Change

The company I'm working at is getting audited and my job has become significantly less enjoyable as a result. The files are a mess and the only person who understands them is on vacation . Every assignment is like trying to find a specific penny in a pickle barrel full of coins.
Oh well. There's always the weekend...

I had two radio shows this weekend. For me, radio is very much like blogging -it's a way to express myself and communicate with others - except saying "I'm a DJ" sounds sorta cool...I rarely answer the "what do you do?" question with : "I have a blog."

For me, the most exquisite moments are when radio and blog merge...such as getting a phone call from a faraway blogpal...or sending a message and finding that it was well received. Saturday, a connection was established and maintained for the length of both shows- a whopping four hours of radio!

My friend and I were sharing a laugh at this video posted on one of my fave blogs...I'm thinking "four minutes?"
No way.
I just gave you four hours of lovin' and I did it on the public airwaves, in front of Godzilla and everybody.Call me an optimist, but I'm guessing that I can probably give ya sweet private lovin' seventeen times in a 72- hour stretch...maybe 18 if I get out of work early and you don't move around too much.

I started to say this and found that my friend agrees. 17 is a reasonable goal. I sure do hope I get out of work early on the 3rd. (If I get off early, we can wait a few minutes and try again)

Or I might have a whole different job by then. I have a job interview at a law firm tomorrow, just found out today, outta the blue...it pays an adult living wage too. I haven't had a "real job" since I lost my Federal job after Gore's not-win. I could use a savings account. I miss mine already and it's only been gone for a month.

I'm feeling lucky these days- perhaps a job that pays enough to save money and go places is not too much to ask for.

Because I have a place I wanna go. Here, let me tell you about it:

The New Breakfast Snob, June 14



Garbage- I Think I'm Paranoid
When I think of Garbage, I think of you. Listen to Shirley sing about desire and you'll understand how good that is, so no need to be paranoid.

Crack The Sky- Skin Deep
More than just.

Atomic Rooster- Goodbye Planet Earth
I need to get from here to somewhere not here.

The Frames- Sideways Down
Everybody fucks up sometimes...I actually edited the 'f-bomb' out of this song so I could play it on the radio...usually, I'm not that careful. Oh well. Everybody fucks up sometimes.

Wire- Three Girl Rhumba
Wow. It's a hard rain and a difficult choice, but when it comes down to it, one is plenty.

Moody Blues- Ride My See Saw
17 times!

Fairport Convention- The Way I Feel

Fiona Joyce- Lift The Veil

Beatles- I Want You (She's so Heavy)
Driving me mad...is it Independence Day yet? I want to spread my Freedom on you.

Dread Zeppelin- Your Time is Gonna Come
Women are luckier than men in certain ways.

Nouvelle Vague-Have You Ever Fallen In Love...
Every once in a while, I ask this question: What is a buzzcock? Hints: Wiki is wrong (shocking!) and it's not a battery-driven Steely Dan.

Frank Zappa-Willie the Pimp
This week's featured guitar solo, one of the best ever.

William Shatner- I Can't Get Behind That
I love The Shat. He is one of my heroes.

Allan (me)- Lucky
I'm really lucky to get played on the radio. I recorded this in my bedroom but it sounds like the living room...and I shared a set with Zappa and The Shat! I am totally awesome.

Bruce Cockburn- If a Tree Falls in the Forest
A pit bull sent me a Cockburn mp3 a while back and I've been hooked ever since.

Carbon Leaf- Let Your Trouble Roll By
Local band, a request that fit my mood.

Cursive- The Recluse
Great band. I need to get out more.

Little Feat - Old Folks Boogie
Hahahahha!

Funkadelic- Let's Make it Last
Just don't wiggle.

Jonathon Coulton- Skullcrusher Mountain
I wasted a pony making a present for you!

Poly-a.d.
Lately, it seems as if women are always telling me what they want. In this case, they want local band, Poly. The same woman called the next DJs and asked them for the same song. I think lower case song titles went out with e.e. cummings , but hey...give the people what they want.

T. Rex- Jeepster
I'm a what for your what? Really? I like that!

The Kinks- Top of the Pops

Wire- Start to Move
This song is only eighty second long. It's your fault for moving.

Damien Dempsey - Your Pretty Smile
Is lighting up my mind.

Wipers- Tragedy
Can't live without it. It's part of life, but if you hold on to it, it'll fuck up your whole afternoon or life, whichever comes first.


For my next trick, the 1980's show

Songs From the Big Hair , June 14

Stranglers- Tank
Suicidal Tendencies- Hate You Better

Cramps- Most Exalted Potentate of Love
Coming 'round the mountain to get your love...

P.I.L.- Seattle

Nina Hagen - New York New York

Madonna - Open Your Heart
Klark Kent- Excess
Crack The Sky- White Music
Lou Reed- Don't Talk To Me About Work
Berlin- The Metro
The Cars- Moving In Stereo

Cardiacs- Is This The Life?

Ever hear Cardiacs? No? Now you have.

XTC- Generals and Majors
Bad Brains- I Against I

MX-80 Sound- Follow That Car
Tom Tom Club- Wordy Rappinghood
George Clinton-( She Got It) Goin' On

Golden Palominos- Heaven
What is this song about?

Danielle Dax- Whistling For His Love

Elvis Costello- The Element Within Her
Snakefinger- Beatnik Party
King Crimson- Man With An Open Heart
10,000 Maniacs- My Mother The War
Joe Jackson- Soul Kiss
Pretty Things- It's So Hard
Mission To Burma- This Is Not A Photograph

Still laughing...and...um...er...that was...er...

It's way, way past my bedtime.

Cowboy Junkies

Update: If I can ever figure out how this artist-authorized bootleg swap site works, I'll start a "Vine" with this show. Does anyone understand this site?


I took the afternoon off from my 'real' job to produce a radio spot with Mike and Margo Timmins from the Cowboy Junkies.
That's me with Margo, Mike is in the foreground, talking to one of his legion of adoring fans.

I didn't know it until a few days before the show, but the Junkies are largely comprised of siblings and the theme of family, good and bad, is an important element of their original songs. I am definitely going to have to add some CJ records to my "get list".


This second photo offers a glimpse into the sordid underbelly of the music business.

Margo, you can see, is knitting a sweater.

Mike is being give a CD ( I think) by a mutual friend whilst simutaneously tuning his guitar.

In the foreground is a cup of water and a ballcap.

This sort of over-the-top hedonism is pretty common in the music biz but it's daunting to see up close.

Margo's sweater hit a 'critical phase' during soundcheck but she somehow managed to keep things from unraveling. That's the mark of veteran performer as well as a top-knotch knitter.
She's also got the voice of a worldly angel. Pretty, but edgy as hell. Impressive.

Mike and Margo were wonderful guests and seemed quite cozy in the somewhat funky and low-budget converted bedroom that serves as our production studio. They aren't exactly prima donnas, the CJ's. They are our kinda people.

They care about their songs and it shows. I was in the 'control room' with headphones on and I was drawn into the songs in a way that I seldom am when recording bands.
It was the lyrics and the stories they told that made me want more.
Compelling stuff...I think the sparseness of the guitar fit nicely with the evocative lyrics.

The third photo is my view from the 'control room'. Paul, the show's host, is the foreground.
The standing gentlemen is my friend of 20 years, Tim H. He had dropped in to say hello to the Timmins.I didn't know it, but Tim's early band had met and befriended the Junkies nearly twenty years ago while on tour. This friendship led to Mike meeting his wife -his wife is friends with Tim & Co- and they have been happily married for a long time. Many years. Kudos!

The Junkies seemed pleasantly surprised to see Tim- he is surprisingly pleasant- and the vibe in the studio turned into a warm "catching -up-on- old times" session. You'd be surprised how many musicians are just normal folk who like to knit, talk with friends and generally feel good about what they do.
It's contagious.

They played three songs:
-Cutting Board Blues
-Spiral Down
-Sun Comes Up

I'm a sucker for a heartfelt songs and they are really good at writing them. Honesty in music turns me on.

Obviously, I am not going to post downloads- you can get those from the band.

After they left, Paul and I edited the recording for airplay , after which we were treated to burritos.

It was a good day.

Computer, I'd Like Some Biscotti

Last week I got a "spam" from UPS, telling me that my delivery had been confirmed...I hadn't ordered anything from anywhere, so I didn't give it much thought; I assumed it was junk mail and deleted it after a cursory glance.

A day or two later, I came home from work and found a UPS parcel on my porch.

That UPS email wasn't spam at all- it was biscotti! Lotsa biscotti, the homemade kind! Chocolate, nuts... chunky goodness throughout!

I'd like to say "thank you" to my pal B and her bakerman C, but I can't talk right now. My mouth is full of baked yumminess.

So I say "MMMPKOOOMM" instead.

Sunday, Monday...

Monday morning, 7:30 AM : I am awakened by a call from the pharmacy. The pharmacist explains that my insurance only covers a 60 day supply of certain drugs, and my refills are not covered. I will need to get my doctor to authorize them- which I thought he did when he wrote the scrips in the first place- I have 2 and 3 refills on my respective meds.

"Oh, you can still have the medicine, it just isn't covered", the pharmacist tells me. "You will need authorization and that usually takes a few weeks."

A few weeks? I am out of pills. I can't wait a few weeks.

"How much do my scrips cost without insurance?", I ask.

"$280."

"$ 280! How much for just one of them?"

"Oh, that is just one. Together it will be $410."

Then my alarm clock goes off- between my early awakening, the bad financial news and the clock's sudden screeching , I am so rattled that I drop the phone. I'm exhuasted, my nerves are shot and I haven't even showered yet.

Ironically, the medicines in question are intended to treat insomnia and anxiety.

I can already tell that this week is heading for the toilet. At least I had a good weekend. I'm going to need those memories to sustain me, because I sure as hell can't afford drugs- even with insurance and a prescription, I can't have my pills.

My doctor's office hates the insurance company, but they tell me they can't change the rules. Instead, my doc calls in two "substitute" scrips for medications that don't work nearly as well as the ones I've been taking. In a few weeks, after my authorization is processed, I can go back to taking the pills that work.

Until then, I'll have to survive on the fumes from Sunday's show.

THE NEW BREAKFAST SNOB, June 10,2007:


Snakefinger- Jesus Gave Me Water/Move
My copy of 'Night of Desirable Objects' is signed by Snakefinger.One of my few material treasures. Man, he sure could play.

Black Sabbath - Am I Going Insane?
Yes, Ozzy, you are. One day you will be more well-known for being on "reality TV" than for Black Sabbath. No wonder you flipped out.

Steeleye Span- Celtic Inferno
Burn, baby, burn!

Dire Straits- Lady Writer
You broke my heart. Twice.

Alan Parsons Project- The Tell-Tale Heart
When you were done, you buried the evidence under the floorboards, where it continues to haunt you to this day. You can try to run away, but you'll always hear the beating of my hideous heart.

Manzanera/Eno/801 Live- Tomorrow Never Knows
Relax. Maybe things will improve. Maybe they won't.

Frank Zappa- Dirty Love
The poodle bites.

Emmylou Harris- Here I am
Right here. Easy to find and the door is open. Don't knock it until you've tried it.

Steve Hillage- Wait One Moment
One moment. Not five years. One moment.

Briege Murphy- Cloghinne Winds
Add another name to my list of hopeless crushes...sigh. What a pretty song. I wish I knew how to pronounce her first name. Breege? Brayge?

Sweetwater- Why oh Why?
I ask myself this question all the fucking time...never an answer. Great 60's band, though.

Fiona Joyce- Cry Over You
I'm in the mood for this- new on St.Clair records. Beautiful song, great voice and wonderful production.

Loreena McKennitt- Gates of Istanbul
Ahhhhhhh...sonic excellence.

Anuna- The Last Rose
I'm in a Green Zone today and this Celtic choir helps keep me there.

Stranglers- Let Me Down Easy
This request is unlikely to be granted. Life doesn't work that way. A better title would be : "Destroy me in under sixty seconds"

Pentangle- Mirage
Is this real? No.

Fairport Convention- The Way I Feel
If I felt as great as this song sounds, I'd be euphoric. Instead, I am merely delusional.

Claanad- The Other Side
Always wins.

Danielle Dax- The Wheeled Wagon
Hah! Take that!
This song brings back happy memories! Michael Hawkesworth, are you out there? ( MH was the original Breakfast Snob and the title of my programme is a tribute to him. I'd love to talk to him again...it's been 20 years). He turned me on to Dax.

Blonde Redhead- Slogan
Cheering up now...I have no idea what the French lyrics are saying, but I like the melody.

Can- Half Past One
If I am playing Can, I am in a good mood.

Funkadelic- This Broken Heart
"I got more faults than Carter's got little pills."

Gentle Giant- Free Hand
I am very luck to have a free hand in selecting my songs.

Damien Dempsey- The Jar Song
Buy his records.

Jethro Tull- Acres Wild
I'm being very optimistic here.

Pretty Things - She's a Lover
Of someone else.

Soft Machine- Why Are We Sleeping?
Why are we awake?

Them Bones

Early Late Stories

I am nearly finished with a project that I only recently became aware that I was working on.
I've been learning my mother's story.

She and dad divorced almost as young as they married; Mom remarried (and later re-divorced) and moved to Evanston, Wyoming.
She spent most of her life living in the West- Montana;Utah;Wyoming- pursuing bad marriages and abusive relationships; alcoholic partners and cocaine husbands.

I didn't know her that well in life. I loved her and a peace was made before she died but I never really thought I understood her.

But I do. A little.

Mom spent entire years in near-total seclusion , a self-imposed estrangement from her children and siblings that lead me to believe that she had stopped caring, that she had abandoned us in heart as well as body.

I've been reading her letters and journals, sorting and scanning photographs that she had carried with her for as long as thirty years and it's clear that, if anything, she cared too much. Her pain caused her to withdraw into physical and emotional isolation, months spent drinking alone in remote Montana cabins or ramshackle Wyoming cottages.

Through it all, she maintained a somewhat erratic correspondence with friends of hers that I barely remember- it seems that my mother really liked to write letters, she received so many. I
I wish I had the letters that Mom sent but the ones she received have quite a bit to say; it's my choice to leave that for another time. I've heard their story and that is enough.

The few possessions she kept have their own tales.

In the X-mas photo, there's a painting, two figures on a road (a copy of a 'real' painting) that my father painted for her. It's on cardboard, a square cut from the corrugated side of a box.

The date stamp on the photo says "Jan.67", placing the setting as Christmas, 1966. I was 3 months old.

Today, ten years after Mom's death, I have finally finished sorting through her belongings. I have thrown some things away, donated others and some I will keep. My brother will get the rest.

One of the things I will keep is that painting. It's in a portfolio case of prints and pictures that she somehow managed to cling to through thirty years of drifting and drinking.

The painting reminds me that my father- whose whereabouts are currently unknown- once possessed a capacity for art, for hope and for love and that he has long since squandered those precious gifts.

It's a warning to me to never, ever take the things I care about for granted. It's too easy to lose everything if you do. Not knowing that simple truth very nearly cost me my own life, but I held on and I am not following my father's path. I hope.

The painting also tells me that although Mom told me to never forgive my father for a certain deed, that she must have forgiven him in some way or she wouldn't have kept that painting. She saw something in my father that I have never seen, but if she saw it, it was once there.

My mother is dead and my father is lost, but the painting is still here and so am I.

I've made many of the same mistakes as they, yet I'm here and they aren't. I like being here.
I can still feel the passion of art, the breathless touch of love and the driving force of hope that they must have once felt. I thought I had lost those things but I was wrong. They are with me.

I found something new in myself while I sifted mother's papers. I found forgiveness.
I can't forgive my father- there are limits to everything, and some trespasses I just cannot abide- but I can forgive her for telling me what he did and I can also forgive her for doing what she had to do.
Which was to leave her children behind.
It wasn't easy for her. She never got over it and neither did they.Until now.

Getting over it is my gift to her and to myself. So this year my Mother's Day gift is a few days early and ten years too late.

Mom, I forgive you. Can you forgive me?




Love,
Allan

April Wine (A Love Story)

My doctor recently gave me a prescription for a pill called Ambien. It's intended to help with my insomnia and it really does work.
However, there are side effects.
One of them is dreams.

Ambien gives me kick-ass weird dreams...not your typical nightmares or Freudian fantasies, but really bizarre, fun and even educational visions.

Of course, this may just be the onset of schizophrenia, but for now I'm rolling with the dream theory.

Last night as I readied for bed, I took one of those magic little pills and didn't even realize I was asleep when the dreams started.

The phone rang.
I answered.

It was my Dream Girl. She was concerned about me- you may have heard in the news about some bad things that happened in my home state of Virginia. I'm not ready to get into it here, but I did need someone to talk to more than I realized.

So we talked.

One of the things I love about my Dream Girl is that she always makes me laugh, even when I really feel like crying...I think I may have cried a bit, but she didn't get scared or hang up; she stuck with me until it was time to laugh again- which didn't take long.

"These pills kick ass", I thought to myself between giggles. "I'm having a great dream and I don't even feel like I'm asleep."

We discussed the childhood traumas inflicted on us by various album covers- their artwork and the packaging...which led me to bring up King Crimson, which of course led to a discussion about the most awesome Canadian band ever- April Wine. (Hey, I already said it was a dream)

Dream asked me about a particular April Wine song. She was very persistent about it - I didn't remember the song and at that point I didn't even know April Wine were Canadian- Dream actually talked me into firing up my computer and Googling April Wine song lyrics, which is not something I would do in a non-somnambulatory, undrugged state.

"Do it!" , insisted my Dream Girl.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes! I don't have a computer and I need to know...NOW! You have to. "

"I don't really want to...", my objections were even weaker than my willpower.
Honestly, I'd do almost anything she asked me to, so Googling crap-ass power ballads from the 1980's was not so bad, all things considered. Women have asked me to do far worse things than that- and I have complied, so...

...against whatever was left of my better judgement I typed the words " I rock myself to sleep" into the search window.

Bam! There it was. Sheer bloody brilliant poetry it was- I couldn't help myself -I began reading the magical verses to my Dream, who started laughing.

"Laugh all you want, woman", I thought, " but you started this. I'm not stopping until I have read every single goddamned lyric of this wretched Poodle-Metal masterpiece to you."

So I did.

Here are the words (even when I'm dreaming, I keep my promises)- with a bit of commentary.

I Rock Myself To Sleep- April Wine

Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Thinkin' about you
Thinkin' about you

Now I wanna say
It's not the same since you went away
And it's not right
You're not here with me tonite

(If you have heard this song, you will understand that it's even sung mis-spelled. "Tonite"...pft. ...tonite is a suffix, not a word-as in "kryptonite"-duh. )

And it's a crime
Just a lying here wasting my precious time
I'm so lonely and I'm so blue
Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Everynight I rock myself to sleep

(Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you?
...I rock myself to...what? Huh? What does this mean?)


Thinkin' about you
Thinkin' about you
And I wanna know
Don't you see how you hurt me so
Goin' outa my head
Yeh I'm feelin' it since you left

And it's a crime
Just a lying here wasting my precious time
I'm so lonely and I'm so blue
Thinkin' 'bout the things I could do to you
Everynight I rock
Everynight I rock myself to sleep
Thinkin' about you thinkin' about you

* * * * * * *

"Uh, er, ah..." , I sputtered into the phone , feeling a bit awkward.

"Yes? Yes?," queried my Dream, who was breathing just a little heavier than before- must be from all that laughing, I thought.

"This song...I think it's about a guy, uh, er... jerking-off while he's fantasizing about some chick who's ditzy enough to think that this is a sexy tune."

"Yeah, it's fuckin' horrible isn't it?"

"Um, yeah. So...what are you wearing?"

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?"

Someday

One morning in November of 2001, I awoke with my left arm numb and inflexible- not paralyzed, just very hard to move. I was drinking heavily at that time and I was quite accustomed to waking up and finding out that things had gone wrong the previous night- but I hadn't had this particular problem before.

I must have slept on it wrong , I thought, as I struggled to get ready for yet another day at what was easily my worst long-term job ever- manager of a discount shoe store.
Driving with a hangover is a lot like driving drunk- except this time I couldn't use my left hand to cover one eye. I couldn't even use it to steer. The only thing I could do was watch the fingers on my left hand change color from pink to purple, a phenomena I found a bit unsettling.

For an hour I struggled to flex it, get some feeling, make a fist...can't make a fist...ouch, that hurts...it was getting worse, not better. My arm wasn't asleep, it was sick. It was scaring me.

I took Barb, an older lady who was my head cashier, aside to tell her about my problem:

"Barb, I can't move my arm and it really hurts. I'm going to need you to run the store while I go to the doctor."

" Your arm? Is it numb and painful? That's what happened to my husband. He had a stroke and now he's crippled. How is your chest?"

My chest, which until then had been unnoticed, suddenly got very tight.Sharp pains radiated out from my solar plexus in every direction. I couldn't breathe and I knew- I KNEW-that I was going to die.
Of a stroke.
On the sales floor of a crap-ass shoe store.
I called my doctor- "get in here now", he said. "Get a ride- don't wait for an ambulance!" I did.

It wasn't a stroke. It was the first of many panic and anxiety attacks I was to suffer over the next several years- I still have them today, but they don't lay me out like they used to.

After it was determined that I wasn't having a stroke, they went to work on my arm. The heart fears were calmed and I was given a shot of something (morphine?) that made my arm feel very far away from the rest of me. I could see it and it looked funky blue, but it didn't bother me...more needles and electrodes...all so shiny. I was sleepy. Could I have a pillow?

After a week of consultations and tests, it was determined that the ulnar nerve in my arm had died from the elbow down and the flesh around it would eventually wither and become useless , if not dead.
I'd need an amputation from the elbow down.

I'm a musician and all the instruments I play require two hands, the guitar being my favorite. I'm not the best guitarist- (no one is, the common argument over who is the best git-picker is a spurious and wasteful one)- but there isn't anybody anywhere who plays like I do and that is pretty rare. It's a talent that I took a lot- too much- of pride in.
When I was told I'd never play again, I broke. Shattered.

I didn't think about how I would drive, tie my shoes, cook, hold a job, hold a lover in my arms...my first thought was : WILL I PLAY AGAIN?

I was told no, I would not. Not with a stump, I wouldn't.

So, at my doctors advice, I got a second opinion from a surgeon who was not on my insurance carrier's plan. He met with me, had his own x-rays taken and re-administered some tests. He ran an electrical current through my Ulnar nerve.

OOOOOWWWWWGODDDDDDTHHHAAAATHURRRTTTTSSSS

"That hurts, eh? Good."

"Good?" *whimper*

"Yes. Those [the hospital] docs are idiots . This nerve is alive. I can save your arm."

He didn't say say he might be able to. He said he could save it . He said this as matter-of-fact. The sun rises.
Water is wet.
He could save my arm.
Simple.

He had no doubt in his ability and that confidence helped settle me down. That and a giant bottle of Valium. I wasn't supposed to drink - the valium was intended to help with that, but I wound up mixing the two on a daily basis -along with Oxycontin and Demerol. A few Demerol and a fifth of vodka was only a mild buzz for me at one point...but I had to quit before the surgery. Alcohol, despite it's calming effect, is actually quite hard on your nerves and it increases your risk of bleeding out on the OR table.

For my arm, for my guitar, I quit drinking a few weeks before the operations. I had nothing else to live for but that was enough. For that, I would fight.

The operations went well, but it took six months of physical therapy before I could play a few simple chords...but after a few more months I was whizzing over the frets faster than I'd ever been able to play before.
The first docs were wrong. I would play again.
And I was wrong. I would drink again.

I won one fight, but I lost a long war in the process. Alcohol had taken over my life...if I am going to be a one-armed shoe-salesman, I thought, then the best thing I can do is drink myself to death...that was my intent, although I hadn't admitted it to myself yet.

By the time I got my arm back, my soul was lost. My ill- considered drinks of celebration immediately became the same old daily suicide routine. I drifted through an endless series of dead-end temp jobs. I didn't see my friends, the only brief happiness was a brief on-the -job affair that ended badly and left me even more desolate and forlorn than before. And drunk.

My guitar, which was the initial focus of my recovery, sat in the corner gathering dust.

I stopped writing in my journal and notebooks.
No poems.
No letters.
Nothing but me , my pills , my pain and the bottle.
I watched a lot of TV. I used a lot of drugs.

Then Hurricane Isabel hit Virginia. Sept 2003.
The temp agency offered me a job with State Farm handling storm claims, 7 days a week, 12 hours a day.
Amazingly, I accepted it and it was a good thing I did. I still drank, but not as much because the days were so long I had to cut back.
After the initial hurricane paperwork chaos, I started liking my work. I saved a lot of money- all that overtime was great...but I was drifting farther and farther apart from my friends.
It was loneliness and isolation that first drove me to blog- isolation and a deep hatred of Bush's neo-con cabal of war profiteers.


But the booze had me. I knew it had to stop, but I didn't care. I was hoping for death. I didn't have much -in my mind- to live for and I had convinced myself that my life was over and I would never be happy. I was a rotten person- a drunk of the worst kind- and not one person would miss me were I to die.

Of course, this wasn't true, but that is how an addict at the very end of their addiction feels. If they feel anything, that is. I suspect the last thing that you feel is nothing at all, but I don't want to know.

After another year it all caught up to me. I started vomiting blood one night after having to leave work early with stomach pain. I barely made it to the ER, where I was told I only had a few hours to live.
Who should they call?
No one. Don't call anyone.
I don't want anyone to know how bad it had become. I was dying, but I was also ashamed. How did I let this happen?

But the surgeries worked. When I woke up- alive- I had changed. I was still alone, unhappy and bereft of any love or joy, but I had something more powerful that that. Something that (I hope) had killed the urge to drink forever.

I had fear.
I was afraid of dying. I still am. I haven't had a drink since the first week of September, 2005. Not because I am brave or strong- I don't drink because I am weak and I am afraid of suffering and dying.

As time passed, I started finding new reasons to live. The radio station was my anchor. I needed it, and most importantly it needed me. I hadn't been needed for a long time. Anyone can do office work but not many people can produce and engineer live music in a deadline -is-now- broadcast environment.
I can. I even enjoy it and I'm a lot better at it when I'm sober.

And then there was blog. Somehow, I had accumulated a tiny but loyal group of friends, most of whom I've never met and probably never will. Like any group of friends, there were differences and problems and maybe even a broken heart, but by and large I feel that my life is much the richer for being part of this world. Having this outlet and the support that followed was a real source of strength for me during those horrible post-hospital months.


There are some of you that I would love to thank in person, but I will wait until I need a place to crash. Then I will show up in the middle of a hailstorm , huddled on your doorstep, clutching a battered guitar and a grimy paper sack containing my laundry and a pair of well-fed cats.

"Thank you", I will say, then I will ask: "Do you mind if I crash here?" and "You aren't allergic to cats are you?"

I'm kidding, of course. I would never put my cats in a bag with my dirty socks.


For all of our sake's , I'm hoping it won't come to that. For now, just know that I really do appreciate each and every one of you.

I wasn't ready to be sick again so soon, but I am. I don't know how bad quite yet, but it isn't good. No cure, but there are treatments.

But really, it might not be too bad. I can walk, climb stairs, carry heavy weights etc- with only slightly more discomfort than a 'normal' person. I have to quit smoking pot, but I should have done that anyway. I've had my fun with that for what? twenty-five years? Long enough.

I have friends who didn't make it through the last twenty-five years, but not because of pot- they drank. And snorted. And stabbed. Needles and knives. The rope.

Some of the survivors are alive, but they aren't living. The booze- and especially the cocaine- have left them hollow, hopeless and seemingly incapable of dreams.

I haven't suffered that fate. I have spent three days studying my disease and I am convinced I can beat it. Not cure it- that is impossible- but beat it down and live with it. Live well.

Because I can still dream. My latest dream is an old one and it is so pathetic and mundane that I am afraid to mention it because I fear derision and ridicule, which is silly because what I want is only what most of us want.

It's one of the oldest, simplest dreams in the world but it's a bit too complex to discuss here.

I am not even sure who I need to have this conversation with. It's possible that I haven't even met that person yet. I have to stay alive in order to find out.
But when we do meet, I hope that there's a plentiful supply of coffee at hand- because we will have a lot to talk about.

The Doctor's Office

I have only mentioned this to a few people and never in public, but I've been feeling poorly lately.
Fatigued at mid-day.
Out of breath for no reason- jog up several flights of stairs, carry heavy loads etc, no problem...get up in the middle of the night to pee? I'm winded.
No pattern to it. I have a not-so hidden fear of illness, and heart disease is near the top of my list of medical phobias. I am so afraid of it that I have only mentioned my recent poor health to a few people- knock wood.

I have likewise been keeping mostly mum on my insurance woes - but today I finally got my health insurance. I called my doc right away.

When I mentioned shortness of breath, he said he wanted me to come directly in. So I did.

There was a new receptionist on duty, a middle-aged woman with a very sad face...as she weaved her way through my new insurance info she muttered something about insurance carriers. There was a peculiar, intense edge to her mumbled words that caused me to do a double-take:

"Pardon?"

"I said you've had quite a few carriers in the last several years, Mr. C.," she said, her voice now heavy with weary compassion.

It was a statement, not a judgement , but my reaction was defensive.

"Well, I've had a lot of jobs...and the ones I keep usually change insurance carriers every year. To save money, they say."

"Honey, we see this all the time ...all day...it's terrible. Do your premiums ever go down when they "save money?"

Aha. This woman had some sort of issue with The System, not with me. I felt like I could talk to her, so I did.

"No, of course my premiums never go down. I can barely afford my share, in fact. I've felt like hell for a month and haven't been able to afford a visit until today. It's absolutely shameful how our country refuses to care for it's citizens."

"If you were in prison, you'd get free medical."

Prison? Huh? Where is this headed?

"Excuse me?"

" The bastard -pardon my French- who killed my son. He gets free medical care. For life. He had an appendectomy last month and I was praying that he would die. He didn't. He killed my boy. My boy was only 23."

"I...."

"Your new co-pay is $20. It was ten. They need the extra money so they can give free medicine to the man who killed my son. They plan on keeping that man alive forever. In prison."

As she said this it was clear that she considered the murderer's incarceration to be her own, that her life would always be stalled at that moment , the moment that she learned her son was dead. In her heart, as long as her child's killer had a future, she herself did not.


"I...I think I know...," I stammered, but I don't know, so I shut up and listened. This woman's anguish was compelling.
I am strong.
I am powerful.
I am helpless in the face of a mother's grief for her murdered child.

I have been told a little about this sort of justice and how it feels.
Told by someone who wasn't quite murdered and by someone who was.
But that's all I can know.
Because I wasn't there. It didn't happen to me.

It wasn't my son who was killed.

It wasn't my son who grew up wanting to be a soldier just like his Daddy, only to drop out of West Point because he was broken-hearted over what had happened to our military. It wasn't my child that returned home without any dreams left, and it wasn't my kid who lost his life just because he wanted to help his mom by taking out the trash.

It was her son who wanted to be a soldier and it was her son who was shot in the heart while dumping the garbage for his mom. He died in the alley a few seconds after his parents heard the shot.

He was murdered as part of a gang initiation. When apprehended, the killer explained that it was nothing personal, just that "somebody had to die that night and he was there"...as the woman told me this story, I could picture this inhuman creature as it calmly explained how sure, "it wasn't personal - we just murdered your son because it's better than being bored..." and I KNEW that this animal would never, not once, have even the slightest touch of remorse over what it had done.
In fact, the creature didn't seem to think it was treated fairly.
After all, someone had to die. It wasn't personal- why was everyone so upset?

That is how the animal thinks. It wasn't my son in her story , but I have met the animal.
I know others who have and not a single one of us is better for the meeting, but we have survived the encounters, with varying degrees of success.
Nietzche was wrong.
Not everything that fails to kill you makes you stronger.

I managed to choke out a few words about two friends of mine who fight this animal war every day but I couldn't get it out properly. I could tell from my voice that I was about to burst into tears and I wasn't sure I would be able to stop if I did.

"I'm sorry...I'm not used to talking about this. I didn't mean to bring all that up...", words that could have been spoken by either one of us, but in this case it was her to me.
And I'm not used to it. I'm used to writing about my feelings; I am not used to talking about them.
There is a huge difference.

" No," I said, " it's OK. Most people don't talk about this sort of thing. We hold it in until it kills us because that is easier than talking about it."

She reached through the sliding glass window and squeezed my hand.

"People should talk more often," she said and handed my paperwork back to me.

By the time the doctor saw me I had almost finished crying.




My doctor is an extraordinarily kind man and I've been seeing him for almost ten years. He has seen me through a (temporarily) crippling neurological illness; my first panic attacks and a nearly fatal addiction.

He has never seen me cry.

But he understood.

Now. What seems to be the matter?

I described my symptoms.

Hmmm...I haven't started smoking cigarettes have I?

No sir, just marijuana.

No alcohol?

Not a drop.

Mind if I look?

Go ahead, please.

(Note to alcoholics who think that they can fool their doctor: You can't. He can look down your throat and tell if you are a drunk. If he can't , you need a new doctor- not that drunks practice much preventive health care. It's almost always a sudden ER trip that gets them)

My doctor is very proud of my sobriety. He tells me that the chances of me doing what I have done are almost impossible, yet here I am.
I am not ashamed to admit that I needed to hear that.
That I do need to hear it from time to time.
That I will probably always need to hear it.

He used his ears and a stethoscope- still one of Medicine's finest tools- I took breaths until I nearly hyperventilated. Through the nose. Now the mouth. Nose. Mouth.
Dizzy.


Well. I was sent to have some precautionary X-rays, but the doctor seems to think that I have developed an allergy- my heart and lungs sound fine, but my sinuses are draining and seem obstructed.

He believes that I have developed an allergy or twelve and it is causing mild asthmatic attacks. This , I was told, is not nearly as bad as a heart attack.
Cool.

So I was given an inhaler.
I have to laugh.
It fits.

See, despite all the hype, I'm really just a nerd who likes Dungeons and Dragons, comic books and record collections.
I'm not even cool enough to wear horn-rimmed glasses- only cool geeks get those...but now I do have an inhaler!

I'll keep it in my Pocket-Protector, next to my Bic pens, my d20 and my Texas Instruments math machine.

Right above my heart, which seems to doing fine.

Man, I was really worried and was afraid I'd have a stroke any second or something...asthma?
The inhaler seems to work.

I am literally breathing easier!

Now, will my new sleeping pills be enough to counter the speedy feeling from the inhaler?