Wednesday, November 13, 2024

Questions on Writing

 

I’m not sure how I became a writer.

 

I didn't keep a journal as a kid. I still don't. I write a lot of my thoughts down, of course, but I'm kind of glad I didn't then. I can't imagine how silly it would seem to me now.


What was it like when the most important side effect of breaking my right arm was having to learn how to masturbate left-handed? …When my biggest concern was the giant zits that tragically appeared on my forehead overnight? And why did it always happen on a Monday or Tuesday? So I had to walk the school hallways for the rest of the week with Krakatoa erupting on my face?

 

Even when I realized I was good at this writing thing, I didn’t start with serious subjects. I had done bits and pieces for the local newspaper, but my first real writing job after college was in sports.

 

That’s when I discovered sports writers are assholes. I try to refrain from lumping an entire group of people into one derogatory category. But in this case, they deserve it. So I moved on to other things.

 

These days, when people ask me what I write, and I say, “Mostly creative non-fiction,” I get the most puzzled looks. “What does that mean? What do you actually write about?” 

“Well, anything I want.” 

That doesn’t seem to help. To most people, “anything” apparently means “nothing.” 

It reminds me of one of the early episodes of Seinfeld where Jerry and George Costanza are discussing how to pitch their show idea to NBC. 

George says: Everybody's doing something. We'll do nothing. 

Jerry: So we go into NBC, and we tell them we have an idea for a show about nothing. 

George: Exactly. 

Jerry: They say, "What's your show about?" And I say "nothing." 

George: There ya go. 

After a long pause, Jerry says: …I think you may have something there. 

When they say nothing, though, what they really mean is… everything. Everyday life. 

And it’s a little frightening that many people think it’s acceptable and possibly accurate to describe their daily existence as… nothing. If you don’t think something interesting happens to you almost every day, you might need to consider making some serious changes. 

But it’s more likely that you’re just not paying enough attention. 

I have written about watching a family with two young children become homeless, and then, months later, seeing them regain their footing – with help from the community they lived in.  This was a black family in a very white community. That story gave me hope. For a while.

I have written about a young woman at a bar who briefly left her own drunken birthday celebration to sidle up to me, a complete stranger, and tell me her mom had died years before… on her birthday. 

That was fifteen years ago, and I still think about it. 

I have written about karaoke and cover bands. About music, in general. And my involvement in the business. Which meant… writing about drugs, of course.

 

I have written about irrational fears. And rational ones. About happiness and heartbreak. About the incessant urge that creators have… to create. 

I have written about the time I was sitting in a coffee shop next to two women in their sixties when a news story came on the TV saying researchers, using stem cells… had made artificial sperm. One of the women was absolutely incredulous. And I don’t think she realized how loud she was when she said, "What? There’s no shortage..." 

Aren’t there moments that touch you? Moments that make you think? Moments that cause you to react in unexpected ways? Moments that make you laugh, or make you teary for reasons you can’t explain? 

 

One evening during my usual wanderings I noticed an older gentleman sitting in a car by himself watching the sunset over the Indian River. It was a nice little park with a boat ramp and some picnic tables. And the sunset was gorgeous as it often is there. Then I noticed a breast cancer awareness sticker on his rear bumper – you know - one of those pink ribbons. And around the license plate was a frame promoting a nearby hospice care center. And I realized that those two things were probably related. And that probably explained why he was alone.

 

One time, right on the heels of a passing hurricane, I drove out to the coast to see the damage. The weather was still bad - way worse than weather you'd normally drive in, but I was restless. Just before I went over the causeway bridge, I noticed one small man fishing off the long concrete pier. I stopped to watch and there was something about the way he was dressed and the urgency of his actions as he repeatedly cast and reeled. And it dawned on me that if he didn't catch a fish, he wasn't going to eat that day.


There’s a story in each of those moments. 

 

You can’t make this stuff up. Or, should I say, there’s no need to make this stuff up. It’s there. Everywhere. Every day. If you look for it. 

 

Until the last couple of years, the only fiction I'd ever written was on my tax returns. But now I dabble in fiction, too.

I’m willing to admit that the present reality is rather fucked up. So, it’s tempting to invent an entirely new one. But many fiction writers go on to create make-believe worlds that are even more fucked up than our own. 

I see no sense in escaping my own hell to visit one that’s even worse. 

I think I started with fiction because I go through these periods of self-reflection. And it's possible that's why I started writing in the first place. I had questions. Lots of questions. I thought they'd be answered, one by one, as I grew up. But I was wrong. Every time I answered one, another one came along. Sometimes they came in bunches.


Everything, of course, leads to the one big question: What is the fucking point of all this? WHAT is the point?

 

Then you wonder… Why is it that mankind has to try to find some meaning in life? I'm pretty sure cockroaches don't do this. Although, maybe I'm underestimating them.

How did I get to the point that, when I meet some wonderful woman, and have a nice conversation, I stop myself? I go no further. I walk away, thinking... no, she'd just break my heart anyway, if it wasn't already broken.

 

For me, I think writing – any kind of writing - is a process of trying to answer questions. But I’ve now realized it might be hopeless.

 

What if I’m wrong about the big question? What if there is no fucking point?

Thursday, August 15, 2024

Lawnmowers and Leaf Blowers

I hate Mondays. 

Probably for many of the same reasons that lots of people hate Mondays. But also because I live in a busy, suburban neighborhood that comes alive at the beginning of every week with constant reminders of how truly pathetic we as a nation have become. 

Without fail, Mondays start early with the street sweeper, followed closely by the trash trucks. I especially admire the dedication of some of the drivers who are so determined to get every bit of trash out of the little dumpster that they use the mechanical arm to bang it several times against the top of the truck. Obviously, by the time I wake up, they’re already on their third cup of coffee. 

Just to be clear, these are necessary services that I do appreciate. I just wish they’d come around on Friday at about 4:00 in the afternoon – when I’m at happy hour. 

Normally, there is some construction or improvement project going on somewhere nearby, so the hammers and saws come next - occasionally accompanied by the staccato shots of an air gun spitting out roofing nails. Whenever these tools come out before 9 AM, I usually concoct detailed fantasy images about how they might be applied to the user – cracking skulls, sawing off limbs, or nailing hands to the shingles. 

Did I mention I hate Monday morning noises? 

After that come the noises that really irritate me... lawnmowers and leaf blowers. 

The concept of leaf blowers is ludicrous to begin with. 

Here's the thought process… someone spends a half hour creating a horrendous racket to blow this yard debris into the road several feet away, entirely ignoring the fact that this very same debris will return the minute a few cars drive by or the wind picks up. 

Remember that hit song by the band Kansas called Dust in the Wind? I’m now convinced that was part of a late-70s conspiracy to sell leaf blowers. Black and Decker, Craftsmen, they were all in on it. Dust belongs on the ground, not in the wind. 

Then Big Pharma got into it. 

That’s right. They realized all this dust in the wind would leave us hacking and coughing and mopping our runny noses. Claritin, Zyrtec, Allegra, Flonase, Nasacort… They’re all in on it. Everything was fine until someone realized that if you could somehow collect fifty pounds of Sudafed, you could make crystal meth with it. 

So they started selling us phenylephrine as a substitute. Everybody bought it. I have some right now. 

Recently, it was discovered that phenylephrine's decongestant effects may not be significantly different from that of a placebo. I swear, I’m not making this up. I found an article from USA Today last September – “FDA Panel Declares Decongestant Phenylephrine Ineffective.” There’s a study from the Yale School of Medicine in October – “Phenylephrine, a Common Decongestant, Is Ineffective.” 

And it all started with leaf blowers… 

 Lawnmowers are equally ludicrous. 

Think of all the effort people put into creating a nice, thick, green lawn. 

So they can cut it. 

Then they feed, and water and coax it into growing back. 

 So they can cut it

Does this make sense? What the hell is wrong with people? 

Americans spend about $33 billion annually on lawn care. $33 billion. It’s a tragic waste of money, not to mention the effect on the fresh water supply and the impact of fertilizers and pesticides on the environment. 

And it’s all about keeping up with the Joneses. 

According to an article I found somewhere… “With the rise of suburbia in post-World War Two-America… a lawn expressed the national ideal that, with hard work, sacrifice and perhaps a little help from Uncle Sam, home ownership and a patch of land could be within reach for every American.” 

Then some bastard from Missouri named Leonard Goodall invented the rotary lawnmower in 1935. According to some other article I found, power mower production increased from under 35,000 before World War II to 362,000 in 1947 to nearly 1.2 million in 1951. 

 All that dust in the wind. Oh, the humanity… 

Lawnmowers. And leaf blowers. 

Again, it’s just a reminder of how truly pathetic we as a nation have become. We choose to showcase our alleged prosperity by using our limited resources to create shit that we then have to cut down and blow away

Does this make sense? What the hell is wrong with people? 

There is a growing trend toward turning lawns into gardens that support biodiversity while reducing the use of water and dangerous chemicals. I’m all in favor of it, but I don’t feel like I have seen much evidence of this trend. 

I’ll be glad to participate in any movement that helps to reduce the use of lawnmowers and leaf blowers… and support anything, ANYTHING we can do to let me sleep in on Monday mornings.

Wednesday, June 12, 2024

What If Your Parents Were Right?

 
“This is horseshit,” I said.

“Can you be more specific?," he asked.

“The vocals are auto-tuned. The backing tracks are electronic – processed loops made on someone’s laptop. God forbid they should pluck a guitar string or take a stick to a drumkit. The vocal melody gives you a sweet morsel to chew on, but then repeats it in an abusive way. As the initial sweetness dies from excessive repetition, it becomes meaningless goo. It’s like audio bubble gum; once you chew on it for a few minutes the flavor’s gone. Someone spent money to record that. Hard to believe.”

"Wow," he said. "You're serious?"

“Let's put it this way... If I ever accidentally ingest rat poison, I’ll listen to this to make me puke.”

For years, that’s how the conversation went any time someone tried to introduce me to a new pop artist. If they persisted, I would eventually threaten violence.

No, I’m just kidding. Sort of.

You know the Pharrell Williams song, “Happy?” That’s a great example. First time I heard it, it caught my ear. After about the fifth time, it started to annoy me. After about ten times – and every time since then – I want to punch him in the face.




Were there occasions in your youth that you’d be in your bedroom cranking something on the stereo loud enough that you parents could hear it down the hall? And they’d pound on your door to get you to turn it down, and then, afterward, at dinner, they’d be sure to let you know how awful that music was?

Surely, I’m not the only one?

Often, they would include something like… “music isn’t as good as it was in the old days” or “today’s music isn’t as good as it used to be.”

"Yeah, mom, yeah. Right, right. Whatever..."

But, you know what? Every time I hear a popular song now, I think, “What if your parents were right? What if music isn’t as good as it was in the old days?”

Well, as it turns out, there’s evidence.

A perceptive chap named Colin Morris published an article in which he looked at compressibility. As MP3 files are created, they’re compressed according to something called the Lempel-Ziv algorithm. That makes MP3’s smaller, and, therefore, easier to share.

Morris explains, “The Lempel-Ziv algorithm works by exploiting repeated sequences. How efficiently LZ can compress a text is directly related to the number and length of the repeated sections in that text.”

So this is a way of measuring repetition in lyrics.

He looked at the compression rate for all 15,000 of the songs that made the Billboard Hot 100 between 1958 and 2017. His conclusion?

“The songs that reached the top 10 were, on average, more repetitive than the rest in every year from 1960 to 2015!”

Among the prominent recent artists in the 45-55% repetitive range - Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, Blake Shelton, and Coldplay.

Those above the 55% repetitive range include Justin Bieber, Beyonce, One Direction, Maroon 5, Demi Lovato, and Rihanna.

Please, get me an emesis basin.

Among the top ten most repetitive songs of all time, he listed K.C. and the Sunshine Band’s 1977 hit, “Keep it Comin’ Love.”



Back then, when you were shoveling blow into your nostrils and sweating all over the dance floor at Studio 54, I guess it was only the beat that mattered. Who could hear the lyrics anyway?

By the way, I’m sorry if I’ve now planted that song in your skull.

But, wait. There’s more.

Dan Kopf noted another significant change.  He writes, “Popular music is shrinking. From 2013 to 2018, the average song on the Billboard Hot 100 fell from 3 minutes and 50 seconds to about 3 minutes and 30 seconds. Six percent of hit songs were 2 minutes 30 seconds or shorter in 2018, up from just 1 percent five years before.”

On the streaming music services that have become so pervasive, artists are paid according to the number of times a song is delivered to a listener via a digital “stream.” So it literally pays better if you have more shorter songs rather than fewer longer ones for your fans to stream.

But, wait. There’s more.

A study by C.N. DeWall and others, published by the American Psychological Association found that lyrics are darker and more self-focused than they used to be. Just what the goth and emo kids need…

But, wait. There’s more. And this is the clincher.

As reported in Scientific American, one study looked at the sonic characteristics of over a million songs – 464,411 of which date from 1955 to 2010. They looked specifically at three aspects; timbre, pitch and loudness.

Here’s how those were defined… Timbre is the sound color, texture, or tone quality. Pitch is the harmonic content of the piece, including its chords, melody, and tonal arrangements.  Loudness is not the listener-controlled volume, it’s the level when the audio signal is recorded and stored.

Here’s what they found: “After peaking in the 1960s, timbral variety has been in steady decline to the present day... That implies a homogenization of the overall timbral palette, which could point to less diversity in instrumentation and recording techniques. Similarly, the pitch content of music has shriveled somewhat. The basic pitch vocabulary has remained unchanged—the same notes and chords that were popular in decades past are popular today—but the syntax has become more restricted. Musicians today seem to be less adventurous in moving from one chord or note to another, instead following the paths well-trod by their predecessors and contemporaries. But the loudness of recorded music is increasing by about one decibel every eight years.”

There’s only one conclusion we can draw: mainstream music has been getting shittier in every conceivable way. More repetitive. More depressing. More homogenous. Less adventurous. Shorter. And louder.

Your parents were right!

So what do you do?

First of all, if your folks are still around, go to them, maybe take them out to dinner, and admit they were right. I’d suggest giving them a bit of advance notice so they don’t fall down or have a heart attack. It might make for one of those warm, fuzzy moments you’ll always remember.

After that, patronize venues that support original music, not karaoke and cover bands. Look for new artists that suit your existing tastes but also challenge you to accept different approaches. Sometimes it’s dissonant. Often they don’t follow traditional song structure.  But its ok. There’s recent music out there that has moved me just as much as anything I've heard that dates from 1955 to 2010.

But don’t listen to contemporary hit radio. Don’t watch the Grammy’s – at least until they find a way to incorporate more diversity in their telecast. Don’t let anyone shove a popular song down your throat. And if they want to know why you don’t want to listen, tell them – in the nicest way possible - it’s horseshit.

Popular Music

 Many years ago, I had a friend named "Gus."

Gus liked weird music. Some of it was good - he was the one who introduced me to Killing Joke - but some of it was unlistenable.




He was very punk in a post-punk world.

One day, I asked him, "Why do you like this crap?"

I'll never forget his answer.

"Because I know no one else will."

In his mind, the term "popular" meant "bad." Granted, Gus was a man of extremes, but he purposely sought out music that was not popular. I think the logic went something like this... Most people are stupid. So, if too many people like something, it can't be good.

I've often used a slightly less judgmental explanation with musicians who were puzzled by the success of bands they saw as "generic" or operating according to simple songwriting formulas. Creed took much of the brunt of this criticism from rock purists, along with Nickelback.

"Imagine you're a wine connoisseur," I would say. "You have a refined and highly-developed taste in wine. You're horrified by the fact that there are people out there who drink white zinfandel off the grocery store shelf when they could have a Winbirri Bacchus. But, the thing is, there's a lot more white zinfandel drinkers out there than there are connoisseurs."

I would pause a few seconds to let the analogy sink in, and then continue.

"Between them, they've sold somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 million albums. So, Creed and Nickelback are just the white zinfandels of nu rock." (I had to be careful not to say "infidels").

Eventually, I discovered that most people thought the logic behind that explanation was sound. I also discovered that most people are incapable of arguing with you when you've used a wine drinking analogy.

My first job in radio was at a Top 40 (contemporary hits) station. Think back to the popular songs of 1994 (if you were beyond the embryonic phase of life at that point). Some were genuinely good. And some still cause me to retch at the mere thought of them. The fact that I heard each of those songs 10,000 times probably doesn't help.

But that brings us to the key question. Do you choose the music you listen to because you think it's good? Or are you listening just because everyone else seems to be?

We're certainly subject to many influences on our musical taste, especially in our developmental years. Parents, siblings, friends, and various media have a profound effect.

So, do we like some music just because other people do? The answer is... yes. Of course. But we should be careful, shouldn't we? Choosing music based on what's popular is the cultural equivalent of chasing the latest cold virus that's going around. Just because other people have it doesn't mean it's good.

At some point in my early teens, I began developing my own taste. Do you remember the old music clubs - Columbia House and BMG? I started buying albums, and reading the liner notes. I devoured artist interviews from CREEM and Rolling Stone. I made a habit of visiting the local record store.

The first two things I remember saving money for were an import copy of the Who's "Live at Leeds," and an original Capital Records release of "Pet Sounds" by the Beach Boys.

I explored different types of music, within certain boundaries, and occasionally ventured outside those boundaries. I don't do country music of any sort. Ever.




I'm a rock guy. Although, for me, the term "rock" covers an enormous variety of artists. From Joni Mitchell to Alice in Chains, the Animals to Tame Impala.

Led Zeppelin is the greatest hard rock band that ever was and ever will be. Although they're really good at light rock too. I've seen Sevendust live twenty times. But I love Steely Dan. I'm a huge fan of Fuel's first three albums. I also love the Fixx. I like Rage Against the Machine. And Fiona Apple. And Little Feat.

Despite numerous attempts to convince me otherwise, by people whose opinion I respect, I don't like Janis Joplin's voice. I'd rather hear the sound of kittens being thrown into a wood chipper. I like Bob Dylan's songs. I just don't want to hear him singing them. And, please, Bob, don't play the harmonica. It's not your thing.

I've never been a fan of the Velvet Underground. Or the Clash. Or the Ramones. I never liked Bruce Springsteen. Or Bob Seger. Or Black Sabbath. Or the Smashing Pumpkins. Or Radiohead. Or the White Stripes.

I'm perfectly willing to admit they're good at whatever it is they do. I just don't want to hear it.

If I'm dating myself with my lists of bands, now you know why I've undertaken this quest - to find newer music I can enjoy and appreciate.

The point is... once you've put some thought and effort into exploring and discovering what you like - once you've developed your taste - there must be certain things you don't like, right? I've met people whose taste in music is so broad and eclectic I can't even fathom. To me, it's like having no taste at all. Either you've put no thought and effort into digging beyond the generic horseshit music that is thrown at us every day in huge volumes, or you're a mindless moron.

Now I'm starting to sound like Gus...

But there's a middle ground here, isn't there? You don't have to like things just because you think no one else will, but why not take a chance and stop liking things just because everyone else does?

If you'd like a personal introduction to good music you've probably never heard before, you're welcome to come to my house one evening for a good listening session.

Be sure to stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up a bottle of white zinfandel...

Tuesday, May 7, 2024

Pieces of Albert


 

Albert Gallagher and Bobby Lewis joined the recon platoon in the boonies on the same day. As replacements, they would be viewed as outsiders until they proved themselves. They were aware of this. They may have even given some thought to the fact that FNG’s (fucking new guys) wouldn’t be necessary unless the old guys had been killed or wounded. An optimist might have concluded they had served out their enlistment and survived to be sent home.

 

But there wasn’t much use for optimism in the jungles of Vietnam.

 

Albert and Bobby met in a sandbagged tent at a forward fire base the day before a helicopter dropped them into the midst of their new outfit. Overwhelmed, disoriented, and apprehensive, they soon became the most unlikely of friends, no doubt, in part, because of their shared FNG status.

 

Albert was from Connecticut. He’d been a high school nerd, complete with pocket protector and slide rule. His notable activities mostly included calculus or chemistry, and, therefore, involved none of the popular kids. His father made just enough money to disqualify Albert from Federal grant programs, but not enough to pay for the college he hoped to attend. One day, after arriving home from his job as a cashier at the local grocery store, his mother handed him the letter from the draft board. Her eyes were red and teary.

 

Every afternoon until he left, she would pace in the kitchen wringing her hands and then sit down to dinner barely able to hold a knife and fork because of her aching knuckles.

 

During basic training Albert was bullied, at first. But he discovered that the stubborn streak that drove him to spend hours solving mathematical and chemical equations also drove him to conquer obstacle courses and other advanced infantry training problems, once he’d added a little muscle.

 

In the army, he continued to wear thick corrective lenses in the black, plastic regulation frames. He soon discovered that spitting on them helped to keep them from fogging up in the heat and humidity of the dense jungle.

 

Bobby was from Alabama. He was a linebacker and co-captain on his high school football team, second baseman on the baseball squad. His academic pursuits mostly involved desperate measures to stay eligible for sports. He had begun working on the family farm as soon as he was old enough to be helpful. He had built his strength plowing fields, harvesting vegetables, wrangling animals, and tossing bales of hay around like pillows. He had also built his strength defending himself from his three older brothers.

 

He had enlisted because he thought it was the patriotic thing to do, something his parents would expect of him. When his father heard the news, he gave him an attaboy, clapped him on the back and walked away. His mother pretended nothing had happened. He took a cab to the train station the day he departed. After boarding, he sat and stared out the filthy window at other people’s families bidding goodbye to their sons. Bobby left behind a sweetheart who appeared to miss him, and even wrote him letters for a while.

 

Albert had never had a girlfriend.

 

The first night spent in a foxhole was the worst in both of their lives to that point. Bobby, accustomed to bluster and aggressiveness, could do nothing but stay quiet and try to stem the torrent of sweat dripping down on his face. Albert, who preferred to be controlled and analytical, was paralyzed with fear. Every shadow looked like a Viet Cong guerilla creeping up on them. Any leaves that fluttered in a rare, scorching breeze looked like a whole squad.

 

It never got better. But they got used to it.

 

The men of an infantry platoon form close bonds out of necessity, each one fighting for the man next to them, each one expecting to be fought for. This was especially true in recon outfits who were often far from support units or reinforcements. As Albert and Bobby gained combat experience, their sergeant and their platoon leader lieutenant assigned them joint tasks by default. They worked well together.

 

A patrol had to ease its way along narrow jungle trails in single file, spaced nine meters apart for safety. Someone had to guard the tail end of the line. He was the drag. Someone had to lead the front. That first man in the column was known as the point. Right behind him was the slack man, or slack. These were the most vulnerable spots if the unit stumbled into an ambush or failed to detect a booby trap. While it was customary for the men to take turns up front, Lieutenant King wanted Albert and Bobby on point and slack as often as possible.  

 

Albert was methodical and precise. He had the patience necessary to move with stealth and caution, eyes scanning the trail beneath his feet for trip wires and mines while still looking ahead for signs of enemy movement. He communicated using hand signals. He stopped frequently, to take deep breaths, to relieve the tension.

 

To spit on his glasses.

 

Bobby always carried extra ammo and grenades despite the strain of the added weight.  When they spotted the enemy in close proximity, he unleashed a destructive torrent, spraying an entire clip from his M-16 on full auto and then pitching grenades in a matter of seconds. While that was happening, Albert dove for the nearest cover and watched for any return fire while Bobby reloaded, and the rest of the platoon got into position.

 

They became the eyes and ears of the platoon. They were each other's eyes and ears as well. Their effectiveness added to the success of the platoon’s reconnaissance missions. But when success is measured not in terms of territory controlled but in terms of enemy killed, every patrol added to their enormous emotional strain.

 

A reconnaissance force was, by design, lightly armed, sacrificing strength for mobility. In the event of contact with a large enemy force, they would radio for help from artillery or close air support. The effect of these strikes on any NVA left exposed was catastrophic. Afterward, the platoon would ease forward to measure its victory in blood, pulling human remains from holes or tunnel entrances that hadn’t offered quite enough protection. This became normal, assembling corpses like gory puzzles so they could be added to the all-important body count.

 

            It was unusual for the same men to be on point and slack so often. But Bobby and Albert were good at it. They trusted each other. The rest of the platoon trusted them and were happy to avoid point and slack duty themselves. But they wore down, physically and mentally. Their energy drained. Their senses dulled.

 

One day, on a long patrol in the boonies, Albert stopped. He held up his hand to halt the men behind him. He stood still to listen for signs of the enemy and heard none. He took a deep breath, and then another. He pulled the glasses off his face to spit on the lenses and wipe them clean. He dropped one knee to the ground for a quick rest.

 

The concussion hit Bobby with the force of a car crash. He was blown backward by the explosion, landing at the feet of the man who had been standing nine meters behind him. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. Everything hurt.

 

The medic ran forward and stooped to pour water from his canteen over Bobby’s face. The blast had filled his eyes with dirt and debris and burst his eardrums. Blood ran from both ears down the sides of his neck.

 

Albert had kneeled on a booby trap, an artillery shell buried upright in the middle of the trail with a contact fuse so it would detonate when enough pressure was applied. His body had absorbed most of the blast. When Bobby was able to sit up, he looked around the place where his friend had been and saw what was left. Ragged bits of burned flesh, bloody shreds of olive drab fatigues, broken white twigs that might have been bones.

 

Bobby couldn’t hear the radio operator making the call for the medevac. And he couldn’t hear the sound of his own screaming, but he could feel the vibrations in his head. There were no wounds from the blast itself, except the eardrums. In one sense, he’d been lucky. But the volume and frequency of his screams grew until the medic popped a morphine syrette into his leg out of desperation.

 

When the chopper arrived, four men grabbed Bobby and ducked under the downwash from the massive rotors to slide him on to the floor past the door gunner.

 

There was not enough left of Albert to grab.

 

Bobby was dropped at the evac hospital, but they could do nothing for him. He was conscious but not coherent. They sent him on to the main support hospital in Danang, then on to the Tripler Army Medical Center in Honolulu.

 

Unless he was heavily medicated, he was in a constant state of agitation. During the day, he would fidget in anger and despair, unable to focus or function. At night, sleep escaped him. He could be drugged into a coma that resembled slumber and it was possible that it was sometimes restful, but they couldn't be sure. Whenever they tried to let him drift off naturally, he would wake up screaming.

 

Every time.

 

And these were no normal nightmare reactions. He would kick and writhe in his bed and pull at the restraints that held him with a fierceness fed by some unseen fury.

 

But he never spoke a word. He never looked anyone in the eye. For months. And months. 

 

The army doctors wouldn't allow his parents to visit. They couldn't be sure how - or if - Bobby would respond.


The doctors began experimenting, constantly tweaking and titrating the chemical cocktail in his bloodstream. It was their hope that he could one day return to something resembling functionality.

 

After weeks of hopeless experimentation, weaning and adding, compounding and simplifying, liquefying and solidifying, they decided they were on the verge of a breakthrough. Someone thought there was an occasional twinkle in Bobby's eye. It sometimes appeared that he would glance to the left or right rather than staring vacantly ahead. So, they thought it was time to see if they could determine what it was that churned in his mind and denied his inner peace.

 

What was it, they wanted to know? Where was his mind during all the time he sat in a state of catatonia?

 

His eyelids lifted giving the appearance of awareness. His eyes shifted as if he were in thought. His face showed flashes of emotion no one there had ever seen; horror, anger, and then sadness. Desperate sadness.

 

This was encouraging, they thought. So, they prompted him. They prodded him. How could they help him? What image was so vivid in his mind when he tried to sleep?

 

He turned his gaze forward into the empty distance, the dim light left his eyes, his head tilted forward, and he said, “Pieces of Albert.”

 

Eventually, one of the men carrying a clipboard decided this was a sign of progress. Perhaps they were close to a chemical balance that would revive Bobby and maybe restore some sense of normalcy. Bobby was given stimulants during the day in the hope it would stir him into some mental or physical activity. But he continued to sit motionless in his chair. He would be loaded with intravenous liquids at bedtime and the nights would pass in calm silence.

 

No one stopped to consider what this metabolic roller coaster ride might do to him. They merely hoped he might emerge into a moment of sensibility and utter a few more words. This would be considered success. Then the clipboard carriers would take copious notes and perhaps even publish a journal article and earn praise from their peers.

 

As months passed, he did make progress. He still didn’t speak, but he could swing himself sideways out of bed, stand on his own, and place himself in the wheelchair they used to roll him into the day lounge where he could stare at the TV, or at anything else they placed him in front of. A few times a week, an assistant would roll him outside for a trip around the grounds of the institution. They felt Bobby behaved differently while being pushed around in the fresh air of the gardens – more engaged, more alert. And it was ordered that these outings should occur daily, the assistants smiling and chatting to him cheerfully, mindlessly.

 

Bobby, terrified, gripping the armrests, looking for trip wires.

 

As they made their rounds and talked to Bobby, the white-coated clipboard carriers would smile and scribble. The slightest movement of his head or the twitch of a finger was cause for celebration. To encourage his remarkable recovery, he was given more privileges. An occupational therapist would spend time trying to get him to feed himself. One day, after months with no apparent nightmares, no heaving, screaming fits, they decided he could now be left unrestrained at night.

 

This was a special night. The assistants were almost as pleased as the doctors to see Bobby making progress. To ensure a comfortable night’s sleep, they had Bobby sit in his wheelchair while they changed the bed. They found a complete set of linens with no holes or other evidence of wear; one of the nicer, blue blankets in the fresh laundry bin, a new pillowcase, a fitted sheet and a flat sheet. Pleased with themselves, they helped Bobby into bed, tucked him in, turned out the light and tip-toed down the hall.

 

And it was with that clean, white sheet that Bobby made a noose.

 

 

Wednesday, March 1, 2023

The Writer

Sat down to write
Nothing in particular
Thought I might have been moved

Involved, in a moment
Inspired, I felt
Genius at my fingertips
Ideas beyond description

And so it was
Or so I thought
Or so I wanted to think

But concepts lost meaning
While thoughts stood still
Ideas faded to nothing
Description beyond words

It is there, I thought
Felt the pounding of my heart
But my mind whispered, no
No, it’s not

And the paper was blank.

Sat down to write
With reason to believe
That I might be moved

Revelation, I wanted
Insight, I hoped
Still searching within
For substance that matters

And so it became
That I tried again
That I wanted to try

But the substance lost its form
While it sank from sight
Revealing nothing
Matter without substance

It is mine, if I want it
Felt the pounding of my heart
But my mind whispered, no
No, it’s not

And then my mind was empty

Sat down to write
For no reason at all
Except for you, I knew

Remembering, tears on my face
Lonely, warmth that I missed
When I see you
You are by my side

And so I gave
My heart if you let me
My life if you let me

But the memories I fear
Cold as they pass
Like a breath from the dying
I am by myself

It is yours, if you take it
Felt the doubt in my heart
And my love whispered, no
No, it’s not

And my heart was broken

Do you remember me?
I said to myself
Crying over nothing
And everything is nothing

Quiet, I said
When there was no noise
But the pounding of my heart

Tuesday, January 3, 2023

Birthday Condolences

 I had a birthday not too long ago. Yes, yes, thanks. But, save the hoopla. Early in life, birthdays are cause for celebration, but, once you get to a certain age, observing birthdays becomes an exercise in masochism.

Just what I need. Spend some extra time thinking about the fact that my body and mind are rotting faster than a vegan compost pile. Thanks universe. Thanks for the reminder.

At least it only comes once every twelve months. Oh… to be born on a leap year...

For years, people told me… with old age comes wisdom.  And I have learned some things.

I have learned that, as you age, the simplest tasks become difficult, and the difficult ones become… an endeavor. For a while, my neighbors in the condo next door eyed me with admiration, thinking I had an active morning sex life… without realizing the grunting they heard was just me trying to put on my socks.

I have learned there is a significant risk that merely sleeping with your neck in an awkward position no longer just leaves you with minor temporary stiffness, it feels like someone has hacked you with a machete above your shoulder blade.

That is… if you manage to sleep at all.

I have learned that you can grievously injure yourself just by leaning into the trunk of your car or stepping off a curb.

I have learned that stretching to reach for a can of tomato sauce on the top shelf of the pantry can result in three days of bed rest and two weeks of physical therapy.

I have learned other things about my body as well.  At some point, the substance in my toenails evolved to the point that it now seems as if they’re made of concrete. I used to use nail clippers. I now use a jackhammer.

And I‘m certain I could dramatically impact agricultural productivity worldwide if they could just figure out what makes my fucking nose hairs grow.

I have learned that it eventually becomes necessary to abandon the typical male philosophy of healthcare, which is that there are very few problems that can’t be solved by just ignoring them. (It’s the typical male philosophy of life, really.) At some point, medical intervention is required.

Which means I have learned that today’s general practitioners don’t know shit. If there are any of you in the audience, now might be a good time to go outside. Nobody in our healthcare system really looks after your entire being any more. There are specialists to take care of all the individual body parts and systems, which might work if you were a creation of Frankenstein.  

“Well, you need a new one of these. Come back tomorrow after we dig one up.”

When my doctor tells me to watch my diet, I say, “There isn’t much left to change. For me, the four food groups are fiber supplements, oatmeal, blood pressure medications, and red wine."

The last time at my GP’s office, after the obligatory 47 seconds with the doctor, the nurse came back in pointing at a piece of paper and said, “This lab value here is a bit off. So, we’re ordering an MRI, a CT Scan with contrast and a colonoscopy because… that’s what our protocols say we should do.”

Then with a slight pause to look me directly in the face, she flashed a sly, sadistic grin and said, “Also, we like to see the look on the patient’s face when we tell them."

I could imagine them gathering at the end of the hall after I left and giggling about the various expressions they had witnessed. 

“Oh my god, lol. You should have seen his face when I mentioned the voiding cysto-urethrogram.”

On my way out, I looked at the receptionist and said, “What does this doctor actually do? What  are you good at?”

She said, “Oh, we’re excellent at billing. Everything’s electronic now. Your insurance company will have an invoice before you even leave the building."

I have learned I don’t like doctors…

I’m kidding, of course. But it is a cruel irony that they become more necessary as you get older. Why can’t it be the other way around? Why can’t we have lots of doctors when we’re infants and toddlers, and then after that they just send you on your merry way?

I’m not sure old age brings wisdom, but maybe it brings perseverance. The way things are now, I think If I make it to tomorrow, I’ve won. I try to be pleasantly surprised every morning when I wake up. The English have a saying… Keep buggering on.

I’m trying to not to take it all so seriously. I’m realizing there’s no need to find meaning in every moment. First of all, it’s just not possible. And, when I’m gone, none of it will matter anyway.

None of it.

So, there’s no need to wish me Happy Birthday. It’s ok if you pat me gently on the shoulder and say, “I understand it’s your birthday. My condolences.”

At this point, I’m not celebrating another year. I’m celebrating another day. I’m just going to keep buggering on.

And maybe I’ll consider storing the tomato sauce on a lower shelf.