Mary and Matthew

I stood on the crest of a moonlit hill, looking down at the sea of graves that separated me from my lover and I asked myself a question.
Is this worth it?
I didn't know, so I hopped the low iron fence and started across the cemetery that served as a short-cut to Mary's house.

Our house, but not for long.

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I met Mary when I was 19 and she was 30. It was at a club that no longer exists. She was short, auburn-haired and rather plain-looking; a brooding, neurotic drug dealer with a violent temper and a half-wild wolfhound named Gwen. My kinda gal.

I don't recall what was said when we first met-the music was horrible and loud- our first words were probably: "what? huh?" , but she grabbed my hand, pulled me out of the crowd and announced her intentions very clearly. We walked to her nearby house and , three or four months later, she decided that I should move in with her. I was living in a Dude House at the time, so I was ready to accept this offer. I told my roommates to rent my room to the next Dude in line and my belongings started making their way to Mary's home, one backpack at a time. Neither of us had a vehicle, but I didn't own much that wouldn't fit into a rucksack, so the move was made one day at a time, over the course of a month.

In the 30 days before I moved in I started not noticing a number of things that I should have noticed...Mary, for instance, had plenty of her own cocaine- yet mine was disappearing at an alarming rate- and Mary, who was a cook at a fancy hotel during the day, suddenly started working a lot of nights- but with no extra pay to show for it. In fact, the more she 'worked', the more money she had to borrow from me and the more of my blow vanished. Hmmm.
But I was 19 , stupid and unwilling to accept the fact that my girlfriend was trying to destroy me. And herself.

One afternoon I noticed a strange new painting in her living room. There was something familiar... had I seen it before?. I asked Mary about it. She gave me a curious answer:
"Oh, that. My friend stole that from the Museum. I'm holding onto it for him until things cool down."
It started to dawn on me that not only was my girlfriend a drug dealer, she was also a criminal.

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The day before the move was complete, Mary called me at a friend's house.

We need to talk. Now.

Why?

I am in trouble. We are in trouble.

Are you calling from jail?

No. Just come over now. We won't see each other again until Sunday and this can't wait.

When I reached the other side of the graveyard, I crawled through a well-used hole in the chain link fence and stood at the end of Mary's street. I made a slow, circling approach, looking for police or FBI vehicles...the neighborhood looked normal. Mary didn't.

Mary looked insane. Her normally narrow eyes were wide with cocaine intensity as she told me the news: She was pregnant. I thought we'd been careful, but...

Wow. I was only 19 and I had some serious misgivings about making a lifetime investment with a woman who was revealing herself to be more and more dangerous every day. I was terrified, my mind was wrapped in tentacles of fear and doubt...this wasn't happening...couldn't be...oh, my God...
Suddenly, I knew.

Am I the father?, I asked.

I don't think so, she replied.

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With those words still ringing through my head, I found myself on the squalid basement doorstep of my friend Matt, who lived nearby. Matt was a junkie and he had knowledge that I needed.

"Matt, I need you to show me how to shoot up."
I threw a bag of coke on his table.

"Whoa...why? Are you sure? What's going on?"

I started telling him the whole sorry tale, but he stopped me.

"I know", he said. " She has been coming over here with that guy and shooting up. I didn't know it was your stash. Sorry."

"Wh...why didn't you tell me?"

"What would you have done?"

I thought about that question. "I probably would have hit you", I answered.

"You see?", said Matt.

"Well, fuck that bitch...just show me how to use the fucking needle and I'll be on my way- you can keep that bag." I had plenty of coke, more than enough to OD, which was what I wanted.

Matt looked at me and for a moment the jaundice seemed to lift from his eyes.

"No. I won't help you with this. Look at my life- is this what you want?"

As if on cue, a large rat crawled out of his kitchen sink and into a cupboard. It acted as if it knew the route well.

"Allan", he continued," nothing is worth this. Mary is a lost cause. I am a lost cause. Don't be a lost cause. Don't get into this shit...I will not help you do this. Put your coke back in your pocket and stick it up your nose or up your ass, but you are not sticking it in your arm, not here."

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I didn't see Matt again for over ten years; I assumed that he had died, but he hadn't. During an afternoon stroll , I passed a house and Matt was perched on the porch, painting the windows. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the building.

"Climb on up!"

So I did. Matt had been clean for years and he looked great. He was getting married- or maybe he already had- I forget the details, but his life had turned completely around. Things were looking up for him.

I was doing pretty good too...I hadn't done coke for years and the drinking hadn't caught up with me yet. I was enjoying life. It was nice to see Matt. I had something to tell him.

"Matt", I said, "you saved my life back then. I never told you that, but you did. I don't know how to repay you."

"You don't", he told me.

"You don't?"

"No", he tried to explain. "I didn't do that for you. I did that for me. You don't owe me anything."

I didn't quite understand that at the time, but I do now.

It's never too late to say thank you.

Thank you.

Mother of all Defense Mechanisms

Shortly before Christmas 1996, I got a call from my mother, who I'd not heard from for several years. She was in Billings, Montana and seemed to be at a loss for words when I asked her how she wound up there- she really wasn't making much sense at all, she was drunk, rambling, crying.

And coughing.

Mom had been sick for a long time. First she thought it was the flu, then pneumonia or even TB- she had started noticing blood in her phlegm and went to a clinic; it turned out to be lung cancer, which had already started to metastasize. Mom had no insurance , in any case it was much too late for anything but palliative care. She only had a few months to live.

So I flew to Chicago and from there the Twin and I drove to Billings to see what could be done. When we arrived, we found Mom living as a boarder in a dysfunctional house of alcoholics and addicts. It was a terrible place to live and a worse place to die.

At this time, I had just ended a bad relationship with a heavy drinker, and I had decided to "take some time off" from booze- I hadn't admitted yet that I was an alcoholic , but I could certainly recognize it in others and Mom's room-mates were drunks of the worst kind- violent, thieving dangerous people that physically scared me. None of them had Mom's best interest at heart.

We convinced Mom to return home and stay with her brother in Richmond.

She arrived here early in 1997. She survived an entire year longer than the doctors said she would, and she and I used that extra time to try to mend what at one time was an irreconcilably estranged relationship.

She had abandoned us as kids...but we worked that out. Finally.

That's what I told myself.

After Mom died, I boxed up her meager possessions and put them into my closet and pretended they weren't there. I ignored them for years.

Sometimes, when the subject of cancer or illness would come up in a conversation, I would talk about how doctors are sometimes wrong, about how my own mother was granted an extra year of life etc etc...

My friends and family would sometimes look at me strangely when I made those sort of comments...but I never really thought about why. I just figured the whole subject is an uncomfortable one- it is- what I didn't know is that they were watching me for signs of a mental breakdown.

They needn't have worried. I had my breakdown a long time ago and it's over now. It was so traumatic that it took me almost ten years to even know that it had happened, and now it doesn't really matter- I had to face facts is all.

Last winter I started going through my mom's belongings, seeing what I could put together of her life, much of which is mysterious to me. In her things, I found a journal which I cannot help but call her "Death Book", because that is what it is.
It's her journal of dying.

It ends, suddenly, in 1997. Her last entry mentions going shopping for wigs with me.
I remember that trip- we had a blast, Mom had the saleslady cracked up laughing, trying to find the worst possible wig- "I want to look my best for my cremation!"... I remember that.

But I also recalled that extra year of life that Mom never really had.
I remembered an entire year that never was.
I first noticed this last winter when I couldn't find any photos of X-Mas 1997 that included Mom. I thought that was odd. She was here... where are the pics?
Then I read her Death Book.
There was no X-mas 1997 for Mom. She was ashes.

The truth is, Mom came home in 1997 and passed away shortly thereafter. There was no extra time.

After she died, I resumed drinking with a vengeance. Literally.
Not only was I punishing myself for a past I couldn't change, I was also trying to comfort myself with memories of things that never were.

I didn't just realize this this morning. I've known it since last Christmas, but it's not an easy thing to accept or discuss. I'm quite used to the idea of missing memories- some are repressed by trauma, most are blotted out by liquor- but I'm uncomfortable with imaginary memories. It makes me question reality, and that is a slippery slope...but now, when I try to recall that never-year, I find nothing. I'm glad it's not there.

I remember remembering it, but there are no details left at all. I find that to be reassuring, since that year didn't really happen the way I remembered it.

What really happened is that after Mom died, I tried really, really hard to drink myself to death and I failed to do so.

I failed because I wanted to live.

When I questioned my own will to live, I used my mother's memory as a source of strength- Mom was sick and she didn't give up...I would tell myself.
This was about as useful as a delusion could ever be- it kept me away from the booze for over a year; by the time I started to notice that 1997 didn't exactly happen the way I thought it did, I had already started to find other reasons to stay sober- one reason, really.

Not dying is my one-step recovery program.

So I guess I should be terrified that my mind is capable of fooling me in such a significant way, but I'm not. I think I created that extra year because I really needed something to hang onto, a source of courage-anything to get through my post-drinking adjustment to life- and when my subconscious decided that it had served it's purpose, I was compelled to finally read her journal, and learn the truth without falling to pieces.

And it worked. Despite my endless litany of complaints and troubles, I haven't felt the urge to drink. That imaginary year might have saved my life at one point, but I don't need it any more and it seems to have erased itself.

Better it than me, I say.

Bitter Moon

Harvest Moon wanted revenge.

Her anger originated from before the day she was born, June 23, 1970; Harvest's rage went back to the day she was named. Her parents, a pair of Jewish hippies who were married at a commune they inhabited outside of Eugene, Oregon, had chosen what they considered a very clever name for their first (and only) child. They announced it at their wedding, a ceremony of dubious legality performed by the captain of a Portland-based fishing vessel.

The marriage took place two weeks before Harvest's birth; on that day the young lovers decided upon the name Harvest The Moon, in hopes that their daughter would one day grow up to become a NASA astronaut and live up to the somewhat unreasonable expectations of her birth certificate.

That is what her parents told her. She believed it.

One night when she was eleven years old and her parents thought she was asleep upstairs , she overheard her father, Ruben "Blue" Moon, explaining the story of Harvest's name to a small gathering of stoned, giggly guests in the downstairs 'group-space'.

"...well, back then Naomi and I would sneak out to where the old garden used to be- there used to be an old fence around it, y'know?...anyway, the night we think Harv was conceived, we were high as motherfuck and we were looking up at this big-ass moon, right?...and it was like, lighting up Naomi's ass like it was a second moon, and I felt like a farmer..."

"Blue, you rat!", giggled a stoned Naomi Moon, "stop right now!"

"Anyway, it was like a double harvest, y'know?" A flutter of spacy laughter followed this remark.

"Ha!", chortled a male voice," she's lucky you didn't name her 'Cabbage Patch'." More hazy guffaws erupted.
It was at this moment that Harvest had her first adult thought.
It was: I have been fucked-over since before I was born.

Moments later, she made her first adult decision: I will never get high as motherfuck.

It was then that her paisley-skirted mother rounded the corner and saw a blank-faced Harvest standing at the top of the wooden staircase. There wasn't enough light for her to see the single, betrayed tear running down the young girl's face.

"Harvie, go back to bed. Go to sleep."

Harvie went back to her room, but she didn't go to sleep. She began studying.
And plotting.

By the time she was 16, Harvie's academic over-achievements had garnered her countless awards and a half-dozen offers of full scholarships from the best universities in America. She chose one in the Northeast and graduated after three years with a double major in astrophysics and criminal justice. Two weeks later her parent's once-spurious prophecy was realized and Harvie was recruited into NASA's astronaut training program.
As was her custom, she finished at the top of her class.

That same year, serving as her own counsel,she won a 950 million dollar settlement against a defense manufacturer that had developed an inexpensive and extremely heat-resistant polymer suitable for insulating everything from plumbing pipes to re-entry spacecraft. The company had appropriated the chemistry for this material from one of Harvest's 10th grade Science Fair projects.

Harvie had placed second in the Fair, losing to a fidgety boy named
Mick Mudd who had used a mail-order 'Ant Farm' to demonstrate his theory that ants were biologically programmed to be Marxists. When the panel of corduroy-clad professors announced the winners, Harvie mentally added Mudd's name to her already-lengthy shit-list. The teachers had been on it since her first day of classes.

After the settlement, H.T. Moon stayed with NASA, becoming the world's first female millionaire astronaut. It was on her second Space Shuttle mission that she made the most momentous decision of her short but eventful life. Harvie was performing a routine spacewalk, repairing damaged insulation panels of her own design , when she looked up/down at the hypnotic blue Earth above/below her. She paused in her work and pondered.

I am rich beyond belief and I am allowed to fly spacecraft. I could destroy this planet or I could save it.
I am high as motherfuck.

Harvest Moon wanted revenge.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

TONES OF GOSPEL : JUNE 24 ,2007

Irony of ironies- me hosting the Gospel Hour. Our regular host "praises" and talks a lot and usually only plays five or six songs as a result.
I doubt that his listeners would care to hear my thoughts on the subject, so I let the music speak for itself.

Quite a few of the songs on the list are from the soundtrack of The Gospel at Colonus . The Lord in reference is actually the Greek god Apollo, sorta. Donald Fagen (Steely Dan) produced the album and it sounds great. I think it's my new favorite record. Now I wanna see the movie.

PRAISE THE LORD:

Aretha Franklin - Bridge Over Troubled Water
Aretha does Paul.

Sam Butler, Clarence Fountain & Soul Stirrers- Stop Do Not Go On
Colunus.

Mahalia Jackson- His Eye Is On The Sparrow
Have you ever heard her sing? Wow.

J.D. Steele Singers- How Shall I see You Through My Tears?
Ow. I poked my eyes out.

Sam Cooke- This Little Light of Mine
The audience starts shouting Ay- Men, Ay-Men at the end, I turn on the mic and join in. Ay-Man!

Mavis Staples- Wade in the Water
A lot of Christian songs use pagan symbols...water being one. I guess water, even more than music, is our universal language.

Clarence Fountain & The Five Blind Boys- Lift Me Up (Like a Dove)
I suppose air is important too.

Elvis Presley- Amazing Grace
The King is probably the worst singer on this recording. His voice is buried deep in the choir at times. Still, it is what it is.

The Soul Stirrers w/ Willie Rogers- Eternal Sleep
From Colonus

Soweto Gospel Choir- Many Rivers To Cross
This is simply beautiful...really moving- and then it jumps into double-time- it's awesome. I'll be playing this again on my regular show

The Institutional Radio Choir- Lift Him Up
Great name.

Bob Marley- Go Tell It On The Mountain
I can't help it. It's gospel, OK?

The Soul Stirrers - Never Drive You Away (Jubilee)
I'm shouting yeah! yeah! at the end. How can you not?


THE NEW BREAKFAST SNOB: JUNE 24, 2007

This my show. I can play anything I want to.
I wanna play some stuff by sexy, gun-toting mutant art waifs, but I only know of one- Danielle Dax (above).
Who would you want watching your back in a free-for-all bar fight: Dax or Paris Hilton?
Danielle's gotcha covered.

PASS THE AMMUNITION

Sweetwater - Motherless Child
Forever.

Aphrodite's Child- I Want To Live
Maybe not forever, but for a while yet.

Jimi Hendrix - Machine Gun
Dude was dead, they finished the record without him. Still, it is what it is.

Danielle Dax - Jehovah's Precious Stone
Danielle is a HUGE fan of religion.

Loreena McKennitt- The Mystic's Dream
A pagan dreams of the ending world. Life goes on, but for how long?

Chris Spedding- Bored, Bored
Never. This song has cowbell. It needs more.

Lou Reed- Rock and Roll Heart
I knows I ain't smart. But deep down inside, I got a rock and roll heart.

Snakefinger- Bless Me For I Have Sinned/Jesus Gave Me Water
I'm feeling the spirit move me...7-11 coffee is giving me water.

Marianne Faithfull- Guilt
This is for Enemy, who is not an adversary. Of mine, anyway.

...*sigh*....
I love this observation by Marianne: "Every time I see your dick , I see her cunt in my bed".
I can't play that song on the radio. Too bad, it's got a great groove. Broken English is my new all-time favorite old album.

The Clash- Guns Of Brixton
Still my all-time favorite album. I have hundreds of all-time favorites, but this is near the top.

Supertramp- Bloody Well Right
Godzilla help me...this sounds really good today. I got this LP from Columbia House back in the days when you taped a penny to a coupon, mailed it in and got 10 free records. Then you moved away and did it again under another name.
At least I did.

The Who- Put The Money Down
"Before I walk on the water, put the money down."
Again with water and Jesus. Is there no escape?

Savoy Brown- Money Can't Save Your Soul
But it sure would make life easier.

Pretty Things- Sickle Clowns
Parachute was Rolling Stone's Album of the Year back when that still meant something. 1970, it was. (Motor-sickle)

Hot Tuna - True Religion
That's an oxymoron in my opinion, but Jack and Jorma are so good that I forgive them. Papa John Creach adds some mighty fine fiddlin'.

Clannad - Poison Glen
I used to call my cocaine buddy 'Poison' Glen. He died in prison. Let that be a lesson.

10 CC - Rubber Bullets
These guys are fantastic...how did I miss them for so long? This song fits my show perfectly. Even the songwriter's last names , Godley & Creme, work with it. I'm having a radio grin!

Led Zeppelin- Dancing Days
You say it's alright!

Gary Numan- Conversation
You say it's not alright?

Fiona Joyce- Cry Over You
Conversation does that to me.

Alan Parsons Project- To One in Paradise
I believed in my dreams
Nothing can change my mind
Till I found what they mean
Nothing can save me now

Damien Dempsey- The Jar Song
Enough of that pretty crap. If you stereotype Dempsey, his Irish ass is goon lay a shillelagh oopside yoor noogin. That's the way they came.

Fairport Convention- Come All Ye
Jesus Christ and a Globe fulla drunken bards. I feel like I'm in a Revival tent at the frickin' Renaissance Festival.

Bob Dylan- Sarah
Except for some kelp.

Pretty Things- Loneliest Person
One man's kelp is another man's seaweed.

Happy Week's End.

Amen!