How Failure Saved My Life

I'm ashamed to admit that I'd never paid any real notice to Amy Winehouse before her death. The first time I saw her image was in a series of caricature sketches that a long-ago penpal sent me, the drawings were of rock stars  and I identified most of them but couldn't place Winehouse. Is that what's-her-name from the B-52s?

My friend was surprised that I'd never heard of Amy Winehouse, after all she was  all over the press back then. Not for her singing, but for her personal life, such as it was.

So anyway, I listened to her music last week after my show. And I found that she was really, really good. At least for two CDs...two CDs doesn't exactly qualify one for Hendrix comparisons, not musically anyway, but the songs are good and her voice is amazing. I had expected some sort of electro-techno-disco glop, not soulful, heartbreaking and sometimes funny songs, songs largely played with real instruments. There was a lot of potential there.

I hate the tabloid media and the way they emphasize all the wrong aspects of an artist. I don't give a damn how much weight some actress that I've never heard of has gained or what kind of drunken voicemails some Hollywood clown leaves on some other Hollywood clown's phone.

Even things that I would normally enjoy-such as swimsuit photos of beautiful women- are ruined by bright red circles and highlights that point out the 'imperfections' on human bodies that any sane person would consider to be natural wonders: 

Omigod, is that a wrinkle on Suzy Creamcheese's face? Are her boobs sagging? Is that a trace of cellulite? Get her to a plastic surgeon before it is too late!

Can you imagine a young Joni Mitchell  being transported through time and marketed by a team of 2011-era Hollywood producers?

                                       
                                                  (still alive and fine)


Well, we'd better do something about that hair. Maybe we can salvage it...we'll need to add some weight in the right places too, maybe raise the cheekbones just a tad, they are not-terrible...lose the nerdy clothes and start  showing some skin, at least  once the cosmetic scars heal...oh, and try playing  something you can dance to, maybe guitar stuff that isn't so complicated, be more like Lenny Kravitz and less like Django Reinhardt, right? ...and stop using so many  words- I mean, can't you just find a hook and stick with it? Our producers will be handling  the songwriting from now on, ok? 

No one will be able to see your new tits with that guitar in the way, so we'll find someone to do that for you too, or maybe we'll get your stylist to design a transparent guitar you can wear like a bra...now go meet your personal trainer and start toning those skinny legs so's you can learn some moves fer your video...
 

Whomever said: "Live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse" was a fucking idiot. If your fast-living kills you while you are still young, your corpse is not going to be a beautiful work of art- it is going to be a mortis-sculpture that  requires a HazMat team to clean up. Seriously.

Because chances are you've played with needles or slept with someone who has, and that makes your blood an upgraded potential biological hazard. And there's probably going to be a lot of blood when they find you. You would be unpleasantly surprised at the number of orifices that can bleed simultaneously. I sure was surprised when my time came.

So forget about the glamor of an early death brought on by a hard life. There isn't any glamor in being found dead in a congealing pool of your own blood, vomit, shit and piss. Fabulous!

There isn't any way that I can judge her strength of character or know if Winehouse really wanted to quit using or not but I will give her the benefit of the doubt. I have been there myself and I know how hard it is. It takes a long time- a lifetime- to adjust to sobriety and the first attempt doesn't always work. I know.

But what I can't know is what it would have been like to try to get clean if I had left the hospital and suddenly found out that I was rich and famous. That every detail of my life- real or fabricated- was uploaded to the internet in real-time as it occurred and viewed with obsessive fascination by people who really should have better things to do with their time.

And that I had piles of money and plenty of new 'friends' willing to help me spend it.

I have a very talented friend who desperately wanted to be a rock star when she was younger but never quite achieved that dream. This was a source of pain for her, but it shouldn't be, because if she'd become famous back then, she'd be dead by now and that would suck. I understand the desire to attain immortality through art, but the 'immortality' once granted to artists just isn't what it used to be. Most 'celebs' don't even seem to get 15 minutes of artistic recognition, their "fame" is all about their personal lives, not their art; they are lucky to get  a few hits, 140 characters of obituary and a Tiny URL for a tombstone.

I wanted the same fame for myself as my friend wanted, of course. I was sure that I'd be a rock star by 21 and dead by 30 and at the time I saw this as some sort of transcendental, darkly poetic and tragically beautiful fate. Lucky for me, I was a failure as a rock star, because I was a hugely successful addict and if I'd had a trainload of cash and a retinue of vampires for friends to go with that success, I'm sure I'd  be dead now.

It seems as if the public does not care about talent or skill , it is all about gory spectacle and prurient distractions..one person's escapism becomes that person's nightmare addiction and then that person's  nightmare addiction becomes the escapism of millions . Vicious.

I think the  gossip media must appeal to the same dark, reptilian part  of the human psyche that the ancient Romans tapped into when they forced slaves to fight to the death for the public amusement of a privileged audience. At least the ancient Roman had to show up and watch the death in-person and physically give the 'thumb up or down' life-or-death gesture. Today we have the 'like' button with  "lols" and 'smiley' emoticons to help add a passive-aggressive veneer of plausible deniability  to our otherwise murderous statements. Fuck off :) lol :)

But is being successful a good thing? Especially in the context of addiction? It seems like only yesterday that the nation was transfixed by Charlie Sheen tweets and rants. For me, the most immediate benefit that I realized when I quit using cocaine was not having to listen to crazy-ass cokehead bullshit anymore...many years later, people were actually paying money to listen to crazy-ass cokehead bullshit. Unreal.

Let's look at other forms of popular entertainment from the not-so-distant-past.

Death and torture:

Obviously, human beings have a perversely morbid fascination with watching other human beings suffer and die. Crucifixions, lynchings, hangings, beheadings...these are all huge crowdpleasers. Do you think humans have changed much since the photograph above was taken?

Think again.

 The only difference is now we can watch people destroy themselves and others from the safety of our own carefully filtered custom-aggregated electronic cocoons. We don't need to be physically present to  extend our condemnation of others, we can do it anonymously with the click of a single button or a  snarky text shortcut. We have violent videogames and movies like the 'Saw' series and Mel Gibson's S&M Jesus movie to satiate our bloodlust and morbid fantasies. It is only a matter of time until someone does a 'Faces of Death' reality TV series.
(If they haven't already).

Ultimately, it is up to the addict to quit.  I know this because I have done it, alone and without any formal support system. But I don't know that I could have done it if I'd been famous. I don't think I'd have survived my success.

But I was lucky. The only misery that I was addicted to was my own and my suffering wasn't public enough to be called 'entertainment'. I never made the Big Time but at least I lived to talk about not making it.

That's more than Amy got. She got success instead.


.

Change Of Pace

I forgot to take my anxiety pill this morning.  At work, I realized that I haven't been taking my meds for at least a week or so, so when I got home I checked my supply- it was almost untouched. I guess I'll leave them be for now, I don't feel unsettled enough to warrant needing medication right now. (Note the use of the qualifier right now. I'm happy, not delusional.)

At the grocer's this evening I made the impulsive decision  to wheel my cart into an actual , honest-to-Godzilla full service check-out lane, which had no line and two attendants, two young black girls, one to ring the register and one to bag the items. The bagging girl asked me if wanted paper or plastic and was humorously  admonished by the cashier for not calling me 'sir'.

"Please, whatever you don't call me 'sir'. When the pretty girls start calling me sir, I know I'm done for." They thought this was hilarious and they started joking about texting me because I was so sweet. At least I hope they were joking.

In any case, mine is not the sort of personality that naturally lights up a room or even  enlivens a supermarket checkout line. Or is it? I'm not sure, exactly.  I've spent so much of my life wasted in one way or another that it is sorta hard to define what a 'baseline normal' for me is in the first place. But I'm giving it another go.

And there have been some times lately when I've been really, really nervous- like dating, for instance- but I don't want to be a medicated date. Nervousness, within limits, is actually acceptable, even expected on a date-and  if it isn't , you need to dump your date and find someone more empathetic.

One thing I do know is that I've got some pretty serious fortifications built around myself, and the  person who built those moats and walls did a pretty thorough job- but there are still a few weak spots where an intruder with enough moxie could sneak in, for good or ill.

I spent a lifetime building those walls and pits and it took me by surprise  when someone I'd never met before saw directly through all of those carefully-erected defense. She didn't sneak through them, she did acknowledge they existed, but she chose to ignore them and got right into the core of me. The raw, hurt part of me that not everyone gets to see.

You've been hurt really badly. Really, really badly. Don't know who did it, but you need to let that shit go forever if you want a new relationship. Are you sure you are ready to date?

Busted.

I could tell that lying wasn't going to work, so out came the short version of a long story best left off this blog. My date listened to this story and I was afraid she was going to leave, but instead she told me a story of her own. It was like my own, but worse. And when she was done, she looked at me like I was going to get up and leave, because this is probably some pretty heavy shit for a first date, but I didn't leave. I was already hooked by this point. An addict needs a partner who can see right through them...most addicts avoid people who can tell when they are lying, but I find it refreshing and attractive. And freeing...no need to worry about what to say and how to say it, for instance, since the truth seems acceptable.

But mostly it was laughter. And more of the same the following weekend and the mutual feeling seems to see each other again soon, so that is good. As good as it has been for a long, long time.

But if it doesn't work out, I won't be destroyed, not like last time. After last time I really did want to shut myself off from anything and anyone good. At the time it felt like I wanted to blot it all out it forever, but I found that I can't maintain that level of despair without alcohol or certain drugs, and I'm just not willing to drink or use those drugs again.

Without alcohol  and drugs, I'll never enjoy the nihilistic misery I've longed for all these decades.

I really did want to give up about six months ago, just give up and die, thinking no one would miss me and it would all be for the better if I just vanished from the planet.
Can you believe that?

Probably you can, at least if you ever drank alcoholically or used hard drugs. This particular case of The Zero was woman-induced, but the feeling came from the same unutterably bleak place that the alcoholic part of me lives. Being sober doesn't keep you from being happy, but it doesn't keep me from being sad either. It just makes me normal, or closer to it anyway.

But I didn't drink or start sniffing shit again,  and after a period of emotional mourning, I started dating. Getting strung-out on hard drugs is actually a whole lot easier than dating , but I stayed with it and maybe, just maybe something good has come of it, something real and lasting- something I've never really had.

Or not. I did manage to give up hope for months, and nothing is set in stone, I know something horrible could happen again.  And if it does, I'll mope for a while and then I'll get up and try again. But I know that I won't self-destruct over it. 

I can trust myself.

I never thought I'd say that.

Whatever happens, I know that I won't spiral out of control and back into the gutter. That knowledge was certainly  worth a broken heart.
Or two.
Or as many it takes.

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Drunk In The Past

                                                                     
This is me in the winter of 2000. My grandmother had requested a formal portrait for her Xmas present, so I squirmed into my suit and went to the J.C. Penny Gallery. I'm pretty sure I was drunk at the time. I was always drunk back then, but I functioned well on the surface, held a job and even did some real-life dating, although the alcohol made me pretty worthless in that respect.

Five years after this was taken I would be in intensive care, suffering seizures, surgeries and the joy of alcoholic withdrawal.

This is me five years  after I was released from intensive care, taken on a work trip to Florida, 2010, right around my 44th birthday.  I'm nearly sixty pounds lighter than I was in 2005 and my once-dismal prospects are looking up.

I'm in good health, I'm doing music again, I am moving up at work and I feel like I'm 21 yrs old in certain ways.

2010

I'm not a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, nor have I ever been in any sort of rehab or treatment ; I can't knock those who take that route, but I personally refuse to admit that I'm powerless over alcohol and that I  need assistance from some Higher Power just to do something as utterly simple as not drinking. Alcohol is a vampire and it can't hurt me unless I let it in. So I don't let it in and it remains powerless over me. Sobriety doesn't prevent me from doing anything except collecting DUIs.

As soon as I typed that last paragraph, I realize the falseness of it. Alcohol is hurting me now because it is hurting people that are close to me, my family and friends. There is no use enumerating their stories here, suffice it to say I've recently talked to three different drunks in three different places about three different things and they all gave eerily similar excuses for being in bed in the afternoon and having pretty much forgotten or blown off what it was they needed to do with  me and/or talk  to me about in the first place.

Listening to them reminded me of how I used to sound. No one believed me then, which was fair since I was usually lying. But I'm sure they are different, in fact all three reminded me that I was the one who had the serious drinking problem, not them. They said they feel "misunderstood" but they aren't. I do understand. That is the problem.

After I quit drinking, I found it surprisingly difficult to stop making excuses for things that I didn't need to make excuses for. If I was five minutes late to a meeting or forgot a minor detail, I'd find myself wracking my brain for an excuse for what I did, giving unneeded information about what happened...there was this old lady crossing the street and she made me miss the green light and then someone took my parking space, blah, blah...

After a while I realized that nobody really gives a shit about why you are five minutes late. Usually it is of no consequence at all and would be unnoticed unless remarked upon by the offending party.

Of course, as I type this, my father has been AWOL for over a week. He is actually at the point where he no longer even tries to makes excuses, he has moments of lucidity when he is aware of what he has done, but his self-realization is an uncomfortable thing and he drinks to blot out the mess he is in, which makes it worse. But he knows better than to lie about what he does with his huge surfeit of spare time.

He is a huge problem for my brother and I.  Dad can't live with either of us, neither of us has time for his alcoholic bullshit and  since he never held much in the way of a job,  his Social Security is minimal and he has no savings. At 65, he is too broken-down to do much of anything except drink while sitting n place. A good night for him is one where he doesn't fall down and hurt himself more than once. He has been living this  way for years,  he must really enjoy the smell of his own piss by now.

Drinking can be a problem even if you don't drink.

I once hit it off with a really intelligent and attractive woman who had a long history of drinking,  she had been sober for months when we met and that made us closer. I wanted to take it to the committed relationship level, but by that time she had started drinking again and cited my harsh attitude toward alcoholics as a major reason why  we couldn't live together. That was incredibly painful to hear, but I refused to give an inch, it being life or death to me. So that was that.

My take is this: Normal people can drink responsibly and probably benefit from it to some extent. Alcoholics are not normal and should never drink, under any circumstance, ever. It never helps them.  I would wager that the only person who would argue otherwise is either  an alcoholic who is rationalizing his drinking or the enabler who allows the self-destruction; I mean, if you aren't an alcoholic or an enabler, why would my take on alcoholism offend you?

Is that harsh?

Drink Yourself To Death

 An open letter to  the Amalgamated Alcoholics in my past, present and future:

Have another drink.

I wish you would simply put a gun in your mouth, swallow poison or jump off a fucking bridge instead , because that would be a much quicker and cleaner way to kill yourself and it would save the rest of us a lot of trouble. I've seen the results of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head and it isn't pretty but at least the carnage is limited to one room, nothing a new rug , some spackle and a coat of paint can't fix.

On the other hand, it might take years or even decades to drink yourself to death and you can cause an amazing amount of harm and damage in that time. You can try to minimize the harm by   increasing the odds of an early demise;  adding drugs to the mix and driving around completely fucked-up out of your mind or picking fights with cops, dealers and bouncers, but these things tend to have extremely negative consequences for you and  the people around you.

Ever know somebody who got killed by a drunk driver? Perhaps you were at the wheel. After all, you aren't really sure where those dents came from. That might be paint. Or not.

But so what? Other people have stopped meaning anything to you. You have found what you need and what you need is oblivion and anyone who tries to keep you from vanishing into the void is just a problem to you. Everybody is against you and nobody cares and after all they are the ones with the problem, not you. You say it isn't your fault, you are the victim of something or someone else.

Boo the fuck hoo.

Seriously.

You can't possibly expect me to believe any of your evasive and contradictory bullshit, can you?

I wrote the fucking book of drunken lies and excuses and I know what you are saying and what you are saying is bullshit. Baffling deadly bullshit.

I once worked really hard at getting to the place where you are going and guess what? I got there. Alcohol ate a hole in my body and gutted my soul until there was nothing left but a fat, filthy thing stuffed with tubes and kept alive by a machine.

I survived,  but I wasn't expected to and I sure as hell wouldn't count on being so lucky if I were you. That acid reflux is just the beginning, you know. You won't feel most of the damage until all of those tiny perforations and ulcers finally become one giant open wound and you start vomiting little pieces of yourself. That's when it really starts to hurt. The worst part is when they shove the stomach pump up your nose. The best part is when you sink into a coma , because that makes the pain stop. It is sort of like a blackout- if you wake up you won't know where you are or how you got there. If you wake up, that is.

Most of the people who reach the place where I went never come back. Sometimes they survive but usually death occurs within a day or two. And it hurts a lot. It  hurts more than anything you have ever felt and all they will give you is a tiny IV driplet of Valium, which doesn't even register on your brain because years of abusing prescription medicine have left you with an incredibly high tolerance to most drugs. But you can't really tell the doctors that, can you?

You dumb bastard. You did this to yourself.

In a little while someone is going to come in and roll you over so they can wipe your ass for you because you haven't regained control of your bowels yet. It can be embarrassing. A drink sure would put you at ease but they don't serve cocktails in Intensive Care so you'll just have to lay there and listen to the sound of your skin crawling and turning itself inside out, over and over again. The worst thing about that sound is that no one else can hear it and when you mention it to the nurse she sends a counselor in to talk to you and you wind up dodging questions about suicidal thoughts. Asking someone who just woke up from a coma brought on by alcoholic withdrawal and blood loss  if 'they have ever been depressed' is a really stupid fucking question, so make sure you give a stupid answer, namely "no, of course not. My chronic drinking was a daily life-affirming celebration of all that's good."

If you can lie really well (and what drunk can't?) they won't lock you up in the psychiatric  ward. So lie. I did.

I know what it feels like to be alone. I know how it feels to have something you desperately want to share, to make known, to be heard , held, loved and finding no one that seems to care; how it feels to face the loneliness caused by indifference and misunderstanding, real or imagined. Some of both, maybe.

I know how it feels to need someone right here, right now and finding no one, no thing there to comfort you and waiting for something, anything to fill all of those minutes become hours become days. The immediate future can be a crushing source of anxiety and dread, every simple responsibility becomes an impossible Sisyphean task and you just wish that someone or something would come along and make all the noise in your head stop. Really, I do. I feel some of that every day. Lots of people feel some of that.

Loneliness is no small thing, it is not something that can be cured by Netflix, puppies and the 'Like' button. It is serious shit that can hurt you and leave permanent scars. Not a fun way to choose to live, isolated and unloved and drinking the hole deeper each day

But nothing compares to how bad it feels to be strapped to a table while you listen to surgeons discuss your dim prospects of survival. They had to strap you down because you kept having seizures on the operating table which made it impossible for them to sew up your shredded guts and the blood transfusions aren't coming fast enough. Hopefully they will notice that you have woken up and will administer more anesthetic, because this is a real low point in life for you and you'd rather not be awake for it. In any case, the doctors will give you all the details when you wake up. If you wake up.  They'll tell you about the straps and seizures and the time your heart stopped and they thought you were dead.

And you think you have it bad because you're alone on Friday night. It could be worse, much worse.


Why not do your dishes now? Learn to play an instrument or practice one you already play. Read a  book. Bake pies.Write a letter to a friend. Blog. Pet the cat. Walk the dog. Sew. Change your oil. Build a ship in a bottle. Play a video game. Watch birds. Paint. Call me. Listen to the radio. Pray. Take a walk. Mop the floor. Masturbate. Do something that isn't drinking. That leaves a lot of options, you know.

In fact, the only thing you can't do while you are sober is get drunk. Other than that, there are endless possibilities open to you. Or there would be if you weren't too drunk to leave the house.

But that is your choice. You made your gutter, now you sleep in it.

Goodnight.

Dying: A Daily Reminder

This is the view from my front door. The hospital across the street has recently placed a three-story banner advertising "24 Hour Emergency Care" on the wall that faces me- it is set into a recessed space on the building, so that the only people who can see it are pedestrians, myself and my immediate neighbors. They have also moved the ambulance waiting zone-  now there is always an idling ambulance directly outside my window...I am quickly reaching the point where I can identify the ambulance's  number merely by the sound of the engine.

Number 68 (pictured above) is in dire need of a tune-up. I was trying to talk to a friend on my phone this afternoon and gave up in frustration because the engine was so loud...the noise reflects off the giant brick wall and bounces straight into my open windows, 24 hours a day...the constant roar is punctuated by the occasional wailing siren, a sound that heralds a few minutes of relative quiet until the next ambulance takes it place in the queue.

Anyway, that banner  reminds me -every single time that I open the door- of  my own medical history:

One night just over four years ago, I started vomiting blood. Not little streaks or tiny drops of blood, but great bilious, metallic mouthfuls of the stuff, along with tiny fleshy pieces of my  liquor-rotted innards.

It was black and foul and I knew I was going to die...but I had been to the ER across the street already that year (I got drunk and fell down, hard- it took 6 hours before I was seen) and owed them a small fortune - I suspected that I would bleed to death while they scrutinized my financial records, so I dragged myself into my old Honda  and drove myself across town to a hospital that I didn't owe money to...it turned out that I made it to their ER with very little time to spare.

 It's quite likely that I would have died in the waiting room if I had chosen to simply crawl across the street to the local ER- so seeing that giant banner is much like being slapped across the face by Death's cold, clammy hand every single day. I could probably pay for 5 years of routine medical care with the money  the hospital spent on that banner , much less all the fuel being consumed by the ever-present idling engines...I understand the need for a stand-by vehicle, but they used to have an internal parking  bay for that. For reasons unknown to me, that bay is no longer used and the street is the new waiting-zone. I feel like the protagonist in Poe's Tell-Tale Heart...True!

"When You Need It, Where You Need It"...that's false. I doubt that I could see a physician at that hospital if my life depended on it- literally. That's a pretty sad commentary on the state of our national 'wealth-care system'...if you have wealth, you have care. If you don't...well, that's just tough luck.

Don't get sick. Ever.

A Cold-Hearted Post

My father phoned me this afternoon,he called it a "pre-emptive" Father's Day call, which is ironic because I really hadn't planned on contacting him- I avoid talking to him whenever he drinks, which is always.

At first, he sounded reasonably sober and almost upbeat but I could hear his words becoming progressively more slurred and contentious as we spoke, after about an hour I finally got sick of asking him to repeat himself, so I lost my patience and offered this bit of advice:

"Dad, have you given any consideration to not drinking? "

"Yes," he said as if it meant something, "I just went an entire week without a drink. Until today."

"Great. Why didn't you call me when you were sober? You know I hate talking to you when you are drunk."


Dad kept telling me that he was afraid that I was upset because I lost my job...he could tell I was upset because a recent radio blog I wrote consisted of a sentence or two stating that I had no time for small talk and would let the music speak for me- dad seemed to attach some sort of significance to this:

" I knew you were upset when I saw the radio thing," he said.

"What thing?"

"The part about small talk and not having time to write. I knew that meant you lost your job."

"Um, actually, I wrote that because I was running late and didn't have time to compose a proper post. It had nothing to do with work. I don't understand how you made that connection."

The more that dad insisted that I was "upset", the more at peace I felt with my unemployment...I have a a new car, a new PC, some money saved up and I'm fairly certain that I'll get my job back within a few months...plus, I'm qualified for Unemployment Bennies- I have to jump through a lot of paperwork hoops due to my status as a former Federal employee (Fed and State are like oil and water when it comes to paperwork) , but it's just paperwork- I'm an accomplished bureaucrat, I can deal with paperwork. It's going to be a pain in the ass, but so what? Paperwork always is.

Anyway, I told him not to worry, that I'd be fine.
I wasn't lying, I meant it. I have been through real serious shit in my life. Being unemployed is nothing compared to internal hemorrhaging or a twenty-five stitch beatdown. Seriously,I'll be fine.

It's a damn shame that he won't remember our conversation tomorrow.

******************************************************
On a happier note, I've been receiving a lot of wonderful new music lately and it's my great pleasure to share it with you, the potential audience. Keeping up with new bands is hard work and sometimes a bit confusing, but it's also very rewarding, so I try to include links so that you can dig deeper, should you be into finding new tunes...
I sorta over-extended myself regarding a recently-shelved project, but there are other, more realistic plans in the making....and a new playlist every week!

The New Breakfast Snob, Sat . 20 June 2009

Artist-Song/Album/Label (when available)

Underwhelmed- Freak (Like Me)/Reveal/Problematic
Powerful Brooklyn rock by sturdy Italian lads. This song should be a hit- it's already lodged in my earbox!

88 Sundays- Imitation Life
Georgia rocks! Who knew? Listening to them right now, in fact!

Charlie Morris- Got Greedy
Morris -who is new to me- is an amazing slide guitarist and this song just plain fuckin' rocks! Buy his CD- he promises to spend all the proceeds on liquor and weed, which I think is commendable truth in advertising.

The Duhks- Death Came A Knockin'/Duhks/Sugar Hill
Ah, a heartfelt classic, dedicated to my friend G, his mother is gravely ill and has been for a long, long while. G has been there for her the whole time and it's taking quite a toll...soon there will be a time for rest.

Adriana Kaegi- When The Money Runs Out/TAG
Good-looking Swiss woman singing about American Poverty and life in The Hamptons...it actually works!

Sounds of The Blue Heart-The Poisoning/Wind of Change/GritPR
Brand-new undefinable but very ear-friendly multi-genre release, this song went very well with the 'Green Energy' PSA that I played immediately before it.

Cary Grace- Undertow
There are probably fewer than 12 persons under the age of 40 that know who Dik Mik was and why he was so important to psychedelic rock- and I am certain that Cary Grace is one of that select dozen. Great new rock that suits my psychedelicized self just fine.

Dare Dukes- Kick and Holler/Prettiest Transmitter/Starland
I hear new things every time I listen to this disc...the mp3 doesn't do justice to the CD, especially the nice cello touches and sparse,well-designed guitar/keyboard/vocal dubs. Great lyrics and very tight but understated production with excellent instrumental placement, an oft-overlooked skill... Special thanks to Dare for recording a promo for our station..it's always fun to let an artist 'introduce' themselves!

Daddy- Wash and Fold
There are a lot search results for Daddy, but it was worth sifting them to get my hands on this zydeco-inspired update on Neil Young's classic song Welfare Mothers.

Joe Croker- Lil' Miss Combat Boot
Joe sent me this mp3 after reading my blog- it's an ode to Enid from Dan Clowe's Ghost World and it's great fun, especially if you are a comix geek like me...Joe, are you 'Victor Banana'?

Crazy Aunt Mary- Rockin' A Hard Place
This song by LA's CAM starts with this forthright statement : "Don't leave your wife for me!" and only gets better from there... I love a woman who loves her bass with a passion usually reserved for...well, you know.

Patty Hurst Shifter- Promiscuous/Coma La Grava/Pants on Fire
Great NC southern rockers...are they breaking up? I hope not.

Hudson Fall- Factory
Americana from the UK? Works for me, great self-described "melodramatic pop".

Madi Simmons- Melissa
Jammin' reggae from the island nation of Chicago.

Kevin Cahoon -Fashionista
Anthemic! I actually edited the 'fuck' out of this for airplay.

Lisa Bianco- Already Gone/Post Data/
The more I listen to Bianco, the more I like her...great gobs of noisy guitar suddenly dropped on top of a beautifully melodic voice- my kinda thing!

Southern Culture on the Skids/Have You Seen Her Face/Countrypolitan
Full disclosure: Mary from SCOTS is a former band-mate and lifetime friend of mine. As far as I'm concerned, her band can do no wrong...see them live if you can! You'll be glad ya did. Thanks to Mary for the promo and thanks to WRIR's own Galaxy Girl for the tech support!

Niav- Smalltown
I just learned that Niav is Irish...no wonder I like her so much. This song reminds me of people and places I once knew...the whole football team? Really.

Clara Bellino- Swordfish Trombones/Embercado Love
I came home from a depressing day and found this CD in my mailbox- it cheered me up right away! Bellino's own material is wonderful - but this is a Tom Waits cover! How cool is that? Very!

Nijole Sparkis- Parallel Universe
This is cool, dreamy, hopeful and thoughtful. Nice!

Atlas Soul-Lamour en Banlieu
I don't know what the lyrics mean, but the groove is great!

Jeannine Hebb- Things Haven't Been So Bad Lately/TLTCM/
Another new fave of mine, this song is one of my show's unofficial 'theme' songs.

Michelle Malone- Grace
I have been a fan of Malone ever since I heard her play a seven-minute wah-wah/fuzz guitar solo with a three-piece group called Band de Soliel. She rocks!

Jennings- Doorway/Storybook/Jenningsmusic
Another new favorite, Jennings has a powerful, yet nuanced voice that reminds me of someone that I used to listen to...Grace Slick? Sweetwater? Thanks to MJ for providing me with a custom promo for my show, those artist tags add a nice touch to our broadcasts!


HuDost- Royal Mountain/Trapeze
This is different, yet very accessible...very well-blended styles, making it sound easy (but it isn't.)

Astronauts of Antiquity-Everywhere/Rocket Science for Dummies
One of my fave CDs of 2008! Makes me feel more sophisticated than I really am.

Eddie Ramirez- Grace
Rockin' song from Spokane artist- nice crunchy guitar tone!

Stefanie Seskin- I Keep On Trying/Edge of Reason/Check Other
Is there anything that Stefanie Seskin can't do and do well? I doubt it.
This CD is a few years old, but it's still new to me and one of my faves. Enjoy!

Well, that's it for now...I just joined Facebook, so I may be busy for the next several years.

One Step

I used to drink a lot. For the first decade or so, it was fun. I drank at parties with friends, we would stay up drinking after work, drink at band practice and gigs, drink at the river, get hammered in the graveyard or park, and it was usually in excess, but it was a crowded excess. It's a downhill tale from there, but by the time it was all over, my preferred drinking companion had become myself and my excesses had become my shame. I realize that this blog is no stranger to exaggeration, but I am actually making a conservative guess by saying I was drinking a fifth of liquor and at least twelve beers almost every single day, usually mixing some pills with it; so it really didn't surprise me when , one night in 2005, I started throwing up blood.
It was red at first, then it turned black with red pieces and at that point I knew I was going to die, and soon.

I actually had to think about it. It was my choice. Did I want to live or did I want to die?

What an absurd, hateful question.

In an ironic twist, I live directly across the street from a hospital, but I owed that facility a large sum of money from a drunken injury earlier that year and I knew that I'd probably die while they reviewed my financial records; so my new-found will to live gave me the strength to drive to a nearby hospital, where I walked into the ER and vomited my guts out. What was left of them, anyway.

Two days later I woke up in intensive care and was told that my chances of survival weren't especially high. I don't remember the transfusions, convulsions and surgeries, but I know that I had them. From time to time someone would stop in and ask me questions such 'do you ever feel depressed' or 'do you ever think about suicide'- what, did they think I drank myself to death as an expression of life-affirming optimism? Plus, I was in the hospital and hospitals always make me depressed.

Anyway, after six days, their charity expired and I was sent home, accompanied by dire predictions that I would drink again, and really soon.

That is not going to happen. I have a "one-step" program:

1)Don't die.
The easiest way for me to not die is to not drink, so drinking is out. Pretty simple and so far it's been working because since 2005 , I've had all my triggers pulled at least once: my grandmother and my cousin both died, I've had several job losses for no cause and am facing another loss now, and I'm still nursing a broken heart that refuses to settle down.

And I'm sitting here alone on Friday night, blogging about being sad.

But it could be worse.

I could be drunk.