't much you could do but stand in mute awe and try to absorb as much as possible, hoping to retain some fleeting bit of the creative mojo that came so easily to Zappa but so rarely touches most of us.

Years later, I was descending the stairs of a stage here in Fallentown after one of my own concerts and an excited young man approached me.

"You must listen to a lot of Zappa", he said, " you play a lot like Frank."

That was the highest compliment I have ever received, although I'm nowhere near the caliber of FZ. Few are.

If you really want to play like Zappa, it helps if you are Zappa. Dweezil Zappa, that is. I was interested in this show, but the $32 price tag was way out of reach...so I asked for free tickets on the virtue of my overall coolness- and got them!
So last Thursday night, a friend and I want to see Frank's son Dweezil play a concert of his father's material. When we arrived, all I could see was a jumbo screen playing concert footage of FZ himself...was this the warm-up, we wondered? On tip-toe, I could see the band...they were playing along to old footage while a roadie was trying to isolate the malfunction on Dweez's amplifier...a bad cable, I think...once all the tech difficulties were straightened out, his band- featuring FZ stalwart Ray White and a cast of great young players ( the sound was so bad I couldn't catch their names during the introductions)- launched into a 'best of' medley that lasted three hours, finishing with 'Muffin Man' and 'Illinois Enema Bandit'.
Awesome.


Zappa really did love his fans and he passed that on to Dweezil. After the show, he stayed on stage, shaking hands and giving autographs to dozens of fans, myself included.

"Your father would be proud", I said. It was loud and I don't know if he heard me, but I know it's true- what father wouldn't be proud to see their son carry on the family tradition- especially when it's a musical legacy as rare and powerful as Zappa's?

I spent most of the next day playing the riff from 'Muffin Man' over and over again on my guitar. It was pointless but quite gratifying.

Until my mixer exploded, that is. Every light that could go RED did go RED and a horrible buzzing sound blew out the speakers on my cheap stereo. I checked my receipt...the warranty expired 30 days ago. Fuck.
Might as well take a drive, get some food, calm down.

My engine died. After months of auto-drama and thousands of wasted dollars, I blew a cylinder and now my Volvo is little more than a giant Swedish paperweight.
Now I can't use it to not drive myself to the job I didn't get on Friday.

Except for the great show Thursday, my life has become pretty goddamn unbearable. For the first time in months, I have found myself thinking about drinking again, and how easy it would be to lose all my problems by crawling into the bottle and never coming out again...but, no.
Not gonna happen- I have too many things to do. The thought of drinking scares the shit out of me, which is exactly what it should do. As long as I have fear, I will be sober. I have lots of fear.

I have fun too:

I have a radio show today at 3PM, Songs from the Big Hair, which is our weekly 1980's program. I found a concert CD that has Dweezil's first ever live performance on it-, it's from 1984- Dweezil is 15 years old and he trades licks with his father on 'Sharleena' ...how cool is that?
I've got more Zappa lined up- I'll be carrying my tribute over to tomorrow morning's show...I might have to walk 20 blocks through cold rain to play my old Zappa records, but, by gum, that is what I'm gonna do.

There are a lot of things I can't seem to do- pay rent, eat, find a girlfriend, etc.- but there is one thing I can always do, and that thing is playing music.

After my show is over tomorrow, I'm gonna go home and play 'Muffin Man' until my fingers hurt.
Why?
Because I can.

Circuit Breaker

I am burnt. Shattered. Toasted.
It's been a long week. Too many problems all at once.
It all caught up to me when I called my grandmother late last week. She is in a 100-day convalescent program to determine if she will be able to return home or if she will need assisted living.
No one except my granny thinks she can complete the rehabilitative therapies.
When I talked to her, she could barely speak; I don't know if it she was drugged or not, all she could do was cough. Into the phone.
LOUDLY.
Then she would gasp and cough again.
"A...A..Allan? * HACK* "is that y..*HACK!..*gasp*..."
I tried to keep talking about the nice weather and the pie my neighbors gave me; about how my car runs better now ( omitting the fact I spent my vacation money on it), but I couldn't maintain my composure.
Her coughing was causing me physical pain and her palpable suffering was shutting me down emotionally.

Here comes the panic. Every problem, real or imagined, was being encoded into my grandmother's tortured breath and passed along the telephone wires until it reached the bullhorn I was staring into on the other end.

I can't breathe either, I want to tell her, but I can't speak. I can't think. Panic.
Forgive me, but I'm having a freakscene attack and I can't talk.
I love you. Goodbye.
I had to take two Ambien before I could sleep that night.

Saturday, I took my panic pills in the morning. I almost never do that but I felt twigged even before I showered.
I did two loads of laundry; swept the apartment; did the dishes; bought groceries and made a nice green chile, rice and cilantro dish; scrubbed the litterbox closet and started organizing my comic collection. I kept getting distracted by reading them so I didn't get far with that.

I did everything except what I was supposed to do, which was to drive north and sit by my grandmother's side.

The guilt from this dereliction kept me awake all night and I had to do my early morning radio show with barely any sleep. Now I'm too exhausted to make the six-hour round-trip, so I'll take my guilt to bed with me again tonight. Maybe I will visit on the Fourth.

Anyway, I did manage to do my show:

Soweto Gospel Choir- Many Rivers to Cross
I do not think that one must necessarily believe in God in order to draw strength from spiritual music. This song just sounds good to me.

Talking Heads- Take Me To The Water
More river music.

Peter Tosh- You Can't Fool Me Again
Perhaps you can't, but someone very much like you can. And has. And will.Again.

Damien Dempsey- Celtic Tiger
"I am your Goddess Greed, you shall have no God but me"

Fairport Convention- The Way I Feel
I don't recall what I was dreaming about, but in it, this song was playing. Who says dreams never come true?

Clarence Fountain & 5 Blind Boys- Lift Me Up
All the way to Olympus.

Loreena McKinnett- Gates of Istanbul
It's almost as if you were there.

Kinks- Waterloo Sunset
I believe that this is one of the most beautiful pop songs of all time.

Clash- Hate and War
Lest we get too complacent, let's remember what's really happening in the world.

Emmylou Harris- Here I am
At the end, the songs picks up a percolating, electronically-assisted groove as Emmylou announces her presence. Sweet production , sweet voice.

Camon Friel- Yanks
"If ya wanna make money, ya gotta sing like one"

Grace Slick/Paul Kantner- Walkin'
Wandering through the wasteland.

10 CC- Sand In My Face
Dynamic Tension!

Gary Numan- M.E.
Why should I care? Why should I try?
Oh no. Oh no.
I turn off the pain like I turned off you all
Now there's only M.E.
Gary Numan sure has some cheery lyrics.

Fiona Joyce- The Juggler
This is a current release from a St. Clair Records promo compilation. I don't like a lot of the stuff in their catalog, but Joyce is wonderful.

Graham Central Station- Can't Stand The Rain
It's warm and sunny and I can't stand feeling this tired on such a nice day. I'll pretend it's raining and try not to feel guilty about not visiting my grandmother.

Savoy Brown- Poor Girl
This song is for Moon Pie. Moon Pie was a girl I used to live with whose head and ass were both pale, nearly-perfect spheres; reminding me of twin Moons. I never did explain this term of endearment to her.

Pretty Things- Bitter End
Phil May feels your pain. What a great, underated band the Pretties were.

Atomic Rooster- Don't Know What Went Wrong
Story of my life. Same old song, don't know what went wrong, etc etc...

Lou Reed- Leave Me Alone
Really. I have maximum straws on my back.

Eleni Mandell- I Love Paris
I wish her records were easier to find. Perhaps in Paris?

Steeleye Span- Lowlands of Holland
After your husband drowns at sea, it's laments , homesickness and sorrow from there on out.

Maire Brennan- Beating Hearts
Yesterday I was outside, using a broom to beat the cat hair and dust out of my throw rugs. It's amazing how much crap is in those things. It reminded me of this song's title.

Marianne Faithfull- Broken English
I dedicated this song to "my good buddy in the UK, Tony B. Naming you envoy to the Middle East makes as much sense as making Pete Rose commissioner of baseball." I wonder if anyone knew what I was talking about?
What are we fighting for? It's not my security!
No shit.

Flaming Groovies - She's Falling Apart
She's my foundation.She keeps me standing. Now she's falling apart.
Dude. Eggs in one basket...tsk.

Golden Palominos - Pure
She has never felt so pure...
This song is so groovy and sexy that it almost always gets a call :"who is that? This is cool etc".
I love it when people call and ask what they just heard.

Velvet Underground- Train Goin' Round The Bend
I honestly don't know how I made it through the week, but I did.
Now it's over and it's time to rest. Maybe I'll scrub the bathtub...

Don't Join The Baby Seal Club

I think I have undergone a cuddly, Kafkaesque transformation. Unlike Gregor Samsa in Kafka's famous The Metamorphosis, I do not wake up and find that I have become a vile giant insect. I wake and am somewhat slow in realizing that I have changed into a precious Baby Seal.

Goddamn, but I am a cute bastard, I think as I look into the mirror. And it is true, for I am adorable. I'm a baby motherfuckin' seal!

Hello Mr. Bus Driver!

Hello My Favorite Passenger!

The driver grins and lowers the wheelchair access ramp for me so I can waddle aboard.
A disembarking gentleman gently lifts me into one of the front seats before stepping off onto the sidewalk. He waves goodbye.
I make a squeaking sound, pleased.

The entire bus erupts in cheers and applause, two dozen beaming smiles light the vehicle's interior with a warmth that would make roses bloom. I resist the urge to take a bow, a prudent caution given that I have no legs or waist with which to bow.

Instead, I wiggle my flippers in happy reply.

They love me, I think.

I love them back. It's a special feeling on the bus. This is the bus to happiness and I am it's happiest passenger.
We are riding on paradise and I'm the only one who knows it.
It shouldn't be a secret.
Who should I tell?
I tell everyone I see, and they all concur.
Some of the people even give me sardines.
Life is good. You don't have to be a baby seal to know that.

At lunchtime, I try to tell this to the Fur Trappers.
Using mallets, they bludgeon me to the edge of extinction.
Crimson stains blossom on my snow-white coat.

I escape their nets and somehow manage to make it back to my lodgings.
On my porch, someone has left a bucket of herring guts decorated with a ribbon. I nourish myself with this gift and my wounds quickly mend, my fur regains it's unsullied fuzzy whiteness.

Ahhh...

And that's how it's been the last two days. Everyone I meet either wants to cuddle and feed me or they want to beat me with blunt objects and flay me alive. That's how people react to baby seals. Cuddle or destroy. Compassion or cruelty.
There are no minor events, only the grandest of celebrations and the starkest of tragedies.

Ahhh...*ahem*

Dude. Don't you think that just maybe you are getting a bit worked up over a few bills and petty aggravations? Why don't you change back into a human and start over, and try making sense this time, eh?

Um. Ok.

Well, yesterday sucked. But I can't go into that here because it involves 150 other people.

So...good news!

Today I finally got my raise! It's only a few cents an hour, but it's retroactive to the beginning of the year- I am suddenly two hundred dollars ahead!

When I got home, my mailbox was jammed with bills. First I open my power bill.

Good news! The power company has issued me a credit for nearly $175! I had been over-charged last summer, something I thought was a lost cause, but someone must have filed a class action or something...I dunno, all I know is I won't have a power bill for months!

Hot Buttery Damn! How often do you open the power bill and do a Snoopy Dance?
First, a retroactive raise and then a credit from the Electric. Now I'm $375 ahead!

Keep on rollin'...

The cable bill is exactly what it should be. The last one.
I have canceled my cable and decided to save the money for better things: fifty bucks a month = $600 a year. That's airfare to London, that's what.

This makes me pause and think of other good news- today I got confirmation from the State Department that I will have my Passport within three weeks. Application approved! Anyway...

That leaves the phone bill, which is always the same.

Except it's not. It's $375 more than it should be. I have let my guard down and Verizon has shafted me to the tune of ninety cents a minute- for 400+ minutes! After sifting through the gobbledegook, I find that next month my DSL goes up from $15 to $40. Injury! Insult!


Screw that. I had to work my ass off to get that $15 price- years ago, Verizon had tacked me with $400 of long-distance that I contested-and won.
After they cleared my account , I was so mad I told them to cancel me, I was switching. To appease me and keep me on-board, they offered me ultra-cheap DSL and a cheap long-distance plan that was subject to change.
Frickin' fine print. Damn me for missing it.

I called the competition and got my services switched- at about half the price. The slight increase in my new DSL is offset by the savings on the phone, so I feel pretty good about it- I'll save about twenty bucks a month...

Hmmm...for twenty bucks extra, the new company will add digital cable w/ a year of HBO.

Sold!

Dude. So after all that kvetching and gnashing, you are basically even, money-wise, as well as being a few steps closer to travel? Things have evened out and as a bonus you also get cable TV again . Is that what you mean? Is it?

Uh...yeah. I guess it is. Balance is maintained and all that. Harmony, y'know?

So have you learned anything from this?

Um...it's better to act like a man than to feel like a seal?

Welcome to the world. Have a sardine.

Saved By The Bell

The robots have taken control of the station. In the movies there's always a kid genius who hacks into the network and saves the day at the last minute. Where is that kid now? I ain't him.

Band De Soleil- Woman on the Floor
This song is twelve minutes long, which makes it a great one for playing when things are breaking down.
Michelle Malone makes her guitar weep in the language of wah and I wish I could play this song louder but I'm busy troubleshooting...I'm forced to call outside help and that is not something I am used to doing or enjoy much. A phone call is made and order is restored during D. Bigay's drum solo. Anyway, I'm listening to it now because I missed it on Sunday.

Replacements - Kick Your Door Down
Having to deal with misbehaving computers at 6:30 am pisses me off and makes me wanna play my punk rock records. "Your radio is playing way too loud and it don't sound like me!"
Goddammit, it should sound like me! Turn that shit UP.

The Kinks- This is Where I Belong
I need this song to help get me back in the here. It's not long enough. Close.

Pretty Things- Passion of Love
This isn't even the song I wanted to play. I wanted to play Not Givin' In...fuck, this new song sounds like the Pretties circa 1965- not 2000ish. I liked them best in 1968-1971.

Jefferson Airplane- Feel So Good
This is from an Airplane LP but it's really just Hot Tuna in disguise. Go, Jorma, go!

Television- Friction
Many years ago, the bar I worked at had enough musicians employed to form a cover band for the X-mas party. One of the other guitarists chose this song- I was just a beginner and the guy gave me a copy of the LP Marquee Moon. I was advised to listen. I did. I still have that LP. Just played it...
"I start to spin the tale/ you complain of my dick -shun/
You give me friction/F-R-I-C-T-I-O-N"
(thank you Billy- wherever you are)

Lou Reed - Nowhere at All
I'm still in a sour mood and need this sort of song to settle me down by pumping me up- I goddamn love Lou Reed..."somebody's got to help me".

Damien Dempsey- Marching Season
Am I the only American who knows who this guy is? He's fookin' great and if you have an 8am mad-on at the world, then this is the perfect song for you. Honk!

Jethro Tull- Acres Wild
Today I skipped work and got a copy of my birth certificate, which is required to obtain a passport, which I will need if I ever want to see what Ian Anderson is singing about. And I do.

Clannad- Struggle
Isn't it a struggle? Of course it is. So what? Play on.

Fairport Convention- Walk Awhile
Tomorrow my car goes into the garage for inspection and a (hopefully) minor repair.

The Stranglers- Who Wants the World?
Fuck, I don't know. I live inside my head.

Manzanera/Eno/801 Live- Miss Shapiro/ You Really Got Me
One of the best unknown live albums ever.Brian Eno singing the Kinks...this came out before that Van Halen silliness.

Gentle Giant- As Old As You're Young
Are you as old as you seem? You are? Excellent.

Genesis- Lilywhite Lilith
"The chamber was in confusion.." are the first words to this song- it's what I thought of when I walked into the studio this morning- took me a while to get it cued, but the fade segued perfectly into the chanting at the beginning of the next song, an accident of fortune, or something more?

Loreena McKinnett- The Mystic's Dream
Gorgeous. Calms me down, gotta make some announcements...let's pick up the pace.

Chris Spedding- Breakout
"When the music breakout..." Doin' the slow-pogo (slogo) around the booth, don't wanna make the record skip..."we've been psychedelicized/ we've had our booties re-fried"

Joe Strummer- Get Down Moses
This is on CD so I can jump up and down as much as I want to, which is a lot.

Hawkwind- D Rider
Whoa...I can still feel the acid I took back in 1984...this album was old then. Being able to play this on the air is a truly sublime thrill for me.

Can - Dizzy Dizzy
Yeah, back to my theme of spontaneous disorientation...man, I just can't quite click. My clever ad libs turn to gibberish- luckily, it all makes sense in the context of Can.

Steve Hillage- Unidentified Flying Being
Gong- I Never Glid Before
Steve's a saucer nut and Gong have an entire mythology of their own, complete with Pot-Head Pixies and Teapot Taxis so pretty much anything I say about them sounds crazy...in a very good way. Steve Hillage was THE Gong guitarist...Alan Holdsworth might've been the better player, but Hillage had the sound. I'll take the sound.

Klaatu- Calling Occupants...
What the hell made me play this? I remember someone telling me this band was the Beatles in disguise...turns out it was some studio hacks from Canada. I think that Captain and Tennille or maybe the Carpenters (or both?) covered this song. No matter who played it, it's annoying the shit out of me.

Blue Oyster Cult- Kick Out The Jams
Dammit, this is more like it! Sure wish I still had my MC5 vinyl.

Be-Bop Deluxe- No Train to Heaven
Bill Nelson is so, like, totally underrated...he's tried all sorts of styles- even wearing makeup like Bowie- but nothing hides the fact that he's a guitar nut at heart. Dude likes to solo- as well he should.

Bob Dylan- Long Distance Operator
PJ Harvey- Send His Love To me
You either get this or you don't. I'm hoping that you do.

Talking Heads- Paper
I think this song is about my friend X's new dog and his attempts at house-breaking it.
"don't think I can get it- on the paper/ don't think I can fit it - on the paper"
Dude. Some things they pass right through.

Anyway, my show was a mess and I left feeling all scrambled,it was only 9AM, but it set my tone, so to speak...I was in a jumbled funk all day. I played guitar, tried to blog, took a long walk...nothing helped. It was just one of those long, useless days.

This feeling carried over into this morning. I just couldn't function at all.

I could barely manage to call in sick.

When I hung up, I felt better. I really do think my (paying) job is very bad for my mental health...hanging in for now...anyway, I didn't want to waste today. Yesterday was bad enough.

One of the good/bad things about being a (unpaid) DJ/Programmer is having to review CD's. We get a LOT of CDs at the station and someone has to listen to them, evaluate the songs and make suggestions (if any) on what to play. Sometimes this is great fun and sometimes it is sheer torture, but it needs doing.

I think I'm the only DJ we have that delves into Celtic music, so I wound up with a stack of "Celtic Journeys" CD's in my box. Hmmm...stock photography on the covers, looks like it's being marketed to New Age Soccer Moms, this doesn't look like it's going to make my goat float, if you know what I mean.

Surprisingly, I was able to find at least one decent song on each CD- except the one called "An Instrumental Journey" , which, were it a screenplay, would likely be written by Alan Smithee. In the UK, an elevator is referred to as a "lift". That CD is "lift" music. Ugh.

One CD featured a song called Cry Over You by Fiona Joyce, whom I had never heard of
before. It's the last track on the last CD I reviewed and it made the whole ordeal worthwhile.
Ms. Joyce is a beautiful singer and this song is a heart-breaker for sure, but what really turned me on- what made me save the song as a .wav file and not as an mp3- was the sound of the cymbals, the uncredited drummer's touch on the bell of the cymbal is captured perfectly, changing just so , following the words...a drum machine can't do that.

Beautiful.

It was worth listening to four hours of Druid Muzak to get to that bell. That bell was ringing for me.
I needed it and there it was.

Magic.

Honk

I have an early childhood memory of riding in a car with two of my adults, but without my brother. I think I was four or five and it was probably 1969 or 70, but I'm not sure and there's no one for me to ask.
We were winding our way through the West Virginia mountains and were forced to go very slowly because the car in front of us was barely creeping along. The steep mountainous roads were narrow, full of cutbacks and blind turns and it was impossible to find a passing zone; there was nothing to be done other than to follow the slow car at it's own pace. In hindsight, it had to have been going pretty slow; we were in a VW Beetle and I don't think that little car was much of an uphill racer.

I was in the backseat, reading comic books and I wasn't really concerned about going fast or getting anywhere. During my childhood I moved a lot. I was always going somewhere I didn't want to, often without any warning at all, so a slow ride to nowhere was fine with me.
I had my books, that is where I wanted to go.

My adults were considerably more tense.

"Goddamn son-of-a- fucking bitch, get off the fucking road!", screamed the male adult behind the wheel.

Where? How? There's a forest on one side and a cliff on the other.

My driving adult started honking the horn. Honk! Honk!

The car in front of us maintained it's sluggish speed.

"You stupid fucking asshole! Drive, you dumb motherfucker!" Honk! Honk!

Then he started tailgating the car, pulling to within a few feet of it's rear bumper. I looked up between the two seats to see what all the shouting was about and saw that the car in front had two elderly people in it and the female passenger had turned around in her seat and was looking at us.

It was a look of fear. She was trying to mouth some sort of message, a plea or explanation.
She ended with a weak, apologetic smile and held up her hand, palm facing us.

Calm down please. Stay back a bit, OK?

"Goddamned stupid fucking wrinkled old cunt," yelled my adult. Then he gave the old lady the finger. She blanched , turned around and said something to the gentleman who was driving. His panicky eyes reflected back at us in his rear-view mirror. He reached for something with his left hand.

In front of us, the car's Hazard lights started flashing.

Inside our vehicle, my adult was screaming bloody murder. He was preparing to throw a half-empty beer bottle forward through our open sunroof.

"Don't," said my other adult, a woman whose name I cannot recall.

She reached for the man's arm and our car swerved, almost colliding with a Ford Econoline coming the opposite direction. The driver of the van honked his horn, cursing us with his finger.

The two adults started yelling at each other and I went back inside my comic book.

After some time, we came to an overlook and the car in front of us pulled off the road, allowing us to pass. My adult cursed some more and flung the now-empty bottle out of our car as we sped by, the tiny VW engine revving in the trunk behind me.

I don't recall where we were going or where we were coming from, but I do remember one thing: I remember what I was told after we got there.

My female adult found a moment to talk to me alone. She thought that the man's violent display of anger and rage might have upset me and she wanted to comfort me. This yelling and throwing wasn't anything unusual in my experience, but she didn't know that, so she tried to explain an idea to me. An important idea.

"Allan, I want you to remember something. I want you to remember how [ my male adult] acted when we were on that road. When you are old enough to drive, you will be stuck behind cars just like that and I want you to remember this. This is important."

Important enough to stop reading Spider-Man?

"Yes. Put the book down. You see, sometimes cars break down and they can't go very fast. Sometimes cars get tired or sick or wear out and when they go up and down hills it is hard for them to go the same speed as the cars around them. But unless you are in that car, you can't tell what's wrong with it. There might be nothing wrong with it at all and it might the hill that is the problem, but you can't know that. Yelling and screaming at it isn't going to help it move any faster, the car can only go as fast as it can go. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Yes, I lied, and returned to Spider-Man's world.

Today, I am ashamed to admit that I do not know who this woman was. I feel a sting of guilt and humiliation because she was trying very hard to teach me something and it took me over thirty years to understand it. Back then, I had no idea what she was talking about- all I wanted to do was read my comics. I didn't care about cars, all I knew of cars is that I seemed to live in them nearly as much as I lived in houses.

Like cars, houses sometimes broke and stopped working and the proper adult thing to do in either case was to yell, scream, get drunk and break things- in no particular order. That's what grown-ups did.

And when I grew up, that is what I did. Because I had forgotten what she said.

It wasn't until I found myself driving a fucked-up old Plymouth station wagon up a long, steep grade on a very similar stretch of road that I even recalled her words, much less understood them. The old beater was straining and it still wouldn't do more than 35, which was the posted limit, I believe.
It wasn't long before a trail of vehicles had queued up behind me, honking and flashing their headlights. I'm sure there was cursing, but I had one eye on the road and the other on the thermostat and couldn't hear them over the engine's death rattling...my car was struggling.

When the road widened to include a third lane, the parade of cars that passed each took their turn at cursing me .
Some of them yelled.
Some of them flipped the bird.
Others did both.

Every single driver had a deep and personal anger, hatred really,and it was directed at me- just for being on the same road as them. I was going as fast as I could and I wasn't breaking the law. I was just there and they hated me for it. It was mean in spirit, and worse, it was cruel. It reminded me of the past and that is always cruel. To some degree, anyway.

I wasn't in much better condition than the car that I was driving at that time. Circumstance and addiction had put me in a dark and haunted place, and by the time the last car- a BMW convertible driven by a woman who would have been beautiful if she hadn't been yelling "motherfucker!" at me- passed by, I was devastated. I arrived home in tears and went straight to the bottle and stayed there until all thoughts of screaming, all sights and sounds of honking cars and women who hated me had been blotted from my mind.
I was forgetting when I should have been remembering.

A lot of time has passed since then, but I remember what the mystery woman was trying to tell me. I know those words. I don't recall when they started making sense to me, but they do now.

It's not complicated.

It's simple. It applies to everything we do and since what I am doing right now is blogging, I will try to apply her wisdom to that.

Imagine that blogging is a sort of road- an internet highway, if you will.
Catchy metaphor, eh?
Let's consider blogs as cars and bloggers as drivers.

Imagine that there are thousands of lanes on this highway- more lanes than traffic could ever need. Most of the lanes are clear in both directions as far as the eye can see.

Now picture a sedan plugging along on the shoulder of this vast road. Maybe it's going as fast as it can, maybe not; in any case it's off the main lanes and it isn't blocking anyone. There are no flares or SOS signs.

In a passing car, another driver sees this, peels off the highway and slides onto the shoulder behind the slower vehicle. The driver follows the sedan at a distance of less than five feet.

From that close it's easy to read the bumperstickers on the leading car.

The stickers identify the politics, spirituality and sexuality of the car's driver, as well as a half-dozen other traits and opinions specific to that person.

They aren't the same as those of the driver of the second car.

So the driver of the second car starts cursing at the car in front. Personal words based on information scanned from stickers - words of hatred and rage, wielded like a weapon; a full-auto, hi-capacity handgun of hate. Aimed at the back of a stranger's head.

They honk their horn: HONK! HONK! GO FASTER!

And they curse: MOTHERFUCKER! I HATE YOU!

In the first car, the driver looks behind them and wonders: Why don't they just pass me?There are a hundred empty lanes. Why the hell are they yelling at me?

Meanwhile, back on the highway, cars roll by.

Some of the drivers look over and ask:
-What is that asshole yelling about?
-Why don't they just get back in their own lane and keep moving?
-Don't they have anything better to do?

When I see hateful, harmful and even abusive unsolicited comments left on the blogs of others, I tend to form a very low opinion of the person who left them.
Do you see them too?
What do you think?

It makes me think of a mad driver, too preoccupied with someone else's bumperstickers to notice that they themselves are driving erratically, swerving dangerously close to the cliff on the far side of the shoulder.

YELL! HONK!

Swerve.

There's a squeal of tires, a shriek of metal as the guardrail gives way.

10,000,000 lanes to choose from and some will always choose the cliff.

And they will honk all the way to the bottom.

Diagnosis, Pt .2

I had to go to my doctor's this morning for a physical and evaluation of my COPD. The nurse took my weight and BP etc, and then she gave me a 'system check' form to fill out while she went to get the EKG machine and the doc.
The form was basically a long list of symptoms and maladies with a yes/no box next to each one. This is a good idea- it helped remind me to ask about some minor aches that I have been ignoring since my COPD diagnosis on Monday.

I marked the appropriate boxes and an EKG was done. Let's look in this hole. And that hole.
Awww...do we have to look in that hole?
Breath into this. Inhale. Blow.

After I had been hyperventilated, poked and EKG'd, my doc asked me how I was feeling.

"I've been on the edge of a constant panic attack since Monday. My meds are not helping one bit. I am exhausted."

"Hmm...", he looked at the form I had filled out and asked why I had written "COPD" in big letters at the very top.

Because, I told him, that was the X-ray result I was given by your nurse on Monday.

He was puzzled.

It turned out that the radiologist's analysis- which is not intended as a diagnosis - was given to me over the phone before my long-time doctor had even reviewed the 'Rays. I was given a guess on Monday.

I do not have emphysema . I do not have COPD or lung cancer.
Lung cancer killed my mom and it's a deep fear of mine and worrying about it has been pushing me to the edge- but I'm spot-free.

I do have some very mild scarring in my upper lung lobes, but if I don't smoke, it won't get worse. I can expect the odd asthma attack, no big deal.
And I have a strangely shaped diaphragm in my chest- probably from birth- it is just slightly less effective at aiding the breathing process than a 'normal' person's.

Hell, yesterday I had to run uphill two blocks to catch my bus and I wasn't winded at all- since I quit drinking I have dropped fifty pounds , been exercising and eating well and I feel better than ever. How could I have emphysema? I have smoked a lot of pot, but never cigarettes.

Anyway, my doctor thinks that much of my discomfort is from stress and tension.
Duh.
Yeah, being misdiagnosed with an incurable disease or two will make you tense alright- last year my Granny was told she had a week or less to live- I just called her today and gave her my good news. She's feeling well.
My uncle was diagnosed with lung cancer a few years back. His second opinion found flaws in the lab and x-ray work. He merely had pneumonia and survived.

That sort of thing will pluck one's nerves.

I feel a lot more relaxed now though. Much better.

Thanks to all my pals for the many well wishes!

Note to self: The next time I get lab results from a nurse I will ask "Has the doctor seen these yet?"