Self Poor Traits

Yes, I am a handsome man and these new self-portraits are going to underscore that.

Dig it.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.3

Following the appendectomy/penis torture on Tuesday, I actually went back to work on Friday. I just had to have some semblance of normal again. Well, let me rephrase that by saying that by no means where I work is normal, but I've been there so long that it's a familiar routine. Besides, there was little chance of someone holding me down for a catheterization.

{The silence of the waiting room. Good times.}

On Monday, I had to go back to the hospital for a CTA scan. This had previously been scheduled in July and the hospital had given me the runaround, wasting three hours of my time and generally leaving a a heavy reluctance to reschedule. My wife, in her infinite wisdom, insisted that I call the cardiologist and insist on a redo. Because I wanted to avoid all hospitals at all costs, she called the cardiologist's office, raising hell, and in turn, the cardiologist's secretary got angry at the hospital for telling me that my orders were not correct and I was there at the wrong time.

My CTA was scheduled for 5 AM. Luckily (again) I live within walking distance and so getting there is no hassle for me.

My wait was short and soon a nurse was escorting me to the back. She was impossibly cute, of course, and smart enough to engage in decent conversation. She even laughed at some of my remarks. Not easy at this unholy hour. We did the usual vitals, weigh in and talky talk about meds, family history and medical history. All standard and boring stuff made somewhat easier because of her sweetness.

Now, it's time to insert an IV, don the gown and slide into ze hole. It looks like a huge half donut with a sliding tray. Basically, that's it/ Mine had the name brand of Philips. Not sure what that means, but perhaps Philip-Morris has some hidden sponsorship. Who knows.

I have done one of these before and they are not scary. What is slightly disturbing is the contrast that is used to really highlight the secrets of the heart.

This special injection makes you feel as though you have suddenly dipped into an overheated hot tub beginning with your brain, down through your chest and then suddenly you feel like you are pissing yourself. Yep. They even tell you that. In politer terms, of course.

The donut hole procedure done, you must hang out with cute nurse for a half an hour to make sure you don't have a reaction to the dye. Evidently, I don't have any bad reactions to any drugs except beef, candy, cookies and all the fucking tasty things in the food world. Drugs? He's ok. Food? Watch that man.

Needless to say, it was easy exchanging pleasantries with Nurse Cute and we even shared some personal information. My dad-heart disease. Her dad-same.

Then came my favorite part: time to get discharged. I went home and thought no more of the thing.

Three days pass and at work, my cardiologist's secretary call. Now, this is unusual in so many, many ways. I thought that her secretary never answered her phone and never returned calls.

"Dr. N wants to do a heart cath on Monday."
"Monday??!!"
"Yes, she wants to schedule on for Monday."
"Does she know I just got out for an appendectomy."
"I'll find out and call you back."

With a speed that I had never seen, she calls back and says that she still wants to do the cath.

This can't be good, dudes.

And it wasn't.

More of the bad stuff to follow.

Down with the Sickness, Pt.2

"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?"


It seems after my appendectomy, there was a problem: I couldn't urinate.

(Our lovely model holds a Foley cath. Looks inviting, yes?)

Well, I sorta could with wincing and silent cries as what seemed to be burning liquid passing in a trickle. It certainly wasn't a flowing font. The bladder (and other organs) frequently temporarily shut down after surgery due, as it was explained to me, to the anesthesia. Evidently, mine chose to do this.

Or was this the issue? Nay.

The evening nurse noticed that my output was not adequate compared to the fluids they were giving me via an IV. Mucho IV fluids post-op are common. So, Nurse Wretched gets a machine that takes a sonogram of my bladder and sees that I'm not passing enough. Only one way out of this: a direct cath. (A direct cath is a one-time deal down the sacred pipe whereas a Foley cath is the one they use during surgery. It has a balloon that inflates in your bladder. Exciting and fun, yes?)

It's simple in concept, but excruciating. Perhaps my pain was due to the fact, discussed later and openly agreed with by my cardiologist, I had had my urethra traumatized during surgery. When Nurse Wretched did her direct cath, at the lovely hour of 3 AM, there was a bit of blood and what seemed to be a clot.

[I am sorry this is gross, but there is no way to tell this tale without the grim facts.]


I kept telling them that it fucking hurt. Who listens to a patient?

Well, six hours later, Nurse Dude says (at 9AM) the same thing- time for another cath. The old bladder is full and needs a draining. Holy fuck me in the ear drum!


He tries to be consoling, but nothing can take away the agony. You just take a deep breath and hold yourself back from strangling the motherfucker who is doing it.

Let's count them, shall we kids? That makes three caths so far. Get the picture???? Each one, with the exception of the surgery because I'm out, a screamingly painful affair.

At this point, I'm wondering a few things:

1. Can I slip out of here without being noticed?

2. Why isn't Old Faithful working? Have they screwed it up or are my works still anesthetized?

3. When's my next pain pill?

4. When's my next pain pill?


You better believe I requested pain meds after that. Besides, I was scheduled for meds anyway for the abdomen discomfort. I should have been prescribed meds just for having Mr. Oxy as a roommate who continued his moaning and groaning throughout all this.

My surgeon is alerted to the situation and eventually he shows up. Evidently, Nurse Dude did not tell him about the blood. The urologist is alerted as he wants to do a contrast sonogram of my bladder. Contrast being the dye they put in to see everything on the big screen.

You see, my surgeon is wondering whether or not he has nicked my bladder during surgery (He pretty much admitted this.) and he is probably more worried about that than my pain. Still, I like DR. P and plan no law suits or harbor ill will. I do contemplate the law suit idea immediately after each cath, but can you blame me?

Down to the basement of torture. The basement of CAMC is sort of a menacing place which seems more akin to a post apocalyptic bunker, a warehouse of medical odds and ends, and where huge, scary machines are always on a humming standby.

A young nurse comes and talks to me. She is attractive, but you can't help notice the speech impediment. There's a history there to be sure. She's very pleasant and all, but leaves in frustration with these parting words: "They told me that they were going to cath you upstairs."

Wha??? Cath? Surely not. Another cath? Goddamn. No way. Fuck, I can get out her right now. Fuck it, my water works will come to life at home. In between the caths, as painful as they were, they were already starting to come back. Again, who listens to the patient?

Sure as shit in an outhouse, a young cocky John Stamos sort of lookalike pauses in front of the room, checking his iPhone. He's got scrubs on, so let's assume this is the urologist.

Yep, and in order to see everything the dye is shot into the bladder via yet another cath.

I tell him, the nurse and another guy who I have seen before in radiology, that I have been experiencing horrific pain every time the monstrous cath is done. To which he replies these golden words:

"Why does it hurt?"

Is he fucking kidding? Should I jump off the table and clock him (Let's face it, I probably had no more clocking power than an old Timex after surgery. My wounds were hours fresh and my bladder feels like I drank a small lake full of beer.)?

"I don't know, but there's been blood and each one has been worse than the other."

Despite my tale, it's time to lie down and "take my medicine." He shouts, "Don't hold your breath! Don't hold your breath!" Barking commands at me like he's some DI at Paris Island boot camp. NOT my favorite doctor to be sure. In fact, I'm going to kill him once I get better.

After Niagara Falls flows away, the nurse and the other guy take all sorts of pictures. I have to move around which is painful enough. They are compassionate and kind and I deeply appreciate not feeling like a goddamn test subject.

There I was, exposed in front of three strangers (one of them a woman), my works hanging out and all cathed up for the fourth time. Helpless, hurting like a bitch in my back, my abdomen and of course, Mr. Happy was seriously unhappy. It was then that a change happened to me. I no longer had any embarrassment about my body and anybody who saw it.

This is a Foley and it's staying in. So, no more caths and Mr. Bladder is free and clear. I can stop worrying about this for a while.

Let me say this at this juncture that I had many a sweet nurse who never delayed in bringing this old boy his meds, the standard and the good stuff. My philosophy is this: they have you bent over a barrel, so being an asshole isn't going to help your get what you want. Plus, you have to do some things for yourself. For instance, when the old liquid gold bag got too full, I dumped it into two receptacles provided for such use. One nurse exclaimed, "You did that by yourself?? You are the best patient ever!" Trust me, while her name now eludes me, she doted on me. You have to NOT be a pain in the ass (like my roomie) to them.

You develop a sense pretty quickly which nurses are the creme of the crop and which seem to be nice, but you wonder if they are in over their heads.

Though I went in on Tuesday morning and was released Weds, I began to feel like my mind was unraveling. With the drugs, the endless worry and anxiety, the procedures, my wacko roomie, and the endless parade of nurses coming in at all hours of the night to take vitals, there was a feeling of such chaos in my mind that it felt a bit like an acid trip. I probably had had two hours solid sleep in 72 hours. Sleep is not something you get in a hospital.

There were some comical moments. Always, yes?

I was woken up at 5am to have an intern tell me that my bladder was OK, only to be told a few hours later by another intern the same fucking thing. I was laughing inside at their attempts at gravitas. It wasn't working. I don't listen to twenty-somethings with too much seriousness anyway, let alone those dressed causally in North Face fleece or those that have their names embroidered on clean lab coats. I am a test subject to them, a patient to see on appointed rounds, someone to "practice on." No thanks. Give me a grizzled, old gray haired bastard that's seen it all. Gimme the real doctor please.

(By the way, Urologist John Stamos lite did come in and told me that my bladder was OK. gee, this play is repetitive. I got a call during his brief visit and he turned my iPhone to silent. Hmm....taking liberties are we? Still don't like him. No sir.)

I had my right arm across my forehead and I swung at what I thought was an intruder. It was a sweet nurse who remarked, "Good thing I spoke to you before taking your temperature." Yep. I was a case.

OK.

I was discharged by my surgeon, but there came one huge, disheartening catch before I would be released. Something that was told to me by the afternoon nurse just when my hopes were so high: the urologist wanted me to be able to empty my bladder adequately before discharge. I felt like a prisoner. FREE ME.

After calming down, I realized he was fucking right. Goddamn it.

I set about getting as much liquid into those urine bottles as I could, sitting them up on my movable table like they were bowling trophies.

"Look! Loookie! I can pee! Seriously!" In fact, the pipes, although very tender, were coming back. Hotdamn!

I ask her about discharge again (finding a nurse is much harder than pushing the old red button provided for you) and she announces another bummer: "Your bladder has to be below 100 mils before he will release you."

Trust me, I actually did this. I watched a video on YouTube of Niagara Falls. You know how water sounds makes the pipes flow, so quit laughing. Actually, it was funny to me and by God, I was desperate to get the hell out of there.

Remember that Mr. Demerol was still doing his "Ooooooooooh...........Ohhhhhhhhh" all the time. Well, sometimes they gave him meds which put him to sleep. Thank you very much.

Eventually, I cleared the Golden Bar with a 76 mil count when she finally got the old bladder sonogram machine on me.

I was going home. Yay! Yay!

Little did I know, I would return very soon. More on that soon.

Down with the Sickness: Part 1

"Get up, come on get down with the sickness
You mother get up
Come on get down with the sickness
You fucker get up
Come on get down with the sickness"

"Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane"

It's been an interesting ride lately, kids and I can't say it's been at all pleasant. Our topic for this post is a telling of recent events, that is, events of the hospital kind. Normally people's retelling of their illnesses is as interesting as a C-Span marathon, but I think you may agree that this old boy has been through it. So, read on if you want to hear the ridiculous details of my recent "visits" to CAMC.

[Be warned: some things are graphic.]

Le Prelude

The prelude to all this includes more medical misery. In September, I weathered a sinus infection and bronchitis, not once but twice. It was your basic lung hack-a-thon misery. Fine. That which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger.

Late October, I notice that my right ankle feels particularly tender after the afternoon shift. I discount it, thinking maybe I just had it at at bad angle. No such luck, dudes.

Gout had returned and knocked out the next two days. If you've never had gout, then feel lucky because it's a continuous painful guest that brings mobility to a standstill. The mere flow of blood to the site is painful.

Get Thee to an ER

November comes and it begins with a pleasant surprise. On the 2nd, I had a nice takeout meal from Soho's (tremendously overpriced and pretentious). My meal was a healthy section of fish with vegetables. Soon after supper, I felt like I eaten too much and my abdomen was too full.

As the evening progressed, a sharp and unrelenting pain appeared in what I thought was my stomach. The swollen feeling continued as well. Bedtime brought no relief, falling asleep for a few hours, I would get out of bed to see if the old trusty bowels were just in need of some relief. Again, brief sleep only to be awoken by the continuous stomach pain. A wretched night.

Finally, it dawns on me that I cannot handle this with with any homemade remedy nor will it leave me alone. It's around 7am and I get dressed and tell my wife that I am going to the ER. We live within walking distance, so getting there is a matter of minutes.

On the walk there, I get a wave of nausea. I fight it, hoping the cold winter air takes it away like it has a thousand times before. Approaching the ER doors, the nausea overtakes me. I instantly realize that I am dressed in such common street clothes, including a hoodie, that I must resemble a homeless man getting sick outside the ER.

This is not going well.

The ER is surprisingly empty and check-in is pretty fast. I'm in a gown and got a bed (Number 13-a number which has followed me for a long time.) in record time. Fine, but the pain is not subsiding.

Doc#1 comes in and I describe all my symptoms: intense stomach pain, swollen feeling in abdomen and a slight pain near my groin. He runs some tests, and in his blessed mercy, he gives me a shot of morphine.

Pain is gone. The room is spinning slightly and I'm making sense in my mind, but not to others. Funny how that works.

More tests, but he says he might release me, but I complain more about the pain near my groin. Like a play or a comedy (Miss Morphine is dancing in my head, of course.), another doctor comes in and introduces himself and I have to start my story all over again. He wants to do a lower abdomen scan.

There goes my chance of going home.

SIDEBAR: In the ER, across the room, is a man who keeps making sounds of pain. "Oohh....oohhhh." This goes on like his mantra. He has some visitors with him. I hear him explain to his family that the cause of his pain in his stomach "musta been them two burgers I ate. Oooohh....Ohhhhh." This guy is in deep shit or drug seeking. A doctor asks him, "Do you drink?"

"Four quarts."

"Four quarts?"

"Two on Friday and two on Saturday."

If this is his sense of humor, then he has chosen the wrong audience because I do not hear the doctor laughing. More on this mystery man later. Seriously.

There is a long-ass delay in the getting the results because of a computer malfunction in radiology, but no one in that department could pick up a phone and tell anyone this. Hours later, Doc #2 has an announcement: "You are having an appendicitis. Looks like we'll have to do surgery tonight." My appendix is enlarged, but mercifully it has not ruptured. To think Doc#1 was going to let me go home.

Surgery? Well, I'll be picking my jaw up off the floor any second now. Up to this point, I have only had minor surgery once in high school for impacted wisdom teeth. Scared? You bethcha, but the morphine, lack of sleep combined with the pain and the reality of my situation all point to the knife. What can I do? Nothing. I must accept this.

Doctor P comes in and tells me he's going to be my surgeon. I like him instantly. He exudes a calm confidence without a trace of arrogance. Now, we wait. Then again, what fucking choice do I have?

Let the Show Begin

Taken up to the prep room, I meet Dr. S, my anesthesiologist. I sort of recognize him from high school. He's a good egg and even though he gives me the obligatory list of a thousand things that could go wrong, I sense he knows what he's doing.

One thing: more than a few people will ask you the same questions over and over. What's your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what procedure you're going to have? Etc.

These measures are reassuring. I want to know that everyone is on the same page. Plus, this is so we don't wake up with our left leg amputated and our appendix right where it was.

A little Versed and we are ready to go.

In the OR, under the tutelage of Dr. S is a young trainee who has an enthusiasm that is not quite inviting. Shall I say she was a little bitchy? Yes. Was it nerves on her part? I don't know, but she puts the mask on me so tight that I can't breathe through my nose.

Muffled through mask, "Can you not put that so tight, please?"

No response. Please, lady, you're smothering me. I know I'm supposed to relax, but I gotta breathe.

Finally, I guess I kept insisting on being heard that they take the mask off, hear my request and replace it properly. Then the lights go out.

That's the beauty of surgery, if any beauty can be ascribed to such a barbarous act, is that when you wake up, you know it's all over but the hurting. The scary stuff is over.

B-U-L-L-S-H-I-T

When you're under, everybody knows that they catheterize you. Here's what I found online about this delightful procedure: "His anxiety was greatly lessened when the corpsman explained to him that the procedure might look painful but actually was not. In addition, the relief he would feel would worth any discomfort he might feel."
Or this: "Catheterization in males is slightly more difficult and uncomfortable than in females because of the longer urethra."

They forgot these little words: screaming agony like a hot fire poker is going down your most delicate bits. I shall elaborate in a minute, trusted readers.

When I woke up, I was in no pain and I instantly knew where I was. I was higher than the moon, but I've been there before. The nurse got my family and off to my room. It was late and I told my wife and my friend to go home. Nobody likes hospitals, so the hell with them staying bedside. I'm out of danger and going to sleep.

Or so I thought.

Your Roomate is a Freak, Dudes

My roomie was......drumroll.....Mr. Pain from the ER. Yes, for hours this man continued his mantra. Friends, family, nurses, doctors: no one could console him. Eventually, they took him to have bowel surgery to remove an obstruction. That can't be good.

Know this to be true: There is no resting in a hospital. None. Just say, "Fuck it" and accept it right now. Whenever the sweet veil of slumber comes upon you, indubitably a nurse will come in and check your vitals, draw blood, weigh you or any number of interrupting procedures. OR your roomie will be a drug-seeking psycho. Yes, it is difficult at best to judge another's pain and I should have compassion on my fellow traveler, but in this case, methinks the dude was mostly faking it.

Then Mr. Pain came back from surgery and slept for a few hours. Then the mantra began. "Ooooohhhh................ooooohhhhhhhh." Every minute on the hour on the minute to the second. Over and over again.

You think I'm kidding or exaggerating just to try to be funny. I wish I was. God likes me a lot the way I figure, but he also likes to endure things that stretch my patience and humanity to the limit. And this dude stretched it to the limit. He even apologized:

"I'm sorry, buddy."

I lied, but replied kindly, "Don't you worry about it." I actually thought: "Motherfucker, shut the hell up!" He wanted to be in a pain med coma and tried every trick in the book, even faking a heart attack (I'm serious) to get more pain meds. Over and over again, nurses and even doctors refused his suicidal request. "Sir, I've never heard of that and we can't give you any more pain medication as you are now at the legal limit." said one young and exasperated intern.

His wife said that he had been on a Demerol patch because he was in an accident years ago.

"Sir, how long have you been on pain medication?"

"Fifteen years."

"How long ago was your accident?'

"Ten years ago."

Eh? I had to ponder that one and still I had no answer.

"What medication were you on?

"Demerol patch, Oxycontin and Valium."

What's that called? The Walking Dead combo? I mean, I appreciate a good buzz as much as the next person, but isn't there some semblence of reality you want to hold on to?

No Sleep, Fresh From Surgery, Freak Roomie: What's next?

The Joys of Catheterization!

Irony, Anyone?

Pardon me, but I have seen some mixed messages on magazine covers before, but this one takes the Whoopie Pie.

Did the geniuses at LHJ miss the blazing irony or are the cynics correct when they say media is only out to make us want things that will never make us happy, but in turn only make us miserable?

The only thing missing is the waif, smiling her empty holiday smile, holding one of these mini belly building beauties.

Sheesh.

It's Like a Finger Pointing at the Moon

"Don't think. FEEL. It's like a finger pointing at the moon.
[Looks at student who is looking at the finger; smacks student again]
Do not concentrate on the finger or you will miss all of the heavenly glory!"

Sir Charles had us in karate fever.

Before being torn away from my home to become a cadet at SMA, Charlie was getting us all into karate. He had been studying with master Kang in South Charleston and in turn, he taught us. Or rather, he tried to teach us. I bought a Gi, the white uniform, and took some classes with Charlie and another Tae Kwon Do teacher, Rev. T.

Imagine a small gymnasium with three young men, all in their teens and Rev. T leading us in exercises. One must warm up the body before the discipline of martial arts, so we did stretches first, push ups (That was when I could do a push up.)- the regular kind and those of the knuckle variety. Then came time for jumping jacks.

This is one of those experiences that was simply amazing. I know we toss around amazing and awesome to describe the most mundane things until those words have lost their meaning, but this was quite so, gentle readers.

So here are, trying to stay up with Reverend T doing jumping jacks. Slowly, he increases his speed. Man, I am just a kid, but already I feel pooped. Then suddenly, and I am not shitting you my friends, he goes into warp gear. The man's body was at a speed where his arms and legs are a blur. He's at a blinding speed. All of us break into smiles, double over to get our breath and watch the Six Million Dollar man break bad. He was driven with pure purpose and it was a beautiful display of athletic grace and power.

Then, up and down the floor, over and over again, doing the forms. "KEE-YAH!" we'd yell as we punch imaginary opponents. "KEE-YAH" comes a forward kick. Up the floor and back again. Over and again. It is grueling and my Gi is soaked. Zowie. I enjoyed the sense of accomplishment, but the physical toll was a bit much. I continued to have sporadic lessons with Charlie, but nothing really ever came from it. Bottom line: I didn't have the discipline. And if you did make contact, it hurt like a motherwriter. No one told me that.

By then, the guitar had already taken hold of me and the mere thought of knuckle push ups was unbearable. Or even worse, breaking my fingers or hand(s). Big wuss that I am.

Denny La Groove

One last addition to the dramatis personae of this time period: The Denmeister (No, we didn't call him that, but I try to keep names vague for obvious reasons.). I met him in the most unusual way.

When I was at SMA, Charlie said he was training a ninja warrior and kept telling me to stay in shape because I'd have to fight him. I did and got pretty good at nunchucks. I practiced them when I could.

Now, why in the hell did I take this seriously? Beats me.

The first time I met Den, we got into a fighting stance and began demonstrating our nunchuck skills to one another. It was like a martial arts movie standoff. I do believe that we both were ready to actually inflict harm upon one another. Charlie - Should we add Manson to your name?

He and Den were best mates at that point and had even shot an 8mm martial arts movie at an abandoned sanitarium (Now the site of a tennis megadome for the $noots of our fair city.). I was just so impressed that they had gone to such lengths. They even choreographed a fight scene and had the timing down pat. This was tribute to the very famous Bruce Lee-Chuck Norris fight scene (This was when back hair was not illegal. Is it just me, or does Norris' body hair seem to grow? Maybe I need my meds adjusted.)

Den was smart, funny as hell, extremely organized and was always thinking ahead. He was an extremely disciplined person at times, even bordering on the neurotic. Sometimes, he and Richard would crawl off into what amounted basically to "bummer" sessions; that is, male bonding consolation sessions whining about girls and playing songs about such. As someone who possesses an artistic temperament and who dealt with the turmoil of adolescence, I could fully relate to the occasional forays into what we might call folk emo today: Neil Young, America, CSNY, et al. If it was soft, acoustic and had lyrics about girl trouble, then these dudes were fully immersed. Trouble is, my occasional bouts of balls-out confidence didn't always jive with their soft, acoustical reveries.

One night, I shot my mouth off.

"Still into Neil Young?" was my sarcastic observation and note of condescension. They looked at one another, but did not reply. Needless to say, my presence was not welcome that night. It was an asshole thing to say, but because I was trying to free myself from the basics bonds of guitar playing, I felt that I had to be critical of who passed the guitar test and those whom I dubbed as lesser-thans. Old Neil was one of them at that time. (Neil is favorite now, as all that "having to prove something" nonsense is gone. I love his style.) This incident passed without notice and we were all pals again.

Le Groove would later be another guitar aficionado, joining Joe, T Bird and myself for Neil Young-a-thons. Even later, he would don a bass guitar for the early days of the band most smooth. (In fact, all but Charlie played the guitar. Curious.)

Mr. Smooth

I met the Smoothmeister atop the Devil's Tea Table-a collection of rocks high above a ridge overlooking the valley. Even in those days, making that hike up to those formations was tough, but because we heard there was going to be a group of people up there spending the night, we just hiked right up. (I wouldn't try today not without a cell phone, a friend and a defibrillator.). No way Jose.)

I remember that there was a fire on a mountain ridge far across the valley. It was like watching a giant cigar ash slowly burning its way across a mountain side. The moon was out and kept watch over these teenage revelers. I mentioned something about the Moonlight Sonata and that was the beginning of our friendship. He liked Beethoven and Debussy; composers quite out of step with the likes of '70's rock gods like Aerosmith and Fred Zepplin. He was digging Brazil 66 and Vince Gauraldi when his peers were shattering their ear drums to Fog Hat and other musical delicacies. In fact, I was to learn that the Smoothenator was sort of out of step with the times and time itself.

You could never count on him to be on time anywhere. If he said a half hour, you must expect an hour to an hour and half to that time. We called it the C Variable. All who knew him knew this fact.
For as smooth as he was, the Smooth was prone to prat falls and such merriment. One such fall was while he was crossing a log and friends saw him tumble into the creek. Physically unharmed, but his dignity was a bit damaged as he emerged absolutely soaked to riotous laughter from his friends. I personally did not witness this, but later pressed him for details. You'd think his ego would be damaged.

But ego was never something he suffered from. You'd never accuse him of being arrogant or cocky, even when he had Jodie-an impossibly hot blonde-as a girlfriend. He was assured of his opinions as if they were facts as if the other person was simply misinformed (This has become more so as time has passed.) and would calmly insist upon his point, but he never has suffered from the blight of the big head.

Other Poems

School got out two o'clock,

collecting my bike,

she asked for a ride.

It was Kristi,

who lived down the block.

I mumbled, "Yes."

Without a notion, not a beat,

she took her place not upon the frame,

but upon the seat.

Surprised and perplexed, but nothing said,

for I was vexed.

Pedaling, standing as I could,

her hands on my waist,

we took a wobble, then off to the race.

Unsure, uncertain, then momentum build,

Laughing, rolling down the hill,

No worry of the tumble or the spill

nor the chance of getting hurt.

Her hands on my waist,

her black stockings, her long legs

stretching out

of that impossibly short skirt.

Safely arrived, she made her adieu.

No lingering, just "See you at school."

Kristi moved before the year's end.

Surprised and perplexed, but nothing said,

for I was vexed.

Just Some Photos

I get it every semester.

Someone wants to drop the guitar class. Or someone really needs to drop.

Then there's the slow, painful process of keeping a hopeful attitude (and a false front) when the student is so clearly behind the Eight ball that it's apparent that the ship has never left the harbor. i.e. They never practice.

This year, I've had one student who never came to class and emailed me that she needed to drop the class. That was about eight weeks ago. She keeps asking me when I'm going to be at school to sign the drop slip, but she has never shown.
Undoubtedly, I will be blamed for her not being able to drop before the deadline.

On student decided to come for two lessons. They were late for the second and actually lied about what time they arrived. I let that one go, but stashed it in the memory for future reference. I filed it under: "If you lie about it now, how's the rest of the semester going to go?" Well... it went nowhere. She hasn't shown up for about seven or eight sessions. All my email has never been returned. Perhaps she dropped out of school. I haven't a clue.

This week, I got an email from a student, one I considered a pretty good one, saying that she had to drop (Yes, the majority of my students this year are female. I have three males to five females.). She had this really apologetic and sweet email stating that she regretted that she had to drop...la la la.

For some reason, perhaps it's a vibe I give off or it's in the nature of the one-to-0ne weekly lesson - which builds a quasi "personal" relationship, students somehow think that they are letting me down when they realize that practicing a guitar is not something they want, nor are inclined to practice.

There she was, all hang-dog looking, trying to make me convinced of her sincerity. She is sincere- I trust that. I let her know my thoughts (in a gentle way). She needed to drop, she had written. She was sorry.

Sorry? Sorry for what? She had been doing well.

"Off the record, for some reason students seem to think that I am disappointed when they drop this course- as if I take this personal. I don't. Only you know whether you have the time to properly finish the requirements." I said all these things while smiling in a friendly way.

Truth is, while I am encouraging every student's successful completion, I don't take any of this personally. This is a job. I am lucky that I get to teach something that I love, but beyond that, I don't care. Another truth: I recognize that she is at least polite enough to let me know. Many simply vanish into collegiate air without a trace.

I have had many excellent students over the years and I have had some real duds as well. My two most outstanding students graduated from this institution by playing each a fantastic senior guitar recital. They have gone on to become professional musicians and they made me beam with pride. Mission accomplished. After those two guys, I never had any student go that far.

But that dream has been fulfilled and I no longer ache to have the ultimate protege. By the time I was finally teaching at a "real" university (Marshall) and have five guitar majors to teach, I had lost the desire to be a college professor. Perhaps UC has killed that dream, maybe the dream died on its own, maybe it was never going to be a reality for me as long as I stayed in this lonesome valley. I don't know.

Don't get me wrong. I love engaging with students. They are a joy. I am happy each week to see them and watch them grow more and more confident on the instrument.

The student promised that she would take the class next semester. I appreciate the thought, it is sweet.

She might.

But, I doubt it. Trust me, I can tell.

Seriously, Read This

The Morning Sitting
I

The morning sitting, initially & primarily, trains the volitional attention. Our attention engages the finer energies of organic sensation, feeling & thinking. In time, these finer energies begin to cohere, developing a subtle energetic vehicle which supports finer qualities of experiencing: physically, intellectually & emotionally.

There are a series of morning exercises of increasing subtlety that, over time, begin to increase & substantiate our personal presence. This is not an end in itself, more a beginning to living a proper life for a human being, to support us in achieving whatever we might hope for ourselves. The practice also supports us in responding to what life might ask of us.

The morning sitting is not meditation: meditation is active-receptivity. The morning sitting is actively-active, while physically still and externally motionless. The morning sitting trains us to hold ourselves in place, quietly and in receptive mode: in this sense, it prepares us for meditation.


II
Two Questions:

Why practice the morning sitting?
Why not practice guitar for half an hour instead?


1. Before we ask ourselves to do something, we begin by asking ourselves to do nothing. When our body is prepared to do nothing when we ask it to, perhaps it will do something when we tell it to: such as, integrating & co-ordinating specialised motor skills while playing a musical instrument.

2. As relaxation develops & deepens over time, emotional states and memories fixed within muscular patterns and bodily postures lessen their hold on us. Our personal history, locked inside the body, begins to let us go; increasingly we move into the here-and-now. We gradually develop a relaxed & engaged sense of personal presence: life becomes a little more real.

3. We begin to distinguish between what-we-are & who-we-are. For example, we discover the distance between the background noise of monkey-mind, its associational rattling & automatic mental commentaries (conventionally referred to as thinking), and who is listening to it.

4. The volitional attention is practised & strengthened. Effectively, for nearly all practical concerns, the quality of our attention describes & defines who we are, and is pretty much all we can claim to own in life.

But, these are comments presented at the beginning of the practice. Although, even as a beginning, this much is already a considerable achievement: it is a foundation for living. When established, and there is no end to the depth of the practice while we draw breath, the morning sitting leads us to a more sophisticated awareness of qualities & distinctions in our perceptions and experiencing: life gets richer.

Ingratitude Attitude

This dude had the look.

Oh we all know it well. That cleverly rehearsed face that said, "Buddy, I'm down on my luck. Can ya spare a buck?"

Well, a buck wasn't exactly what he asked for, but it's always money that they want.

Aren't you a little hardcore? Don't you feel guilty?

No, because it's mostly a sham.

I feel sorry for the truly needful, not for the fakers who have lied to my face and then felt superior because they duped me. What about those assholes? Case in point: one night this couple approached me. They needed money to get to Beckley because "her mom was in the hospital," etc. I gave them some change, no biggie.

It wasn't the money, but the stupidity I felt as I watched them head in the exact opposite direction of Beckley. And worse, the smug look on their faces. Smiling cons. Great.

Or the Reverse Guilt Trip that a guy, claiming to be a minister, tried to lay on me because I wouldn't give him any money for a desperately needed trip to Morgantown.

I wanted to ask: "If you're a minister, then surely your church can afford you a trip to Morgantown?" Instead, I stood silent as he gave me that "I can't believe what a low human being you are" look.

When I was in Alabama, attending a conference, these two guys thought they'd put the hustle on me.

"Hey man. I need some spare change. You got any spare change?"

"No, I don't. Sorry."

There were two of them, at night, I was alone and in strange city. Caution was my guide. Also, I sensed a criminal element about these guys.

And then, of course, the GUILT: "Well, you have a good night now" meaning "You go on leading your lifestyle of the rich and famous and we poor folk will struggle for survival out on the streets."

Later that night, I ran into them again. I guess they were making the rounds in the tourist section again.

"Hey, hey. You find any spare change yet?"

What am I? The only tourist you can hassle tonight?

I had had enough. "No, I'm trying to decide where to eat. I'll let you know."

Their faces said the following: "If it was another place, motherfucker, we'd fucking cut you."

Ok, I'm sorry. Did I see through your lies? You no more need money for food than Mother Teresa needed a Porsche.

> Back to our inglorious story.....

"Sir, can you spare [unintelligible] for a couple of gallons of gas?"

"Give me a minute" was my stall tactic. I went inside the convenience store- a place that I frequent so much that I'm on first name basis with the staff and owner.

"There's a guy out there asking for money."

"We'll ask him to move."

"Do you think he's for real?"

"Who knows?"

I gave the guy a buck. I know that's not shit, but his face said, "You cheap bastard. I asked nicely for a couple a bucks. Maybe even five, but all you give me is a damn dollar???" Out of his mouth came a mumbling "You have a nice day, sir."

Ungrateful bastard. I wasn't expecting an ass kissing, but to be so blatenly obvious. Dude, you need a better line. Work on it.

Ask anyone who really knows me, anyone you care to ask. Ask them if I act like I place myself above people. Ask away. Ask all day. I'm no saint, but neither am I a class snob.

I do feel sorry for the homeless and those guys that look like life has beaten them down to nothing.

I just ain't buying the bullshit.

The wedding. It is a certain aspect of the happy gigster's professional life. It is the Yin and Yang of gigs. Either sweet or sour as there doesn't ever seem to be a happy medium.

{Dig the chandelier, baby. Stained glass? Nay.}

The Dynamic Duo were booked for this October wedfest many months ago. The trouble with booking so far ahead that you can easily forget about it or disbelieve that it's actually going to happen. I checked with the mom, and sure enough, it was still a go and our services were still wanted. Fine. Load the car, grab Lisa and head West. Road trip!

Li-Li has just returned from the beach the evening before and so she spun her tale as we drove towards the church. Their vaco was a soggy tale of rain storms. Evidently, the storms were pervasive and so strong that, on the last night, she was afraid that the house was going to collapse. Winds blew rain under the doors, shook windows and made rocking chairs appear to be possessed.

Arriving in town, as usual, we got slightly off course, so would say "lost," but I say slightly misplaced. Retracing our path, we found the church very easily.

Step#1 in the wedding musician's guidebook: get the lay of the land. Don't lift a single piece of equipment until you have surveyed the church and talked to someone in charge. Or someone who believes they are in charge.

Finally after wandering about, we see a sign that points to the sanctuary. After years in the Catholic church, I was a bit taken back by the sheer starkness of the interior. No stained glass (That's deliberate and has a theological basis.) and bare walls with only crosses from different branches of the Christian faith made it all seem unchurchy. Yes, that should be a word. After years in the Presby church, I recognized the theme of white, wood and red carpet. What is it with the plain Jane looks, people? Let's celebrate some color, huh? Unlikely.

We met mom and the wedding coordinator, whose name just happens to be that of a famous country music superstar, and the spot they pick for us is the one we have picked. All is well then.

Not really.

You could feel the tension right away. My little flute playing eavesdropper said she overheard a convo between mom and grandmom that went something like this:

Mom: "On what wrist are you going to wear the corsage?"

Grandma: "On the left."

(Exasperated) Mom: "Well...YOU WOULD!!"

Ok, people, let's calm down now. It's just a wedding, people, a time of love and joy.

I didn't hear it, but evidently the bride had crossed over to bridezilla and was talking to people rather brusquely.

Outside, while gathering the amp, music stand, et al, I saw the groom's guys all gathered at the far end of the parking lot. Methought: nips of courage for cold feet? Is Jack Daniels going to make an unexpected appearance?

Out the door comes a blonde in a skirt far too short for a wedding and she yells, "ADAM! LORI WANTS YOU RIGHT NOW!" Well, it don't take an Einstein rocket launchin' fella to realize that that was a prediction of married life to come. The dude is already getting his marching orders.

{Pretty maids all in a row.}

All set up, ready to plug in and something hits me: I have forgotten my guitar cable, the one that plugs into the amp. Hence the whole purpose of bringing, unloading and lugging the amp into the church. I cannot believe my mistake.

I make a plea to the music coordinator.

"Do you have an electronic keyboard?"

No.

"Do you have a music room where there might be a quarter inch cable?"

She's smiling, but I know I'm gaining no ground.

"We don't have any electronics."

Lady, I wasn't trying to set up a Rick Wakeman bank of synthesizers, I just need a ruddy cable. I wanted to point out, just in case there was some purist ideology hidden in that smile, that the PA system is, ipso facto, electronics. Alas, I play an acoustic instrument and that will have to be fine. At least I have that as a backup.

Can't believe I forgot my cables. Kick me in the ass.

A small crowd gathered as we played our standard classical fare. I think we played OK, but I wouldn't give us any stars in a review. There were some clams to be had on both side of the Duo. Lisa often forgets to eat before gigs. I don't get this, but it is almost my duty to make sure she is on an even keel or the music will suffer. She mentioned she needs to start wearing her glasses. We are old: YA THINK?

For me, I spent a lot of time before the gig making sure my suit, shirt and shoes were all looking good and not enough play time with the guitar. My mistake and it always shows.

It was one of the shortest ceremonies on record: no readings, no testimonials, no sermon and only one prayer. Just in-hey hello they are husband and wife, say hello to Mr. and Mrs then out! Wham! Done.

A look of relief was on mom's face. People said they liked what we did as we quickly got things together to go.

We stopped at a little drive-in and ordered some food which turned out to be pretty poor, but food is food when you're hungry.

On the drive home, I fell into a kind of trance. The road hummed along, passing all those little towns, the conversation more sparse than the drive up. We chatted about the gig and how we have to write a book about all this one day. That is certainly an idea I intend to follow.

When home was reached, I was pooped. Yep. I wasn't ready for movies or nothing. I wanted creature comforts. It took something out of me. You see, one of those thoughts I had coming home was, "When exactly are you going to stop doing weddings?" I'm 52. Am I going to be doing these when I'm 62? I have never, ever considered retirement. I mean, a musician doesn't retire, he just has to hang it all up one day when he/she sucks so bad on their beloved instrument that it is too embarassing to continue public performance.

I feel far removed from that idea right now for a number of reasons, the top being financial. I love my guitar.

It's weddings that give me fits.

I'm Not Alone

Fans are truly something. Some want to see a show so bad they create the credits.

Yep.

A Slice of Life

Can a serial killer have a normal, happy home life?

This is the question that season four of Dexter asks.

We have been fans of this series from the get-go and renting this season has been bliss. Unlike some series where the coals begin to dim after season two, Dexter is on fire. The writing is perfect and the actors' characters ring true. I sometimes forget I'm watching the series where most of the time, I feel like I'm seeing it through Dexter's eyes.

It's creepy, smart and often shocking. Thats says a lot from an old jaded viewernaut like moi.

If you have not done the NetFlix thing yet with this series, do it goddamit!

Catholic School Boys in Trouble

So far kids, we have met Sir Charles and I have told some tales, all true, of our antics. I cannot reveal, for obvious reasons, all of those insane nights, but let me assure you that there are plenty more to tell. That is coming.

Since SMA was in the rear view, and The High was considered by my parents to be a den of sin and inequity (It was both.), Catholic school was chosen to be where I would spend my senior year. There was a catch: I was to wear a uniform once again.

But this was an easy uniform to wear: white shirt with blue pants. No starched collars, itchy and destructive wool pants or goofy hats. If this was all I had to endure, then it was going to be a cake walk. Despite the more-or-less structure of the school and my parents’ intentions, there were still a million ways to act out at a Catholic school versus a public one. You just have to have the wrong/right friends.

The group I fell in with was a perfect fit. They were cool, into music, smart and all were mavericks. Perfect. And basically none of them really were actively Catholic. Did I mention that they were pro party heads as well? Oh. Somehow I missed that.

Call Him Joe Kidd

Friendships run in cycles. There comes a time in your life when one person becomes your best mate and you are inseparable. Joe Kidd and I became such friends during this period.

Joe was observant, socially adept, funny, and had unnerving confidence. He had this way of smiling at you that could make you feel uncomfortable. As if, all the world was there for his amusement (Even my mom, who adored most of my friends, remarked about how Joe seemed to be so sure of himself.). I’m sure that wasn’t his intention, but rather it was his writer’s instincts of always standing just a little bit back to observe. This appearance of confidence was a useful tool as I saw it, especially with the opposite sex. While the rest of us were tongue-tied, confused or excited into silence, Joe had the knack.

One sure bond between us was music. Joe played all sorts of instruments: drums, banjo, guitar and whatever else he could get his hands on. Hours upon hours were spent in his basement with Joe on the drums or guitar and me on the Donny Lad guitar, making up songs and trying to learn covers. I remember us performing together at a party where we howled through Idiot Wind by Dylan.

Joe once called me, “The 24 hour musician,” meaning that I never stopped talking about it or wanting to play. I was young and hungry to learn. Plus, music was the only thing that seemed to "fit."The rest (family, school, girls-all the usual suspects) seemed very difficult for my teenage angst to endure.

Joe was obsessed with Dylan (Not without merit, Joe’s profile reminds me of Dylan’s Desire cover.). Goddam Dylan accompanied us everywhere we went in the family-business-bakery-van. At that point, I was annoyed by Dylan’s whiny nasal voice and found the whole thing primitive. After all, I was an aspiring guitarist and Dylan was not among the guitar gods. He was a folkie.

Kanawha State Forest was a place where we loved to go to hike for hours. One afternoon, perhaps a skip day from school, we decided to partake of nature’s wonders….and also enjoy the forest as well. Well, one psycho ranger decided that he didn’t like our looks and he might as well hassle us. And hassle us he did.

Psycho Nazi Ranger came up swiftly upon us, insisting that we hand over the nefarious goods. We knew that Ranger Rick was not the police and that his authority extended only to the confines of the forest, but also knew that once said contraband was confiscated, he would do his level best to get us busted. We, who loved and respected the forest and took pleasure the natural beauty and wouldn’t dream of leaving a beer can, were being given the business by this idiot who was acting more like a cop than a conservator of state land. He tried searching Joe who just deftly moved out of his way. When asked, “What’s in that pocket?” Joe would pretend to look and say, “Nothing.” This went on until Ranger Danger decided that he could not violate our rights any further with illegal search and seizure and gave us a stern warning never to return. I was a bit shaken by this incident and I believe Joe was as well, but stay away forever? Methinks Mr. I-wanted-to-be-a-cop-but-couldn’t-pass-the-exam must have been partaking of some of nature’s finest himself.

You know the fkg type.

My brother had experienced a similar run-in with a ranger. After climbing a steep hillside to find a perfect rock upon which he and his girlfriend could “celebrate” and make whoopee, a mad psycho ranger was perversely watching them. The ranger had used a fire road to come up on them from behind. Again, nothing could be or was proven, except that teenagers like to have sex al fresco.

T Bird

“T Bird” sounds like this guy was a rough-and-ready gear head: nothing could be further from the truth. T Bird was a bright, excellent student whom we all knew had the brains to become almost anything he desired. One hot and restless afternoon, while everyone was chatting, flirting and generally dying to get outside, Richard began writing a large scientific formula on the chalkboard. It was huge, stretching across two blackboards. He could have been, in part, showing off, but also actually working on a solution. I do not remember what I yelled out at him, but he buckled over with laughter. It was probably, “What the hell are you trying to do? We might suffer brain injury from that.”

The only thing that could scramble Richard’s mind was a girl named Stephanie. Evidently, his junior year, he had gone out on a date with her and it became legendary, monumental and also an impassable wall. The damn date stood like a block in the road and we all knew the whole story as he had told us all time and again. Hell, it sounded like a dream of a date to a young virgin lad, but the endless Neil Young songs, the dark poetry, the veiled references to suicide- all these pointed to the Stephanie who evidently refused to give him any more attention after that night. We’d be walking in the hall, she’ say hello and he back, and then endless rumination about why? How? What? She drove him insane and he was stuck on her. It was hopeless. He never did go out with her again. She could have cared less.

Dear Stephanie,

You fked up, girl. Richard now works for a major corporation designing missles. Yep, he's that smart.

When the cycle had come around for me and Richard to become best pals, we used to take his green Mustang out for hours. Not meandering mileage, oh no. We took detailed and planned trips that he had memorized from maps. No matter what little side road or alien neighborhood we drove through, he always knew exactly where we were in the plan despite any “impairments.” On those longs trips, the conversation was always dominated by girls: who might go out with us, who was hot but beyond reach, why we liked certain girls, etc. ad infinitum.

There was a period when Richard liked to wear a large leather hat. He looked ridiculous in it, but none of us ever said anything. There was also a time when he began to act very effeminate. He began wearing these musky-jasmine type colognes and his whole bodily affect was completely limp, gestures were exercises in femininity, etc. I began to get worried and confided in a few of our friends. Then, when it was group party time, he began to crawl off from the group and be by himself. We’d see him sitting all alone, the red ash glowing, hunched over like a large bird-hence the nickname.

Richard and I shared a loss of our fathers at an early age, mine by natural causes and his evidently just up and left. This causes a person to be damaged-the damage is for a lifetime and must be resolved, or you end up at the bottom of a bottle or worse. I see now that a drawing I did for him, which had a solitary figure sitting on a huge rock, no doubt inspired by Roger Dean, was a metaphor for the isolation one feels at that age. You have family and friends, yet the mood swings, hormones, an uncertain identity combined with an even more uncertain future can create this sense of isolation. Fking hell, we all feel this way at this time.

For as smart as Richard was, he was able to translate my mainly emotional-meets-music mumblings into sense. I don't think I made much sense back then. Of all my friends at the time, he was not one to jump on the peer sarcastic wagon. His was a more gentle and kind nature.

It’s Like the Finger Pointing at the Moon next

Betwixt, Between Pt. 1

Caught Betwixt and Between

“You don't know what's going on
You've been away for far too long
…
You're out of touch, my baby
My poor discarded baby
I said, baby, baby, baby, you're out of time”

That song and those words by the Rolling Stones. Damn. I remember sitting in my room and listening to that song and realizing how true to life it was. They burned with meaning. I was out of touch without a doubt.

In the summer, post Staunton Military School, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. Though I was home with all those creature comforts, home cooked meals and family support, becoming a normal public high school student after the strict rigors of SMA was going to prove awkward. No dawn reveille, uniforms, drills and parades- all that was gone. The senior year lay ahead.

Such was my state of mind, I woke up one morning and literally clawed the wall with frustration. The marks remained there for the time we lived there, serving as reminder of what it felt like to be a teenager.

First, my appearance was out of touch with the times. This was the roaring ‘70’s, a time for sideburns, mustaches and long, long hair. Mine hair was regulation short and for people who did not know me, they probably suspected I was a narc. Of course, my friends at first howled with laughter. They handed me a cruel nickname for a while, I just can’t remember what it was (soldier boy?), but it sure stung. When your pals laugh at you, that brings you down, down, down.

My chief compadre during this period was Charlie. Charlie made life bearable in that period. We were thick as thieves.

Charlie and I enjoyed a mutual sense of sarcastic humor, all kinds of music, a love of cheap kung fu movies, and getting blitzed as much as possible on the weekends. Charlie was smarter than me and could fit easily into the advanced classes, whereas I was not of that cut. We both viewed ourselves as outsiders as we weren’t jocks (though Charlie practiced karate), socialites, egg heads, nor real stoners for that matter.

Charlie and I would walk for miles up and down Kanawha City, looking for something to do. With no driver’s license, you hoofed it to get out from under the parental regime; free to be a stupid teenager. One night, we ended up in the local donut shop. (One note: I wore a blue wait jacket that looked like it was military. Added to the effect.) We were sitting at the counter, drinking coffee and stuffing down donuts, when Charlie noticed that an older man was eavesdropping. He started a conversation that didn’t make sense at first, but then I got where he was going. The gist of it went something like this.

“What are you gonna do, man?”
“I don’t know.”
“But going AWOL is a crime.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Mr. Old Perky Ears was beaming. He could not have been more obvious.
“But did you have to hit him?”
Pregnant pause and look of consternation.
“Yeah, I did. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
We both did our best amateur acting, keeping the affair serious.

It wasn’t until we were outside that we let down the façade.

One evening, we decided to share and be helpful, as it were, to our fellow KC residents. An open window provided us an chance to release a delicate fragrance (Generously provided by a plumbing elbow pipe nicknamed “Dillinger” because it released a two inch “shotgun” cloud. There also was a "Dr. Grabo" in use at one time or another.) into an apartment. Not a particularly bright idea, but it was amusing at the time. We also "perfumed" some one's jeep. We watched them get out and go into the drug store. Like the crazy bastards we were, we opened the door and gave the owner something fresh scent to contemplate when they returned. When the dude returned, I have wondered what went through his head.

Charlie tried to teach me karate or taekwondo in vain. I even took a class with him at a local church. It was a helluva workout. The thing is, I would try to practice this under strange circumstances.

There used to be a movie theater in KC, long before your multi-plexoramas were a bad dream in some corporate toadie's head. Some really awful kung fu movie was playing and we just had to go. We grabbed the front row, our heads leaning back just to get the full screen view. On this occasion, Charlie was the one with the greater sobriety and it fell to him, poor man, to keep me in line. When the Jaws trailer came on the screen, I about came out of my seat. In fact, I think I slid several times onto the floor. It was if I was deep in the ocean swimming with the shark. Yes, kids, I was very taken by this trailer. Charlie, acting as the patient adult, would ignore my behavior or reel me back in.

Once the kung fu extravaganza began, I kept sending karate chops his way throughout the movie. As he would tell it later, my pathetic attempts at the martial arts were so slow and sloppy that he blocked them and kept on watching the film. He could have smashed my face, but much to his credit, restrained himself.

I did break him up one during the film. The bad guy was having his way with a young concubine and after about five grunts, he climaxed. "What a great lover." was my only coherent comic aside for the day, but it was a direct hit and had him laughing hard.

One of our friends was working the concession stand and I said hello to him as I went into the bathroom. Evidently, I did some martial arts exercises in there- if you can just imagine. When I got back to my seat, Charlie asked, "Where the hell were you?" I didn't realize that I'd been gone that long. Time is relative after all.

When we were leaving, Charlie had a convo with the concession guy about me, claiming he kept hearing strange noises coming from the bathroom. He explained that the Kung Fu master had decided to practice in the bathroom. God knows what I did.

More fun to come.

Benefits Who?

I am the not the dude for benefits. That is, benefit gigs.

Call me jaded, cynical and just plain cold, but if you are looking for me to come and play free for your organization, I politely decline. I will play weddings for good friends. That's my only exception.

Got a call from a lady who had a cohesive sales pitch, but then it came to the portion I was interested in: when? and how much?

I explained that a noon to 2pm gig would cause me to have to take off work and I told her the truth: we, speaking for my fellow musician, do not play freebies. After much explaining, she ended with a poor choice of words: "You don't have to make any more excuses." "E-ouch," me thought. (Later, she apologized for those words. I accepted that apology fully. Most people wouldn't bother.)

Then the better half of the Dynamic Duo calls me and asks me to play a bennie on a Monday night. Really? The she launched into the deal which included minimal cashola and pizza. But this was no ordinary pizza, this was going to be Lola's pizza. Pizza made in heaven.

"What's the time?"

"Six to nine."

I'm thinking eeeeooooowwww. But then I start thinking about the food. She reminds me of the food. My musical partner knows me well. If I am treated with anonymity and generally disregarded by hootie snoots and the money is a joke, then food, by God, might just pull me in.

It did.

Instead of playing inside, we were told to play on the porch. We even got a close parking space. In short, setting up is far worse than the playing ever could be.

This is not so bad. I had resolved not to silently bitch about the gig.

All the spaghetti guitar cables in place, I test the THIRD member of the duo: My Digitech Jamman. Oh yeah. This little beauty has added a new dimension to out music. I can instantly record myself playing the chord changes and then zap-instant playback while Lisa solos. This frees us both. I don't have to play constantly and, more importantly, I get to solo. That is to say, I get a chance to practice soloing over complex chords in public. While I am not quite the jazz cat yet, the learning process is fun.

At one point, I was just adjusting levels on the unit and a man walks up, listens for a moment and then says, "Is that the Digitech?"

"Yes, it is. Listen to what I just made up." It was a quick seat-of-my-pants improv, but yet it had a certain je ne c'est quoi. I gave him a quick rundown of what it could do, but mostly how damn fast it is. "I'm getting one," was his answer to my impromptu sales pitch. I love the damn thing. Even Lisa, someone who does not embrace technology calls it "neat" and that's good enough endorsement for me. I thought she might find it a bit alien. I was afraid she would be annoyed by it, but I was really wrong.

With the Jamman playing the ersatz guitar player, I put guitar down and went out to listen. Hell, you can't tell the difference. I like the freedom baby.

We took a break and I shoved my face full of Lola's pie. Errr....That doesn't read well. I shoveled that delish pizza. It was like Pierre was bringing out plates of crack. I had to seriously try to exercise self-control. The food was worth the gig.

The sun had set and we could see someone walking down the hill. Well, it was Ryan. He had come to listen, but I felt like laying back and letting someone else play. That's the way I am anymore. Once I get my fill, I am more than happy to let someone else do the playing.

At first, he didn't want to, but I know how much he loves it. He lives it.

Soon, I was chillaxing in a chair listening to them play Agua de Beber, one of my all time fav Jobim tunes. This ain't bad. If only there was a place where soft guitars and flute play Brazilian music while the finest rum is served. A guy can dream, can't he?

And Lola's, God love 'em, let two pizzas and a salad go home with me without charge. I wasn't expecting that. God love 'em. They are good people.

For a "bennie," it wasn't a bad night at all. Not at all.

Faded Gories

I love George Romero. That's why it pains me to put on my big boy pants and realize that his best films are behind him.

We recently rented Survival of the Dead, the latest of the dead series. While it was not nearly as disappointing (and dull) as Diary of the Dead (a DVD I bought unseen and truly regret), it still wilted on the vine.

The story was ok, it just plodded along very obviously. Zombies looked more funny than scary and seemed to be present only for the perfunctory head shot or the clever kill. The "living" characters were not engaging and there's your

stopping point. We have to care about the characters (and the acting has to be passable as well. Sorry.). Not real bad, but nowhere near previous glories. Or should I say, gories???

What hath gone wronge with the king of the Zombies?

The problem is that Romero made three films, now considered to be the "Dead Trilogy" by the 1,756 avid zombites at Home Page of the Dead, early in his career: Night of the Living Dead ('68), Dawn of the Dead ('78) and Day of the Dead ('82). If you go to the link I provided in this paragraph, you will read in the forums grown men argue (sometimes to the threat of bodily harm) the merits and demerits of these films. One dude even bragged that he watched Dawn over a hundred times, had a Dawn birthday cake, numerous versions of the same film on VHS, T-shirts, and once finished an argument with, "No way, dude. I know this movie." In short, they are obsessed and passionate about these movies. Considering the current rage for zombie films, they are not alone. AMC, right? Right.But despite their absurd devotion, one thing is evident: these early crude horror classics struck a nerve with a helluva lot of people.

Tell us whye, oh great master.

The Dead Triology occupy a unique place in horror history. While George Romero may not have made the first zombie movie, he created the modern version of the zombie. Since then, many have copied him and there have been many sins committed in this genre; the horrid The Return of the Living Dead series to be sure. But when these films first played in theaters, no one could have calculated the effect. Roger Ebert writes of the initial impact of Night: "The kids in the audience were stunned. There was almost complete silence. The movie had stopped being delightfully scary about halfway through, and had become unexpectedly terrifying."

Amen to that, Roger. When I saw Night on local late night TV, it freaked me out. Ditto when I was in college and saw Dawn in the theater. It was simply shocking for its time. And there's another point, my friends.

We are so jaded, so inundated with violence that almost nothing on film can scare us. So while Romero continues to make social commentary within his story lines and his beloved walking dead are merely perfunctory gore, his films have lost any hope of scaring anybody. Rumor has it that he wants to shoot two more. I'll stick with my DVD copies of his best. Diary was my last purchase.

Yesterday, at the local Blockbuster, I was turning in Survival and the cute girl behind the counter asked me if I liked it.

"Not really."

"Yeah," she ruminated for a second, "I think I'm done with zombies."

"Maybe so." I had to agree. It's been a bummer.

Maybe AMC can do something that will thrill. I'm hoping.