Michael Davis' Music Is Revolution

MUSIC IS REVOLUTION BENEFIT EVENT AT THE EMERALD THEATER IN MT. CLEMENS MI.

2011-04-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

This past weekend our first Music Is Revolution benefit event went down in Mt. Clemens, Michigan, produced by Kevin Sharpe of Metro 37 Studio in Detroit. It featured 10 local Detroit bands who slammed out a variety of styles and craftsmanship, all of which was compelling and fueled with energy. That's what the MC5 influence means in terms of a legacy, and it is something to keep as a proud tradition. The atmosphere in the room, a room which was a splendid example of lost theater elegance from the classic age of the early 1900's, was uniquely spirited. Mike Scott, the owner of the venue, commented that he noticed a feeling of community spirit that he had not ever seen there or anywhere else. Everybody was cool, not in a club-crawler sense, not in a "Jersey Shore" sense, but in a sense that makes people feel happy and glad to be a part of something natural. It appears that the concept and the motivation of providing funds for music education in public schools for our young brothers and sisters was, and is, an honorable and popular cause. Right on! Society isn't changing until we give the next generation the values to change it. Then they will do what seems impossible to do in the current political atmosphere. Music can make changes. But what struck me about the evening was a phenomenon that I hadn't envisioned (those are the best); Music Is Revolution can bring us back together. Music Is Revolution can restore the communal feeling that we have lost over the decades. Is it possible that as a music community and culture we can restore our camaraderie? Man, what a trip that would be. I might be over-reacting, but anything is possible, and I would be super stoked to have anything like that come into play.

I know we have a great start and a great group of people helping with the cause. I wouldn't be surprised if a side effect of pushing for an improved public attitude toward education, music in education, and lessening the emphasis on capitalist obsessing brought us closer to the Utopian dream we played with back in the days of the MC5. I'm for it, bring it on.

ARMAGEDDON?

2011-03-15T13:51:00.001-07:00

Good day folks....or is it? Let's say we should enjoy it for what it is while we can. Two days ago a Tsunami ripped into the Japanese mainland as a result of an 8.9 seismic event off of its northeastern coastline creating a real life version of a Japanese horror film about death, destruction, and nuclear radiation such as those we often watched on television in the 1970's. The videos of this destruction showed an array of horrendous scenes; immense waters sweeping cars, ships, buildings and waves of rubble relentlessly through a city while creating rivers of streets wherever gravity dictated. The immensity and proportion of the scale was an all too familiar one, causing a flashback to those nuclear mutated creatures that crushed the static landscape and the miniature constructions of the human race. As I watched, I could almost imagine Godzilla or Ghidra stomping their way through panicked humanity, wreaking havoc and the collapse of an organized society. Ah, but it's not over; The nuclear plant that bore the brunt of the tidal force suffered catastrophic consequences. As of today, all four reactors of that plant have been damaged so severely that a total nuclear meltdown could occur with devastating results for the entire planet. In biblical times, and through the Middle Ages even, an event such as this might be interpreted as a punishment; a signal that God is angry. There is a name for it; it is called Armageddon.

So here we are. It's 2011, and what do we have to show that might be evidence that we don't deserve the wrath of God? Hold on; what if it is only a random event such as nature has a predisposed right of way to create? Then isn't it still capable of leveling the empire that mankind has constructed? And isn't it still a plausible moral measurement? Either way it might be time to reflect on the unavoidable demise of the life we have come to assimilate. Either way, at some point we will have to do some intense correcting, because when a path hits a dead end, a new direction is all that is left.

I have watched as the world has grown further and further from the terms the MC5 launched four decades ago. Throughout these years, the fate of advancing capitalism has undermined all of the quality from our sensory perception and creative imagination until we are barely able to connect with the essence of anything. That is because our whole existence is channeled by digital electronics and the capital gains of technology that captivates the consumer public. Instead of pursuing the technology of truer personal enhancement, we have created a world of quicker and immediate personal enhancement, but more importantly, a world of immense capital enhancement. That is, the largess of capital gain has become our ruling factor and god. The banks are running this world, not the people. This is not a sermon or a complaint that we aren't religious enough; that is everyone's personal matter. I don't care what anyone believes drives this existence. What I do care about is what do we get out of it, and brother, I think we are being cheated of our freedom by the financial monster we allowed rule our behavior. Watching the TV as the monumental destruction was taking place on the other side of the Pacific, I could not help but envision the allegorical end of the world taking place here and now.

Should the tsunami of 2011 reduce this world to a wash of rubble on a hilltop as in the story of the biblical Noah, then so it shall be and amen. But if we manage to escape once again our lack of understanding of the whys and wherefores of our decisions, it should be time to reassess our values, once again. We best pay attention to educating our children. We best pay attention to creating values that mean something instead of tsunamis of digital deference from creative forms of art and music. After all it is for every life to find meaning and truth for its taking. Let's remember that what it is to be enthralled with life itself.

As I stand here, looking down the last stretch of my own path, I still see the greatness of being alive. I still see the things that made it an overwhelming mystical trip. That I played in the MC5 was only one part of it, but what a part it was! Music is revolution!

DOLL DRIVE RAFFLE PRIZE

2010-12-14T11:03:00.000-08:00

Here is my art contribution for the 7th Annual Doll Drive Raffle. Numero uno in the Siren Series. The winner of this baby will own the inaugural piece. If you are in L.A., you can hook up with the Hell's Belles this Thursday, December 16, at Villian's Tavern in Los Angeles, free admission.

7th ANNUAL DOLL DRIVE

2010-11-29T11:24:00.000-08:00

Huge thanks to Cristina Marth for donations sent to us for the 7th Annual Doll Drive in Los Angeles on December 16. These art creations will be available for the raffle drawing that takes place on the evening of the party. Cristina has also enlisted the help of her friend and fellow artist, Jan Robb, and we send our deep felt thanks.

GoodSearch

2010-11-17T13:35:00.000-08:00

Find What You Are Looking For and Help Music Revolution Too! Please go to goodsearch.com and choose The Music Is Revolution Foundation as your charity. Then every time you use GoodSearch as your search engine, you will be helping us help teachers keep music education alive in public schools! And it is free for you. So, please do this now and tell your friends too. Instead of pouring millions into Google's coffers, add a few cents into Music Is Revolution, and feel good about it.

KOTJ, MD

Music Is Revolution Now!

2010-09-01T12:06:00.000-07:00

Hi guys...and gals.

Music Is Revolution has moved to Portland. It is a great city with much good vibe and outlandish beautiful culture, not to mention its natual attributes and awesome historical significance. We are happy to be here, but once again, our society is under the desperation that accompanies hard times, and we are provoked bring some help for the cause. With the current crisis in the economy, unemployment at all time highs, and inability of our public resources to provide funding for education, the state of our educational system faces the deepest cuts in funding that all but eliminate music from the school experience. I know what music has given me in my life, and wonder what the lack of it might have been like. That is something that is hard to imagine. It is up to us, as private and concerned citizens to provide help where help is not possible from public resources. Music Is Revolution is currently building a new website and acquiring new friends here and around the world even, to bring the cause of music education into focus for the positive benefits that it brings us. Music Is Revolution is also arranging fund raising events so everyone can join the power that we can create.

I am going to be posting all of the activities of MIR right here. If anyone wants to be a part of my solution, leave me your email contact and I will be in touch. The time is right now. Let's get it rolling. You can help me help what society has a hard time recognizing; that it is our youth, our children, who will be holding the controls of the world in a short amount of time. Let's give them what we know will bring about a better world; a musicly enriched heart and soul. Thanks to you all.

Yours faithfully, Michael Davis

REPAIRMAN NARROWLY ESCAPES SATANIC CULT

2009-02-18T09:58:00.000-08:00

A small SUV pulled into the driveway as we sat at the supper table with our guest for the evening, Chris La Tray. I had been waiting for a repair person, who was scheduled to arrive between 5 and 7 that evening to fix our washing machine. Having 3 boys in the house can create a massive pile-up of laundry if not dealt with as it occurs. So, the odd hour of service was something I could tolerate if I could get the thing fixed without delay. It was approaching 8 PM when he finally arrived. I asked Chris to excuse me while I showed the repairman to the laundry room.
I went through the garage and opened the side door to allow the repairman entry so we wouldn't have to go through the main part of the house. In the dark I saw a wiry little man with gnome-like features. He was wearing a baseball cap. He looked to be around fifty years of age or so, and carried his toolbox over his shoulder. As we entered the garage in the light, he gestured toward my hoodie and made a curious remark. "You know what that symbol is, dontcha?" "Which?" I replied. "That one there, on yer shirt". I looked down at the yellow icon printed on my black Obey hoodie, a gear with a five-pointed star depicting the face of Andre the Giant in its center. " Yes, All City Posse", I told him, "It's a brand, you know, the name of the line, a brand". "It's the sign of the devil", he said, with utter conviction. "It's a pentagram, the sign of the devil!" "Well, no, that would be if it were upside down, with the two points on top instead of one". "That, is a pentagram! The sign of the DEVIL". He paused, and mulled over the predicament he was facing. He could shortly be on his knees, with his face close to Satan's washing machine, which could have dire implications. Did he really want to be the devil's humble servant, on his knees, kissing the backside of his clothes washer? He shook his head, and stiffened. "Naw, I don't work for people who don't love God", he declared. He wheeled about and veered out of the door, back to his SUV replacing the toolbox in the hatch and getting in to drive himself out of harms way.
I returned to the supper table and our guest. Everyone was finishing the fine spaghetti my wife had prepared. "Everything ok?" Angela asked. "Damn", I said, "I almost got one, but he must have caught a glimpse of my horns or my barbed tail when he came in the door, cuz he got all bent and started carrying on about the damn hoodie with Andre the Giant's puss on it".

I could not believe it, it was so unreal when it was happening. I didn't see how any of it mattered. The guy must have felt completely overcome by the sight of the Giant, Andre. But then it's weird because people really loved Andre the Giant. He was like a big picked on baby. He probably never heard of Andre, and was just scared by his face, and thought it was the devil. So, I ask, what are you going to do? We may have come a long way, but we still have a longer way to go. BWAH ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.........

Huh???

2009-01-28T09:04:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but I just have to write something about a couple of comments I received on the Ron Asheston blog recently. I like the comment feature just because if you have something to say about my work, then it's no problem to listen to whatever. But.......,why is it that when the "comment" made is purely an emotional entry of hate and name calling, it is always made by Anonymous?
I will tell you why. First, the commenter is either a coward or ashamed. A coward cannot bear to be responsible for what they do and say. So they won't admit to it. They hide away behind a cloak of invisibility. They throw a rock and then hide behind a tree. Secondly, a Neanderthal rampage of hatred is so inappropriate. They reveal themselves in their true state. You can decide for yourself what that state is. Hilariously, their identity usually is not a mystery at all. So, why play the stupid game? Sign your name, let's go!

FAREWELL MY BROTHER

2009-01-06T11:50:00.000-08:00

This morning at 6 AM, my wife awoke me with the news of Ron Asheton's death. I haven't seen Ron, except on stage, since 1984, and had spoken on the phone with him only once, briefly in 1989. But all those years ago when we were impetuous young dudes in a primal rock scene in the Detroit/Ann Arbor area, we had the greatest of times being who we were and exploring our brand new world of living fantasy. We were boldly going where no men had gone before, and soaking up the craziest times ever. Ron impressed me as possibly the only down to earth character on the scene at the time. He was the only person I knew who actually was not carried away with all the experimentation, yet searched for a way of life that made common sense with a pioneering approach. While everyone was running around blowing out old values with reckless behavior, Ron quietly was investigating real-time approaches to the way he lived. We became friends simply because we felt comfortable together and independent from the scene stealers. Ron and I could hang out, drink our beer, and chat up without feeling pressured by anything or anyone. Ron was conservative, modest, and had a gleeful smile. He wasn't trying to be anyone else or to be an earth-shaker. He just loved what he was doing, that's all. During the period when we all signed our recording contracts with Electra, the Stooges were developing their persona on stage and preparing for the recording of their first album. I remember watching them during a performance at the Grande and thinking how they were achieving a remarkable effect in a most simple way. Without flash, without incredible soloing, without scads of lights or costume, they were creating a mystical atmosphere in the rawest of terms. They lived in our shadow, the shadow of the MC5, but as I watched and listened, I saw and heard them beating us! Ron and his boys, humble, independent, unique, doing it as well as they could, and making it on their own terms. I was thinking to myself, "Jesus Christ, I like them better than I like us!"

In 1977, after spending a year in prison and finding myself in the dubious position of returning to Ann Abor with no prospects, Ron appeared at my door with an invitation to be a part of a new band he was thinking of being in. For the next 7 years we blasted away as Destroy All Monsters, and stumbled through another chapter of rock and roll. During these years, I was always aware of how disappointed Ron was at the outcome of his former band, The Stooges. I don't think DAM was in any way, a viable replacement for what he felt was his ultimate achievement. And I have to admit that during our years in Destroy All Monsters, Ron and I lost the friendship we had once carried due to many thoughtless episodes, that, in retrospect, we could have, and should have healed. I regret that we never found the opportunity to mend our differences. Even so, I am grateful that Ron was able to heal and mend those rifts that had plagued him from his Stooges days. It is fitting and right, that he finally realized his original dream. Right on!

Was I shocked by the news of Ron's death? Yes, I was. But I am learning how easily our friends and colleagues slip away while we drift apart and go our separate ways. I tell myself that Ron did it all. He was his own man. He got to the top of the stairway. He will be mourned, missed, and honored. And he left a huge legacy, more than we realize. He left a huge impression on me, and I carry that impression constantly. I even find myself doing little imitations of Ron's humor all the time. It makes me smile. Farewell, my brother.

URGENT!

2008-12-26T12:21:00.000-08:00

I cannot wait to write this blog. I have been given a gift! How many times has it happened that one is given the thread to tie all the loose ends of one's life together and see how it all fits? That, in a nutshell is what I have been given. Last night a fabulous 90 minute show aired on Sundance Channel. It was titled "Who Gets To Say It's Art". It was a show primarily about Henry Geltzahler, the curator for The Metropolitan Museum of Art in NYC, who in 1969 mounted a show at the Met called "New York Painting 1940-1970". As it told about Henry Geltzahler's career as a curator and art critic/historian, it told the story of how American artists of the post war era struggled to find an identity through abstract expressionism by way of Jackson Pollack and William DeKooning, into the new order of pop art of Jasper Johns, Roy Liechtenstein, Larry Rivers, and Andy Warhol. What a story! It connected the post war art underground to the beatniks of mid-century intellectualism, and on to the 60's pop art culture from which sprang Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, hippies, and the end of art in the punk rock world of anarchy. What it has to do with me, is that I was an art student at precisely this time, from 1960-1964, the stretch point of an incredible phase in the history of the current culture. While I could draw fairly well, I couldn't fathom how one could make a living from hanging paintings in a gallery for sale when no one gave a rats ass about art or what value anything had in a suburban society that cared only about gadgets, cars, and electrical appliances. In short, a culture devoid of culture. It was a discouraging predicament. As I withdrew from the conveyor belt of university life to pursue a life of vagabond hedonism, I embraced drinking and drug use partly because it was an accepted behavior among the artist community. All at once, habits of dubious merit became the dominant feature in my life. Of course, I will admit that there are other substantial reasons that might explain the whys of my substance abuse, but let's leave that one for another blog. For now, this one fits the story. With the outward appearance of an artist, but lacking the working end of it, I bounced through a series of events that landed me at the doorstep of rock and roll. I joined a rock and roll band as an extension of art, a different format of an emerging cultural expression that propelled the individual into the center of the painting as the artist and the subject of the painting. I might call it an existential slight of hand; posing both the painter and the painting simultaneously. Ah, but I feel like a poseur even saying it. Even so, that is how I saw it. The band that I had the good fortune of joining was the MC5, as you might know. While we figured into the political upheaval of the late 60's, it was not the launching point of the band. As young ruffians and provocateurs of the day, we were interested in enlightening our audiences to the possibilities beyond the mundane suburban drift that everyone was annoyed with. It all fit so well at the time, and unlike art it was accessed by millions. But that is a longer story and gets too complicated for todays purposes.

What I wish to say here is that having made the connection with how art seeped its way into pop culture, and consequently into the way the decades have played out in terms of my life, I have gained the tools to pull it back together at the point where it makes sense to me personally. I now know what I want to do. I see the work of Paul Klee and Wassily Kandinsky as the bridges between the older European forms that moved painting from the breakthroughs of Cezanne, Matisse, and Picasso into the new order of spiritual introspection that leads to the door of those New York painters.

This is but one thread in a great story of art. Many threads exist in a fabric that runs through our time, through all time. It's funny, the older I get, the more curious I am about how everything is woven together in our history, the history of all mankind. Being a part of it is such a happy thing. We are blessed to have this world as our canvas. We can create whatever we like to decorate it and express our joy at being here. If this is a new years resolution of sorts, then I will say that I resolve to create as much art as I can in the coming year. I will try to find my connection to this world through art, it's what I was meant to do.

One more thing: While I'm thinking of it, I wish to thank Steven Streight, one of followers of this blog, who has so generously and thoughtfully put the Music Is Revolution badge up on his blog. You can link to Steven's blog instantly by clicking on his icon at the top of this page. Thank you Steven, and thank you for your comments and views. We have a great deal in common, I can see that. I wish you all the very best in all your efforts. Right on, my brother, and Happy New Year!

A Sure Sign Of Spring!

2008-12-20T11:35:00.000-08:00

I looked out my window today and saw a curious sight. Across the street in the play area of the Christian school a flock of about 20 to 30 birds were flittering about in the grass, landing, taking off again, doing what birds do in their bird world. The snow had melted away from the week long coverage, and a wet ground was finally visible. I looked at what appeared to be an orange color on the fronts of these small creatures with some dismay. Wow, these guys are robin red breasts! What in the world are they doing here in Eugene, Oregon? It was always my belief that robins migrated to warmer climates in the winter and returned to the buds of Michigan springtime. Here in Eugene, and now, a day before the Winter Solstice, a small group of Robins are playing outside my window in my yard. How can this be? Not able to answer that question, I could only feel the tugging of my memory of living in Detroit and being alerted by the annual prevailing robins that spring was just around the corner. How can that be? We have only just begun to stiffen to the winds and rain, and in the recent week, a formidable snow storm that paralyzed the area for several days. I thought of my brethren in Detroit, remembering now the harshest winters that seemed to last for eternity, plodding against slush and bulk snow through all manner of inconvenient weather. The dark skies and bitter cold air, stinging fingertips and frostbitten ears, going to necessary appointments through the massive traffic chaos that somehow Detroiters take for granted as territorial characteristics. Another winter, another half year of trudging through Hell. So what, a Detroiter might say, it's something we all have in common.
This past week or two, the nation has been exposed to the people of Detroit in desperate need at the feet of our nation's administrators. They are begging for assistance in a crises for survival. They show footage of ordinary people installing parts and systems into assemblies of vehicles. They imply that these ordinary people are somehow aiding in the corrupt practices of their employers to defraud other people by making inferior automobiles. But my heart goes out to these ordinary people who await to first robins of spring to relieve them from their five months of torment called the Michigan winter. And now, in addition to winter, the harshest of realities, that they will no longer have an income. My dad was a Ford Motor Company employee. He worked there for 40 years, and supported his family while his employer made and developed the styles that made our country proud. There were ridiculous creations during periods of dubious inspiration it's true. Yet, beyond the many head shaking designs and outlandish power quests, a fierce national pride came with the territory. Across the planet, people in every country admired American initiative and style. The American automobile, scoffed at by some, ridiculed by many, but the absolute all-out apple of everyones eye when it comes to the individual statement. It is what is symbolic of what our nation is all about, the uniqueness of the individual.
Let us be objective when judging our fellow individuals. The people who assemble Detroit's products are trained to perform a specific task. It is tedious and repetitive. It requires focus and attention, and it requires an appreciation for doing correct application in a multiple task process that culminates in a worthy product. I don't by any stretch of my imagination deem what these people create as inferior. It is what it is, and for the most part, it has created a national identity for this country, not to mention the building of tanks and aircraft that got us through the second world war. Let's give some points to our brethren in Detroit who have endured decades of suffering from drug culture and urban decay that has left the city in a dilapidated state. On a visit a couple of years ago, I was reminded of how the people of Detroit possess a quality of soulfulness that makes them some of the warmest, down to earth people one can ever meet. There is a charm about Detroit that is so remarkable that one is amazed that such humility can exist in such an environment. They are part of our people, people,....an important part.

I don't have an opinion about the bailout. The problem that caused this consequence is much bigger than Detroit or the auto industry. I do know that many people are in desperate shape. I do know that more people than those who live and work in Detroit are facing unimaginable alternatives. As a nation we must take care of our family. And all honest, hardworking people deserve a robin or two to remind them that spring is just around the corner.

ART NEWS

2008-12-12T13:08:00.000-08:00

So, todays subject is art. What qualifies something as art? Well, I'm not sure. Do you recognize art at first glance? Is it immediately a different breed from say, craft or design, or even scribbling? Does art always make a universal statement about the world, people, philosophy, god? An exhibit at Wayne State University (my alma mater) some many years ago titled "Anything Is Art", seemed to qualify art as anything one cared to examine. Thereby assuming that the entire universe as well as everything in it, was art, if you chose to see it as such. Ironically, the MC5 was represented in the exhibit as something quaintly significant in this regard. The primitive 8mm film by Leni Sinclair, showing a collage of footage of the band during performances, and with an accompanying soundtrack of the song "Kick Out The Jams", also the title of the film, was screened to the gallery as a performance, and received with an exhilarating ovation. So then, does that qualify it as art? Is the art the band, the film, the event, or the event in which it is being seen? Hell if I know. Maybe the real question is how to recognize art from sham. I'm sure that both art and sham come very close to overlapping into each others territory from time to time. That by being accepted, anything has an equal chance of prevailing.

I have been trying these last months to reinvent my career as an artist. My paintings are oil portraits of some of my friends from the music profession who bring a sense of "Christ-ness" to the stage. As if Christ were the ultimate performer, inspiring all sorts of ecstasy, revelation, horror, and predicament to all. That in any other time and place, might well put them on trial and be executed for their audacity, for their power to influence, for their lack of restraint, for being emboldened, for creating disorder, for being a danger to society, for their beauty. I paint their likenesses because I like their faces. As the artist, I decide how to represent them as I see them. So, in that way, what I do is my art. How to distinguish that from 22,000 other paintings on eBay that claim to be art, I do not know. For me, it is all a learning process. I don't suppose that it ever becomes a routine mechanical method. There is always something there that you didn't see the first time through. But each attempt to define your vision is a step closer to reaching the goal of being what you see. Maybe it's not a whole lot different from music.

NYC PUNK

2008-12-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

This is from my buddies at NYC Punk Rock. Thanks - this is awesome.

http://nycpunkrock.blogspot.com/2008/11/michael-davis-mc5-evolutionist-of-month.html

Thanksgiving Weekend Is Here

2008-11-29T13:42:00.000-08:00

Two straight days of Thanksgiving dinners, first with family and friends on Thursday, and then again on Friday with some new friends here in Eugene at their home. We be feeling good, and very welcome here in our new ‘hood.

It was great to see Pixie pay a visit to the blog and read how she passed Hep C, and, in addition, learn how she met her husband, who is getting through his own treatment. Power to those who hang through tough times. Here is a link to their group blog: www.hepcnomads.co.uk

Yesterday was the birthday of my favorite composer and musician, Jean Baptiste Lully, born November 28, 1632. Monsieur Lully is regarded as the father of French opera, and indeed, as the master of French Baroque music. The musical guiding light of the court of Louie XIV, although originally an Italian by birth, he adopted French lifestyle and became a French citizen, changing his name from Giovanni Battista Lulli, to the French form, Jean Baptiste Lully. I cannot describe in words the immensity and power of his music. It is beyond limits for passion, grace and pure tonal complexity. For me, it is the absolute zenith of musical perfection. I can't get enough.
It is disturbing that the state of our popular music has turned into a grid of superficial blandness.
Jean Baptiste Lully was 376 years old yesterday. His music is largely unknown to most people, mainly because he is associated with a time of extravagance and excess, the monarchy and pre-revolutionary France. French culture deemed that such respect for the former days was unwarranted. Fiercely proud of it's revolution, the French people have voluntarily suppressed the attention to it's own that other national cultures have embraced, such as that given to Bach and Handel, Vivaldi and Purcell, Telemann and Albinoni. Recently though, a more relaxed atmosphere has replaced the prejudicial one that had been in force. Lully has taken on the spotlight as the all important master that he was, and is, for this grandest of music.

My affair with rock and roll is over. As a teenager, there was nothing to compare with the excitement I felt from hearing Johnny Cash on the radio, Otis Williams and The Charms, Franky Lymon and The Teenagers, Dale Hawkins, and countless other discoveries that occurred every day while I searched the dial for the sound of inspiration. Still, the timeless music of other ages grabs my heart and mind. I'm proud to have been a part of a great band. It doesn't really matter that MC5 wasn't a commercial success. What matters is how I feel about what I accomplished and where I am today. For that I am eternally thankful.

2008-11-16T12:15:00.000-08:00

Last night my son and I were scanning the guide for something to watch on TV, when we happened on "The Temptations", a biographical drama about the Motown singing group The Temptations. We watch it for a few minutes and I asked him if he would rather see what else was on, to which he replied, "I want to watch this". So we settled in to watch the whole story. My son is 13 years old, a huge fan of Lil' Wayne, and pretty much all rap type music. He watches all those shows on MTV about hip-hop culture and anything revolving around pimping, rappers, and street cult. So, when the "Temps" story came on, I thought it would be too old school for him to get into. I was wrong. After a half hour or so, I went to bed. He stayed up, and not only did he watch the whole thing through, in the morning he told me how all the members died, what happened to them in their career, and who were his favorite "Temps".
I recalled that back in 1971 or so, Toward the end of our career, my band, The MC5, was playing a gig in Detroit at a place called The Latin Quarter. It was a show club down in the inner city of Detroit, that in the past was host to classy entertainment acts more in the vein of cabaret and regular show business performers. Rock and roll, the MC5 and "underground" music was a rarity in a place like this, but oooh how the times were changing. So, there we were loading our gear into a van on the street out front of The Latin Quarter, when a bronze colored Cadillac pulls over to the curb and a fellow jumps out of the car. As he approaches me in the darkness, I can see he is rather well dressed and has a familiar face. "Hey brother, I'm in a bit of a jam. Could you possibly hit me with a twenty or something, I need to get high and I'm flat broke? I'm David Ruffin and I would be so grateful to you." I was in a small state of shock at hearing that, but I dug into my pocket without hesitation and handed him a twenty dollar bill. He shook my hand and turned and walked away back to his car, and drove off down the street. I turned to Wayne and said "damn, that was David Ruffin!" I recognized him. As a matter of fact, The Latin Quarter was quite close to "Hitsville U.S.A.", the famous recording studio of the Motown Sound on West Grand Boulevard.
This morning as we discussed the "Temps", Gabby, my son, mentioned something about Otis, the founder of the Temptations. It brought back another memory. "I remember Otis quite well," I told Gabby. He was Otis Williams. When I was 13 years old myself, I bought my first rock and roll record. It was a song called "That's your mistake" by Otis Williams and the Charms. Otis Williams and the Charms were my favorite group and my very first record, and I still have it! I told Gabby that later today we would go get the record and clean it up and give it a listen on the old turntable.
What does it all mean? For now, it means that me and my 13 year old son can share something I never would have though was possible. That in two and a half minutes of recorded song we can vanquish 52 years of time. I can focus on a time when I was his age and draw that moment into the present. For a brief few moments his world will be channeled into my past, but have some meaning for his today. Beyond sentimentality, the importance of music is that we share our inspirations.

2008-11-08T23:01:00.000-08:00

Greetings folks. How times have changed and so has this blog. I have decided to reveal some fresh word sculpture to the web of Our Lady Svengirly. Do feel free to drop me a note of comment if you are so inclined. I always enjoy getting a response, be it affirming or perhaps utter disgust. No problem, heh heh. Well, I'll try to remain calm and peaceful. Much has gone down the gulch since I logged in with an update. I'll get us up to speed soon, but I guess for now, I want to start by saying everything is cool, or cooler, and with our new saviour President-Elect Obama appointed to lead us out of Purgatory and on to the promised land. I do feel a sense of happiness and hope in my being for a change, no pun intended. Actually, I can't wait for the current president's removal, as in toxic waste, so we can revive the sense of oneness we once carried as our banner. At last the population came through -- came through and did the right thing by confirming that we have suffered disgrace much too long to be subjected to the ignorant policies of those who seek to repress free expression. Everywhere in the coverage of the election I saw the faces of youth, not only young, but those youthful in spirit, gleaming with joy, an outpouring of relief, and even many tears of jubilation, in the coming of real intelligent decision.
The result of the election has also opened my eyes to a number of things I had taken much for granted. Seeing such a breakthrough as happened November 4th, I realized how racism is an across-the-board enemy of truth. The world has some big changing to do, and I think we are ready for it at last. So, we put our hope in our new leader. I see him as "up for the task". He is all we got right now, and it has to be right now, not later.
Finally, while we feel euphoria and celebration, keep in mind that the task ahead is not Barack Obama's alone. Everyone must do their part to get our house in order. The world could be a sane place if we'd just do what we know in our hearts is right. I look forward to sharing my thoughts and experiences with you. Come on everybody, let the good times roll.

THE LORDS OF ALTAMONT

2007-08-28T21:16:00.000-07:00

Greetings; it has been a summer of fun, sun, and surf for us here in the land of pain and pleasure. It's 12.5 weeks since my surgery. My titanium upgrade is fine, and all things considered, my progress is excellent. If you haven't caught it on the Svengirly news report, the latest development is that I have joined The Lords Of Altamont. They are a hardy bunch of biker/greaser rocker boys from out here in California, that have a special affection for the spirit and juice of balls out hard stuff mean streets rock that sends the wimps into hiding. Lead singer Jake Cavaliere is a legend in his own right, having played in great bands the likes of The Bomboras, The Fuzztones, The Finks, and currently The Lords Of Altamont. The Lords sports the original lineup, with me, of course as the new kid on the block. If you have not heard the Lords music, there are two fine albums out; "To Hell With The Lords", and "Lords Have Mercy". By all means, get ahold of these records/cd's, available here at Svengirly.com store or from Gearhead Records. This is real drivin' hard core rock and roll as you want it and like it. I couldn't have asked for a better fitting band to play with, and I'm going down the pike with these guys for another charge into the flames. My real pleasure comes from being on a stage with the kick ass jams, so without waiting another minute, I grabbed the chance to be tearin it up again. We'll be touring in the west mostly, but after the next record comes out, maybe we can get around the big ol' country and brings the real deal to everybody. The Lords have a great fan base in Europe from touring recently, and I expect to be busy, busy, busy in the coming times. Check out The Lords Of Altamont on myspace, and the net website for more details.

Well that's it for now. I'm back up, and got my motor running. This week I'm flying out to Spain for the Azkena Rock Festival. I'll try to bring you more regular reports in the future. Sorry about the layoff, but shit happens, right? Ok, love and lust, Mad Dog

THIS REVOLUTION IS ARMED WITH A PIANO

2007-06-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

I have an announcement to make. Music Is Revolution has presented a middle school in Glendora California with a piano. Some while ago, a wonderful and incredibly hip family, after realizing their purchase of a fine upright piano was for all practical purposes being largely unused, sought out The Music Is Revolution Foundation and bequethed said piano to be forwarded to a needy public school. After securing the piano in our living room for a month, Music Is Revolution/Svengirly staffer Dan King, and our new friend and intern, Jenifer Ho, located the school to receive the gift. This week the movers arrived to take the instrument to its new home. Live long and prosper. We are so proud to make this gift. It is our eternal hope that the good vibes and enormous possibilities of music do their magical healing for all the children and teachers and parents alike that come into the life of this instrument. Yea for MUSIC IS REVOLUTION, yea for Sandberg Middle School in Glendora California, and yea for all the kids!

On another healing note. After an excruciating week of post surgery recovery, a trip to the emergency room, and a hematoma that set in, making my right leg a throbbing melon about to explode, things have somewhat released their grip of constant torment. In the last two days, I have resorted to using the crutches given to me by the Italians after the surgery I received there, and I have proceeded with something that resembles walking. Thanks are in order to all the people who wished me well on this latest trauma, and a huge shrug of "Excuuuuuse Me" to those who are getting the feeling that Davis may be "accident prone" or seeking attention. In less than a month I will be in France gracing the stage with my brothers, pulverizing the crowd with the music of the MC5. So there.

As I think of the four decades that have passed during this crazy life, I feel good, and I feel annointed to have been a part of a great passing in our culture. Each new generation adopts the music of the MC5 in a spirit I could hardly have predicted or imagined carried such import. Even as a new chapter unfolds, I don't feel an ebbing of energy or respect.

MEMORIAL DAY '07

2007-05-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

Buon Giorno. A shift of events has placed me in need of repairs again. This week I'm going in for a surgery to replace the neck of my right femur. What does this mean? In Italy it was my misfortune to fall to the ground resulting in a nasty fracture to my femur neck. That is the part of the very top of the leg that attaches to the joint in the pelvis where the leg rotates. The Italians performed a valiant surgery by inserting three titanium screws to stabilize the area. After one week in the hospital, I made the voyage home by the help of some Italian friends who assisted my arrival to the nearest airport in Turin. The entire medical experience in Italy was covered by Italian medical coverage which is a function of the state. When I asked how to pay for my care, I was shocked to hear that I needn't worry about it. And I must say, that care was unconditionally splendid. Since then I have struggled with mobility, and now having had a new x-ray of the injury, it appears that for whatever progress has occurred, the neck must be replaced with a prosthetic element. So that's how it goes. I'm anxious about it, but I also believe it will be ultimately the most efficient way to get my body back to good working order. Believe me, these last three years have been grueling, and I have serious doubts of the satisfaction of my ordeals, but I can't imagine not trying to correct the obvious defects when I had the opportunity to make the corrections. So for this end, I march on and hope once and for all, to be at optimum performance and continue on the road to Valhalla/Nirvana/Paradiso.
Two weeks ago I was in NYC. That was a difficult journey also, but I had the best time ever in that great city, thanks to my super friends, Adam and Mindy Williams, Dave Marsh, and John Sinclair. I mustn't forget my incomparable wife, Angela, who took great care to make certain I was comfortable and happy every single moment. What an awesome weekend! We ferried between the hotel and the Carnegie Deli via wheelchair. The sumptuous pastrami, stacked so thick, it was impossible to bite the whole sandwich at once, I shall never forget. But wait, I'm making myself hungry! We did Dave Marsh's Sirius Radio Show, "Kick Out The Jams" with John Sinclair. We talked for an hour about Music Is Revolution, and managed to recruit Dave to become a "Bored Member". Later, John and I, did an hour long TV interview, where we discussed our history as artists and the experience of the MC5 and it's history and ramifications. What a tremendous uplifting event that was, each of us recalling and detailing our lives together in the past and present. Finally, as a grand finish, I was invited to perform with John and his quartet of excellent musicians, that included two sax players and drummer, Dee Pop of the Gun Club and Bush Tetras, in a recitation of John's poetry, at Jimmy's in the Bowery for a great audience. I cannot tell you how thrilling it was for me to get to do this. I played with such peace in my heart and soul that it has to be one of my all time favorite performances in my entire career as an artist. So, folks let me tell you; it isn't the size of a venue, or the size of an audience, or the size of a paycheck that has value. It's the size of the feeling in the doing of what ever it is your doing. I was scared to even try to play at all. So scared that I was at first unwilling to make my way down the 15 stairs to the sub-sidewalk entrance of the club. I hadn't played the bass in 6 months, and I had never played this particular bass, But in the end, I did it, and it was so damn good.
So, there it is. If I haven't bored everyone to death by now, I should wrap up this segment of my story. Should everything go well in surgery, and a decent mending take place, I may appear somewhere in France in mid-summer doing what I love; playing bass guitar in a rock and roll band.
Ciao, MD

A Long Absense Makes The Heartbeat Wander

2007-02-22T12:45:00.000-08:00

Since I haven't written in ? I wonder if anyone ever checks this gallery anymore. With no sorry health issues to reveal I can let time slip by and care not in the least. That's how health is I guess. Nothing's wrong so you forget about it altogether. Some call that taking it for granted. I'm guilty,...but only to a point. I don't really ever forget what it feels like to be not hungover, drunk or miserable. And I haven't forgotten the many people who checked this blog routinely to get an update on my story, whether it was me or someone other than me that they cared about and were concerned what they could do to help that person return to a comfortable, peaceful life.

A lot has happened. We(DKT) toured during the month of December '06. Spain, France. Holland. Belgium, England, & Northern Ireland saw the brief, but inflamatory blitz of nations. To tell about each country visit one at a time would take too long. I'll just say, wherever and whenever we play, people are wound into ecstatic states each and every time. Lisa Kekaula, Handsome Dick Manitoba, Mark Arm, Adam Pearson our bandmates on this lap. Funny, it always takes on magical properties, and this time was completely special.... maybe my FAVORITE go round. Due to a cancelation in Ireland, we had several extra days to layabout in Belfast, during which we wrote several new songs as a group. It was holy and cool to work with the talents of all of us in a concentrated session that lasted several days. But don't expect hearing about a new DKT record in the near future, no matter what the "Barman" on I-94 Bar tells you. The truth is only coincidental. Many great things happened, like performing with John Sinclair in Amsterdam, seeing Iggy Pop and the boys open for us once again at ATP in Sommerset, England, and on the same show, seeing my old friend, John Brannon and the fabulous Negative Approach from Detroit. I got back home a week before Christmas.

The holidays were great fun. This year was super special, because I was totally clean and recovered from all the bullshit stuff that has been dragging me down these many years. We made it a point to let the whole holiday thing last as long as possible in our attitude.... well into the new year.

That said, here's what the new year is all about for me/us. I am studying painting at The Armory For The Arts; a Pasadena institution dedicated to arts culture and studies. Most evenings I'm home painting in our living room that's been converted to a makeshift studio. A nice little stereo keeps me company while I kick out the colors and shapes. Man, does it feel good to be once again honing the old craft. On the musical side of things, we have launched our non-profit foundation. It is called Music Is Revolution. www.musicisrevolution.org. Also accessable on www.myspace.com/musicisrevolution. Please check us out; we have a killer roster of "Bored" members. The response has been phenomenal. I think we have a chance; music and art, hope, and funding in the streets! Be a part of the solution!

Well, that's an update of sorts. Before I start boring myself, I'll let it be for now. Life is good brothers and sisters. Ciao, MD

THE BEST IS YET TO COME

2006-11-09T16:31:00.000-08:00

THE BEST IS YET TO COME, AND BABE, WON’T IT BE FINE

MUSIC IS REVOLUTION has begun with a generous outpouring of goodwill,
rock and roll, and funding in the streets, ha, ha. On October 19, in
San Francisco, Thunder Watso and friends, The Lords of Altamont, The
Corruptors, and White Barons, played the inaugural MIR event raising
enough money to create the very first MIR mini-grant. Great day in the
morning, the Foundation rears up for battle. Charge on, my little pony,
we got a world of kids to lay the musical mystery tour on. Immeasurable
thanks to all those who donated their time, talent, and gas, driving
hundreds of miles, or pushing their way through traffic to make it
happen. I’m very proud to have such a great family of friends who care
enough to stand up for the cause. Applications for mini-grants have
started to pour in. These are really exciting when you read what the
teachers have proposed for their students. The imagination and value of
their ideas are beyond anything I might have though of and show
tremendous affection and respect for their pupils. When we
bequeath the first grant later this month we will describe the details of these
wonderful programs. Stay up on it.

As for Interferon Funny Guy, he, …I mean I, am getting a blood re-test
today and will have the results before I leave for the UK and
European dates end of this month. I’ve started back to the Rose Bowl,
as was my routine a year and a half ago before the treatment and a
motorcycle accident interrupted everything. I don’t regret either of those things though. The treatment, although a hell of a long one, and brutal at times, was
monumental in changing my perspective, not to mention my health. The
bike wreck was also a big positive, believe it or not. In that critical
moment when fate put out its hand, I learned the value of every other
moment. I’ve had to bide my time for cycling until my back was strong
enough, and my body healed enough to do a few miles. The bicycle feels
great and although I’m weaker than I ought to be, it’s a start. I’ve
said that before. I have a nice little hybrid Trek on which to get back up and
running. On this type of bike, I sit more upright in the saddle than
leaning forward like on the road bike. I can’t let it go now, because at
my age, it’s important to keep active before the body does its downhill
slide. Angela is preparing excellent meals and helping the boys and me make good food choices every day. She is finding some great new recipes in Men’s Health magazine (the boys and I like being fed “muscle-chow” as the magazine calls it, so she has found a good balance). Check it out, lots of cool stuff and fragrance samples too.
While I’m on the subject, INTERFERON FUNNY GUY is going to undergo a
Make-over. Barring an unforeseen positive viral finding in the re-test,
the trials of The Funny Guy and his Interferon Fun days are but a
memory. I shall return to being Michael Davis, bass man, showman, and
human, located in present day Solar System, kicking out many jams man.
The new version of Interferon Funny Guy will be known as "ON THE GUEST LIST w/ Michael Davis". Interferon Funny Guy won’t go away entirely, I don’t want to abandon that, but I do want to be able to discuss a more diverse range of topics and have the blog easier to access. Well, we’ll see what happens. In the meanwhile, those are the notes of the day. I am pleased to say; soon we will see the light at the end of a long dark hallway. We have waited, and this time
the freedom bell will chime.

Michael Davis

FRIDAY THE 13TH

2006-10-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY 13, 2006

Here we are again with a new entry and a fresh start. While some things
are as yet not cleared up in the continuing saga of all things MC5, a
portal opens for those of us bent on creating something out of nothing,
and to hell with those who can’t tolerate it. I remember a time when I
was in a federal lock-up and I told my counselor that I thought
getting busted and going through the worst of times was actually a good
thing because I was going to come through it a wiser person. He said
to me "you mean you are turning your mistakes into success?" I said,
"yeah, that’s it." So I came out a wiser person, but 10 years later, I
got addicted again, and that’s when I think I contracted Hep C. Like
Yogi Berra says, "It ain’t over ‘til it’s over." I don’t think it’s
ever over. One just has to always stay strong and that ain’t always
easy.
Those of you who followed my treatment in the blog, INTERFERON FUNNY
GUY, know the hardships that were placed on my family while I struggled
with anemia, lethargy, grouchy-ness, sullen attitude, and apathy
brought about by the chemo. At the end of a year, I emerged from the
doldrums a happier character, with a new reality. Then, as I was about to
end chemo, I had a near-death experience in a motorcycle accident on
a Pasadena freeway. That was a one-two punch to last a lifetime.
Since that time life has been in a state of continuous improvement.
Every single day provides enormous satisfaction. Not only did I resolve
my fascinations with drugs and alcohol, I learned the value of each and
every moment that I have been granted in this life. Why couldn’t I have
seen it in the beginning? Well, that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?
It’s how you get there that tells the story and makes it valuable.

On Saturday, October 21, I will be appearing on a telethon that is
being held to create funding and awareness for Hepatitis C sufferers. I
will be special guesting with a blues band called Kelly’s Lot, and doing an on the air interview during the telecast, which will be streamed on the internet and
televised on a local channel here in Los Angeles. My friend and musical
comrade, Wayne Kramer is also appearing with his solo band to support the cause. Please go to HYPERLINK "http://www.hepcaware.org/telethon06.html"http://www.hepcaware.org/telethon06.html for more information about this.

Music Is Revolution is real, real, real. Launched this week,
HYPERLINK "http://www.musicisrevolution.org"www.musicisrevolution.org hit the net and we couldn’t be prouder. The
mini-grants are immediately accessible to all public school teachers
who desire to provide a musical experience for their students. We’ll
see what happens, but whatever it is, you know that can’t be bad, yeah,
yeah, yeah. I am really hopeful that through our efforts and way cool
people who make up "The Bored," it will catch on and grow to outrageous
proportions.

The story goes like this: when I was in the hospital after my motorcycle wreck, a biker buddy from the Bay Area named Thunder Watso offered to create a benefit gig for my medical expenses. I felt compelled to decline the offer since I wasn’t desperate financially. That’s when it came to me; if the benefit was inevitable, how about raising money for a cause of our choosing other than for me? Angela and I worked out the details of creating a non-profit foundation dedicated to music education in public schools, and asked Thunder if he would like to promote the first benefit for Music Is Revolution. Angela has years of experience in working with non-profits that support public education, and we have had an amazing group of professionals come forward to support the cause and work with us. Re. the benefit, four great bands will be playing at Annie’s Social Club in San Francisco on October 19. It’s going to be a great inaugural event for MIR. We are also collecting musical instruments and having them repaired, lubed and tuned, and distributed to schools around the country, and are currently accepting mini-grant applications to submit to our review board. Check the website for details. When the first mini-grant application came in from a sixth grade teacher here in Pasadena, the description of her class and their needs, and her obvious dedication to her students as she described her plans for the grant money, brought tears to my eyes.

DKT is getting back on the road soon. For the first time in 35 years,
we will be performing with the Stooges at Thurston Moores’ All
Tomorrows Parties Festival in Somerset, England. In addition, we will
do a brief tour, playing in Spain, Belgium, Holland, France, England,
Ireland, and Northern Ireland. I’m really excited about getting back
with my mates and KickingOutTheJams one more time… Lord knows, we need
it!

Check out the News section at HYPERLINK "http://www.svengirly.com" www.svengirly.com for more info on that.

Well, that’s it from milepost 69.
Hope everyone is doing fine.
Because you’re mine,
I walk the line.
MD

MUSIC IS REVOLUTION

2006-08-30T15:08:00.000-07:00

MUSIC IS REVOLUTION

Greetings friends. It is the 30th day of August 2006. I’ve described as
best I could my experience with the Hepatitis virus and the treatment
that I undertook in June of 2005. With a single additional visit in
December, the book should be closed on that episode of my life.

Together with my wife, Angela, I have created a non-profit
organization called "Music Is Revolution." When I look at this world,
and at our society, I see a strange mutating blob that feeds off of and
regurgitates the bilge that keeps things all fucked up, as usual. When
we want to help people realize a better life, what do we do? We attack
them and force our values down their throat. Or worse, just keep them
in chaos until we’ve established "order". Then leave them to sort out
the mess, so they can continue supplying us with what we need from
them. Sounds like a science fiction master race theme? Everyone wants
to go to Heaven, right? Yet we grind out weekend box office hits that
super-size violence, brutality, arrogance, and vulgarity like vitamins
for the masses, with no regrets.
Power and wealth are without a doubt the most valuable and worthwhile
pursuits in life, it would seem. WE are number 1. Hell no. WE aren’t
number anything. We’re hypocrites.
What we need to do is focus our attention on our greatest resource, our
children. The way to change, the way to revolution, is education, music
education.
When I think of music, I realize that throughout my life, music of one
sort or another is a milepost on the long road. From earliest memories
of Peter and The Wolf, Captain Kid’s Cats, Swan Lake, The Nutcracker,
patriotic music, popular music of my parents time, incidental radio
airplay, teenage ballads, classical favorites and discovered music of
other cultures, all of it represent glimpses of my past. In fact all
cultures represent themselves musically. It honors each culture and
speaks of its uniqueness. Music in the raw is the purest expression of our
souls. Music speaks it’s own language, understood by all, because it is
produced by the soul. How great it would be if every single human being
could experience the exhilaration of sharing musical moments with
another person? To play in an ensemble is an enriching process that
teaches us the basis of community. When you think of the fact that all
of us exist in concert as the human race, it becomes obvious that music
is a parallel by which we could learn how to be better humans. Music
comes from a place inside that can only be described by music. Art and
poetry also come from places that can only be described in those terms.
But music has an imaginary life of its own. It is the mojo of mojos.
When I was in the 5th grade at Dossin Elementary School in Detroit, We
were offered the chance to take stringed instrument lessons as an
elective a few days per week. They had violins, violas, and a couple of
cellos. I thought I would like to try the cello, and I did. Though the
course lasted merely one semester, it was enough to set me in a
direction that would eventually be a lifelong career in the music
profession. With virtually no formal training, I was able to find a
situation to pursue and create a legacy of music and performance that
has made lasting impacts on the world of popular music, and affected
many people’s lives. By way of the fortunate attention and
recommendations by those early music teachers, I gained the
confidence and curiosity it took to make a career of it.
In the late 60’s, my band, the MC5, adopted a stance that challenged
the status quo of our social system. While we strove to make people
aware of the need for reform, we were not tuned in to the correct
method of reaching our goals. We chose to make confrontations with the
old order and got blown out of the water. Now I realize that
the police and the government are merely doing their jobs, and the real
issues can only be dealt with by the next generation. This is our
greatest resource and our closest ally.
"Music Is Revolution" seeks to provide funding for pubic school
teachers throughout the United States. They can apply for mini- grants to set up
musical experiences that are empowering, enjoyable, and meaningful to
children from grades 1-12 in school environments that are lacking
public funding to provide such experiences. Situations can be as
varied as imaginable, giving students an awareness of the value of
music. Listening and describing musical genres might be a good way to
provide children with an understanding of music history and how it
molds the human experience. Musical instrument training, no matter how simple
or informal, is another possibility. For example, a group of 2nd
graders playing kazoos with section parts is a viable way to teach
ensemble experience. The idea is not to produce Mozarts and Yo Yo Ma’s
in 12 weeks time, but merely to give students inspirational
experiences, and a sense of participation. The exhilaration of
participating in a musical experience is like an invisible blessing
that has a lifelong effect. I know from personal experience. My brief
lessons on cello, piano, recorder, and later guitar, were crucial in the direction of
my life. Discovering the many composers who have left incredible works
has been a cornerstone in my positive attitude and pleasures. What
could be more valuable?
There are no limits on what music is, either. Current styles and ancient chants have equality in our view. I have no doubt as to the positive effect music has on an individual. These children are the future voters of our society, and it is our
responsibility to give them everything we can muster to affect real change in this society and ultimately the world. By placing greater emphasis on music as a true value in our society, not just a tool of profit, we can provide an invaluable service to the future of every human being.

I have many friends in music, both famous and those who are not famous
but are wonderful musicians and creative people. I know bluegrass
mandolin players, free jazz horn players, storytellers who use music,
rock and rollers of all sorts and styles, punks, and percussionists who are
concerned about the direction of the planet. As I have recently been
touring the world with DKT, I have met people everywhere who are concerned
with the direction of the planet and the state of human affairs. Could
it be possible that we can shape the destiny of society by offering our
children better access to the thing we have treasured all of our lives;
our music? It really is time to become part of the solution!
Be a part of the solution: Music Is Revolution.

I will post on this blog the details and developments of Music Is
Revolution. I will also answer questions and give information on how
to take part in M.I.R. activities in your area. I have some good stories
to share with you concerning the reasons why we chose to create our own
foundation. Be sure to check the web-site: http://www.svengirly.com, for updates;
new people on-board, events, fund drives, skate4MIR, merchswapmeets,
auctions, benefit gigs, etc. The MusicIsRevolution.Org site will launch soon too.
I feel good about this. So, let’s get down with it and kick up a little
Music Is Revolution out there. Brothers and Sisters, the time has come for
each and every one of you to be a part of the solution, MUSIC IS
REVOLUTION.

I SAID GOODBYE

2006-07-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

I SAID GOODBYE

I said goodbye to an old friend today. He was my friend and sole
companion for difficult years, and all through the rebuilding of my
torn and tattered self. We were together for 9 terrific years. In the
fateful year of 1997 I was preparing for a solitude I expected to last
for some time. On a whim I stopped by the dog-pound just outside of
Tucson. I thought I should have a look and see if they might have a
boxer in the kennel. My folks had had boxers throughout my
childhood years and the thought had always been persistent to find a
little boxer dog of my own. As if by grace of God there he was,
shivering from the flea-dip tank, and looking for all the world like
life’s loneliest creature. I snatched his 3x5 card that was above the
cage door and went to the front desk to ask about adoption. Three days
later I picked him up from the Humane Society, where he had received his
shots, rabies vaccine and mandatory neutering. I put him in the front
seat of my truck, where he calmly rode shotgun, and gazed at me down
his suspicious snout. It was like, who are you and where are we going?
I talked to him a little to try easing his suspicion. I was told he was
approximately 1.5 years old, but his actual birth date was unknown, as
were his previous owners. The name on his card read "Rooster." I
decided that it was as good as any name I might think of, and since I
always have trouble deciding new names, it would stay Rooster. When we
arrived back at the homestead, the people who were there but leaving
shortly and without notice, acted mildly taken with him for a moment.
They were "animal lovers" as such, maintaining a small herd of dogs of
various sizes and breeds, and several horses. So, he was largely
ignored. A kind of sick Cinderella story set in the desert, it was.
Soon, like a nest of thieves, the people were gone, and Rooster and I
were given all the space in an empty house, miles from anything.
I sold the house after a fashion, and Rooster and I moved closer to
town, in a smaller place. He never wanted to be left behind. He loved
to ride in the truck or the car. He would lie down on the seat and wait
with such patience, while I went into wherever we had gone. At home he had
to have a piece of furniture to make his resting spot. Eventually, I
bought him a couch, but he still was in my chair whenever I left and
came back. He slept in the bed with me, and was notorious for taking
3/4 of the space by morning. He never had "accidents" in the house. He
was seriously in control of that part of his life. He would disappear
down the wash that ran alongside our property and come back after a
fashion like a seasoned trooper. He was a rough customer toward other
dogs. He was completely fearless, regardless of another animal’s size
or aggressiveness. His turf was not negotiable. Towards people, he was
the gentlest, most loving dog I have ever seen. When he saw me again
after any separation, he danced about like a crazed puppy. Anyone who
met him was enchanted by his aura. He was courageous and had a
mesmerizing telepathy in his eyes. He seemed to know what you were
thinking. Ok, he was just a dog.
Then, in 2001, we met our family. The night we first went to their house for supper, Rooster came along. I told him as we pulled up to the house, "Rooster, someone is cooking dinner for
us." He paid attention to everything I said. Both he and I were greeted
with such love that we stayed forever. Rooster even gained a new friend
named Scotty. Scotty is a Dalmatian about the same size as Rooster, but
was in need of a wiser friend. That night was 5 years ago. Now we all
live in California and enjoy a happy life together. We have become
one.
Today I said goodbye to Rooster. We all said our good byes to Rooster
in the last week. This month (July) we began to notice Rooster was
changing. He was coughing and seemed to be losing weight and energy. I
took him to the vet in the first week. He was given medication for his
cough and antibiotics for any other infections that might be. One week
ago he looked not the same dog that I have known for these past 9
years. He was given a blood test and X-rays. That afternoon, the vet
gave me the diagnosis. Rooster had a large tumor on his liver, and it
had spread to his lung. The condition was inoperable. I brought him
home so we could have him a little while longer, and love him as much
as we could for as long as we could have him around. By the weekend, he
was skeletal and breathing uncomfortably. He still was eating, but less
and less. I noticed he was trembling as he lay on the floor. He was
having difficulty standing, and I knew our time was up. We are all
holding our grief in our own way. Angela and I are embracing as the day
marches to an end. The children are containing their misery and loss
with courage. We said goodbye to our pal today. I really can’t describe
what it is like, because it is unlike anything. We said goodbye to an
old friend today.

Update>Chi-town

2006-07-19T23:32:00.000-07:00

> Been a while…
>
> About a month, I reckon since the last post. Formerly known as
> Interferon Funny Guy, past the Gates of Hell, into the sublime of Non:
> a rose speckled garden of non-description and tangent variety, I have
> traveled - made a trip or two down the Lovers Lane, brimming with
> white
> foam beach scenes and noiseless wave pounding surf shows, I gaze and I
> gaze and I gaze. It’s hardly a memory now, that time of endlessness.
> This body was wracked on the freeway within death's grip and the
> moment
> yielded fresh life. But now have I seen my death and fear it no more.
> In addition, or as a bonus, I saw through the veils of the past (my
> back pages), beyond the next menu attraction, at the character
> known as
> Me. So, with a newer resolve than ever before, I plot to capture the
> untainted aspects of the things that I lost long ago. Music, art,
> writing, all of it, all at once, now is my last and best choice.
> For anyone who might be interested, I have some back problems that
> need
> more than mere time to correct. I went to board a plane from an
> outside
> gangway, took the first step on the stair, and…nothing happened,
> except I
> fell to the ground. My leg just sort of took a break from reality
> and put
> my ass down. That sucked, but no one saw the mishap, because I was the
> last one boarding the plane. Well, except for the airline guy who was
> directing the group to the gangway. I’m sure he was confounded at the
> sight of me falling down for no apparent reason. Then when I went
> to get
> off the shuttle bus, I fell again on the first step. This time, a
> lot of
> people saw the fall, some of whom were my family. I was pissed or just
> plain humiliated. So, that’s what’s happenin’. Something having to
> do with
> the fucked vertebrae and the leg isn’t making the grade. I’ll work
> on it.
> Other than that, I’m having a positive influence on me. I’ve got a
> bunch of paint and canvas, and a cool place to get it together. As
> usual, life goes on and new people come into the picture, and I feel
> great. It is immensely satisfying to be rid of the virus. It was
> crappy
> at first, but once I fixed my mind to win, I got used to it.
> I’ll try to post every once in a while, like when I have
> something to
> say, or if someone asks, as happened this time. So, if you post a
> comment, I have to reply with a posting. It’s not a bad deal. I
> kind of
> like it this way. Hang in there folks, "it ain’t over ‘til it’s over",
> and then you never know, it might come back to haunt you.

WEEK ? / LIFE IS WONDERFUL AFTER ALL

2006-06-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

WEEK ? / LIFE IS WONDERFUL AFTER ALL

Having just returned from Tokyo, still jet-lagged, settling in, now
looking ahead to the coming days and weeks, I’m all about the new
lease on life I’ve been granted through patience and the support of
lots of people who must give a hoot about me. It’s a couple of weeks
since the meds ended, and already I feel a tweek of normality in
general. That is, in addition to not loading my body with strange
medications, distancing myself from beer and drink has me feeling more
myself than I have in ages. Even though I’m depleted of muscle and
flexibility, I feel the better aspects of body returning. It’s the mind
one has to watch out for. It’s the mind that takes control of your path
and chooses how you live. One can be clean as the holiest of water and
dedicated to maintaining the course, but if the mind wants to change,
"IT" has all the options and the rest of you follows like a zombie.
It’s the same old story of mind over mind… well, in my case anyway.
Some times we are weak and we find any way to do what we want
regardless of what we know is right. Having the right partner is what
can keep your ship from getting off course. Not that one can’t do it
alone, it’s just a whole lot more challenging. I could be wrong.

My recovery from the motorcycle accident is going very well. I
get up
and down much easier. Normal activity is manageable for reasonable
amounts of time. When I feel over-done, I know I had better sit back and
chill. I take a pain med, usually at the end of the day, although I do
see a danger there. I’m walking the line with that. I don’t need to
make another habit for myself, but on the other hand I know that
denial is a prescription for a binge down the road. If it’s about pain,
then it’s ok to get rid of it, but if it’s about merely taking
something to relax, then it can bite you later on. That’s how stuff
gets started. By the time you get around to asking for help, you’re in
deep and it can get REAL bad from there. All in all, I have a feeling
that everything will be optimum with a little time. Thanks for asking
about me, and thanks to all of those who emailed and sent cards,
wishes, and good words for the hobbled old dude.
It looks to me like the two foregoing paragraphs are really about
the
same thing. So, safe to say, I’m in a period of real transition. Things
are brighter, and physically, mentally, spiritually, I will get where I
want to go, if I’m not there already.

Later….MD

WEEK 48/ THE LAST SHOT

2006-05-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

WEEK 48 – THE LAST SHOT

No trumpet voluntary was sounded. No brightly colored ribbon hung loosely to be broken by the finisher. No crowd was waiting and applauding the moment. Without pomp, without fanfare, without ceremony, the last round came and went as if nothing happened.
Approximately one year ago, a nice young person came to my house with a kit and presentation of how to administer the medications necessary to fight off the virus that had taken up residence in my body. With a minimal amount of instruction, I performed the first installment of Interferon to myself, and awaited the gruelling effects of a new type of invader. I recall the next 24 + hours of gut wrenching emotional baggage spill-out from the evasive little monster that controlled my ambitions and attitudes. Somehow in the chaos of that, I was finding where the truth was hiding. It was the beginning of coming back. Yesterday, calmly, uneventfully I played out the same old routine as I had for the past year without pomp or fanfare. It was the last shot, an anticlimactic one more time type of thing. What the hell…it had become as routine as a cup of coffee in the morning. All the same, something new had taken over as the latest in the series of life’s hurdles. Two weeks ago, at 5:30 in the afternoon, on the 210 freeway, I crashed my bike and sustained a fracture in the lumbar region of my spine. The next 5 days were spent in the hospital, and now, two weeks later, I regroup for yet another fight to pick up the pieces. No self-pity here, just to be alive is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. My family was spared from my death, which easily might have been the case. I survived without being paralyzed or requiring amputations. I’ve lived to write this blog and tell you all what is on my mind, and try to make sense of why anything happens as it does. So, here it is. Whether one takes the long road or now road, our lives are precious gifts and whatever it takes to repair and rebuild them is our duty and trust. If we could just look around and see the grace and perfection of what we’ve been entrusted with, we might see things through the eyes of a better being. The people, the animals, the Earth, the sea, and the sky, the mystery of the universe, the ever- growing mind of the human species, it is for all of that we must take responsibility.
As I flew through the air, in that fleeting moment, I knew I had lost everything, and my fate was about to be written on the pavement. I braced for the unknown. The next several seconds are a blur of impact and out of control tumbling down on the rock hard freeway pavement. YEOOOW! I rolled to an abrupt stop and glanced forward just in time to see my bike crashing up the road at an exit ramp. It seemed to be at least a quarter mile away. The next few moments told whether I would live or die on that road. I couldn’t move myself to get out of the lane. I was scared. A guy stopped his car in the middle of the freeway and created a small roadblock. A few more cars stopped, and soon a small group of people were standing around me and telling me to not move. Someone was patting my arm in a nervous but comforting manner. I knew I would live. I had struck an errant muffler that fell off a truck and appeared with no time to react. During the tumble, I felt my helmet strike the roadway. I was hysterically calm. I felt a disabling pain in my back, but being able to move my feet a little gave me hope that I wasn’t paralyzed. When the chips are down people, we rush to aid our stricken brothers, because something in each of us is undeniably godlike. I wish to thank those passing motorists who came to my aid, whoever they may be. I asked the guy closest to me to call Angela on my cell phone, which he bravely did. When he passed the phone to me, I told her I wrecked my bike, but I was probably going to be alright. A few minutes later the paramedics arrived and a new kind of chaos started. Well, that’s most of it. I spent 5 days at a great hospital and by now I’m on my way to a complete recovery.
Angela would come to my hospital bedside every morning with reports of scads of well wishing emails. They came from people I’d never met and old pals from many years ago. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, and still am. I never imagined how much support I have from so many people. And, of course, my wife and life partner, Angela Davis, and our family, give me the will to stay the course until all the battles are won. I love you all.
MD

WEEK 43, "AND THE BLOG GOES ON"

2006-05-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

WEEK 43, "AND THE BLOG GOES ON"

Many people have sent heartening comments to me lately- unlike before, when many blogs would go by without a trace of response. So many times I told Angela that no one was checking it out except spammers, and she would say, "Just keep writing. They’re watching and waiting to see how you’ll do. They aren’t sure what to say until they know if you can handle it. There may be a lot of people who are following the story because they’re in the same boat as you." This is the case, and you know, no matter what, I needed to keep a running diary of it all to feel a sense of detachment in a way. It certainly helped.
Now, with 3 weeks left of medication I almost can’t believe that it’s over! I ask myself, isn’t there something more? It’s funny how time is the easiest and hardest thing to pass all at once. It’s harder for us addict types, because, like children and psychopaths, we require instant gratification. We are by definition true hedonists. This is my character; it’s the hand I was dealt. In this habit I have not changed, I can’t, it’s me. Rather, I have become the master of it. Now, instead of indulging cravings with self depreciating experiences, I have learned to embrace it completely and flood myself with kindness. I realize that there are things about myself I cannot change, nor should I want to. I am who I am, and that’s alright with me (and my wife). Armed with fresh conviction, I give it its due. The result is nothing short of a 360 degree full circle back to feeling the feelings that I knew when I was a twenty- one-year-old aspiring art student, full of curiosity, adventure, and love energy. I could say that quite phenomenally I have returned to myself. It is thorough and unilateral in its effect, but the explanation of that will have to wait until it plays out a bit more. I’m really happy that I have been able to help out some people who gained a vision through my experiences. If you only saw ME, that’s ok too. I wanted you to. If you saw me in YOU, then, that’s what this is about.
When I started this treatment, I thought I was purging my body of a virus. I was embarking on a medical process with a whole slew of variables and complications. Well, that is only part of it. What I didn’t know was how that virus, real as it was, symbolized the wayward direction my path had taken all that time ago. In a sense, I have flushed the demons from their hiding places in my secret world. Begone, begone, begone! AHHH, hello darlin’, it’s been a long time.

And now for something apparently different, but ultimately related. Ok, so I’m a retro geek. I even go out of my way to buy outdated cool cassette decks. Angela said; "Cassette tapes are obsolete, right? Nobody makes them." I said; " To me they’re not obsolete." Last year Evan had a bunch of cassette tapes with him on the bus and I asked him what he was doing with those. He said, "I love ‘em." I thought he was bonkers. I have discussions with people often about the analogue/digital sources debate and its relevance, if there is any. But this is where the beauty lies. That we even care about such a thing as 20-40 year old technology and it’s trappings makes us passionate about something. Like Jack Lemmon said so mournfully and desperately in the 1970’s film SAVE THE TIGER, "I just want to be in love with SOMETHING." As I look around at people's general tendencies it is common to see an astonishing trend toward regaining what has been out dated by the new.

There is always the fanatic fringe that clings to the origination of anything. I think it’s more than healthy, it’s who we are, but even more important, we get to pursue our tastes and fulfill our desires. What remains critical is our motives. That determines what the worth of anything is. So, we are not just little babies with big appetites. We are the ETERNAL pilgrims- even if our quest brings us back to the beginning. And the blog goes on.
M.D.

WEEK 42/ THE HOMESTRETCH

2006-04-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

> WEEK 42/ THE HOMESTRETCH
>
>
> Da bloggety, bloggety, bloggety; sacred sound of a Harley
> Davidson idling away and waiting for the master to unleash the
> hounds. It’s the sound of raw energy bleating for the chance to run
> wide open - that’s what it is. So, you get out there with the
> “flow” and what happens? You use the compactness of your machine,
> the power of it’s torque, and the threatening nature of it’s sound
> to slide through, around, and past all forms of little monsters
> driving expensive, nimble, shiny pellets as though a checkered flag
> waited at some distant point on the horizon. You struggle to free
> yourself of the hazard by being a more aggressive rider, but
> always looking out for that MF who can’t stand being bested, or
> cramped in by the myopic slowpoke that shouldn’t be issued a driver
> license in the first place. Still, I wonder what would life be
> without my two-wheeled passion.
>
> I saw the doctor a week ago. That was at the 40th week of my
> treatment. We discussed the finish line for the meds. I am due one
> more shipment of them, which has arrived today. And with that I
> will have completed 46 weeks of Interferon/ Ribavirin medication.
> Dr Bartley, who is a very by-the-book kind of doctor (no shortcuts,
> higher dosage/accelerated treatment schedule), stated that 46
> weeks of treatment is fine and we should be alright with that. All
> my blood-work is normal without any relapses of cell volume. I can
> tell Bartley is pleased that I’ve gone the distance without
> bitching and complaining. Splice in a couple of trips to Europe, a
> killer flight to Brazil, and who knows what I’ve forgotten, and I
> stand here with the end of the road now in-sight. After the
> completion of medication I will return in 6 months for another lab
> test for a viral load. If the virus does not reappear at that time
> we can consider the treatment completed. So how do I feel? Ok, but
> still tired a lot. Weak physically, but not unhealthy. Decadent,
> but, and most importantly, happy. For all the minor irritations and
> piss-offs, I’ve got a great life and have been blessed with a
> situation beyond anything I could have hoped for. Five weeks from
> now I will be able to say “damn, I made it”. Accompanied by the
> knowledge that I am virus free and past a shadow of my former dark
> days, it’s a good feeling for the old boy, like redemption. I’ve
> never even imagined what it would feel like at the end, but it’s
> like anything else; you can’t know until you get there!
>
> The weather seems to help my mood a lot. Arrival of spring and
> warm sun on the face is a heck of a way to smile inside. Jesus, I’m
> getting sappy again. That means it’s time to take off until I get a
> better idea to talk about.
>
> My old high school buddy Jim is coming to L.A. this weekend….neat.
> I haven’t seen Jim since 1962.
>
> I’ll check back in to the blog in a week or two. And for sure
> to make a statement if I haven’t already done so, at the end of the
> big medication highway.
>
> Sayonara, M.D.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY HEADS FOR HOME

2006-04-03T08:26:00.000-07:00

> 9 MONTHS
>
> Monday, March 20, exactly 9 months/36 weeks have been completed in
> treatment. I’ve gotten some very nice feedback from you recently, and
> my wife tells me I had better keep writing, because it might be
> important.
>
> While my medical treatment for Hep C has been successful, I have
> observed that it lacks a holistic approach. The traditional treatment
> plan offered throughout our healthcare system misses most of the
> fundamental needs of the patient by ignoring every issue besides the
> chemistry that is the basis of Hep C treatment. As the treatment
> progresses, it leaves one vulnerable to loss of body mass, energy
> shortage, and psychological dislocation. There is no formal auxiliary
> treatment that addresses diet, rehab, or relationship development that
> ultimately takes over as time progresses. I’ve been lucky enough to
> have support in all those areas, but what about someone who faces
> these realities without any help? During my time on Interferon and
> Ribavirin, Angela has seen to it that food is plentiful, wholesome,
> and natural. Whenever possible, we use organic produce and lots of
> whole grain. We are not vegetarian, but do attempt to always supply
> ourselves with more fruit and vegetable produce and use lean organic
> meats as the "sides" . It’s good eatin’ and I’m enjoying every bit of
> it. We started a program of physical rehab at a fitness club. While
> Angela has maintained the daily 3 mile trek around the Rose Bowl, I
> have not had the motivation or energy to go out. I lost control of my
> physical stature over the course of this time under medication, and my
> body has wilted from inactivity. I don’t know if I can make up the
> slack. I’m going to try to return to a regular bicycle ride and a
> weight training routine. We have also been looking at a number of
> insight related areas that are helpful. Yet, I feel the most valuable
> therapy is the consistent availability of a partner and his or her
> willingness to hear all the whining, dream-telling and self- analysis
> you can dish out. Somewhere in all that introspection is the security
> I desperately crave. Now that we’ve undone the virus, looked at ways
> to recoup my physical nature, and corrected my diet, it’s time to
> focus on helping others. This is the spiritual transfusion that can
> make me truly a better person.
> I’ve recently returned from Italy where I had to take along a dose
> an Interferon for the following Monday, as I would be gone a total of
> 11 days. When my luggage failed to arrive in Venice, being that it
> was stuck in New York at JFK from baggage mishandling, I wondered
> what condition the dose would be in. We had packed the contents in
> stay-cold packs with the thought that it would stay refrigerated until
> I was able to stow it in a proper place. On Saturday night, I
> unwrapped the reunited duffel bag to find a soggy, but still cold
> package with the dose in it. The next morning, a day early, I decided
> to get on with the dose and not have to mess around thinking about
> refrigerators. That was the first time I gave myself a “shot” on the
> road. Well, maybe not the first, but certainly the first beneficial
> shot. (Moral of story: always carry your medications in your
> carry-on bag and keep them with you at all times.)
> When I see Dr.Bartley again, I will be almost at 40 weeks. Seems
> like I’m almost finished, but that is two more months of pill taking
> and Interferon injections, and I shouldn’t quit until it’s officially
> over. Maybe it’s why I still can’t seem to get motivated for anything.
> All I care to do these days is ride my HD and look at eBay for bike
> related parts. Although I never think of the treatment and the drugs I
> have to take as debilitating any longer, I wonder if it still is
> having a negative effect on me anyway. For that reason alone I wish
> for this treatment to be over. I don’t really feel anything in
> particular related to the medication. It’s a lame excuse, I know, but
> makes me wish to be done with it and get on with a normal life.
>
> Ok, kids…sorry for not keeping up with the blog on a regular basis.
> With traveling done for now, I will try to make a regular stab at
> writing. I’m a lazy sot, and I know it. Bear with me. Ciao.

GREETINGS FROM NORWAY

2006-02-28T12:34:00.000-08:00

GREETINGS FROM NORWAY

Scandic report #1 from snowy Oslo, Norway. It snowed all night last night and all day today, and it is still snowing this evening. I’ve just returned from a brisk walk in the early darkness of evening, through the traffic and snowy streets and sidewalks. I didn’t slip once in the mush of snow. That is because an old Detroiter like me can never forget the lessons of winter from all that time growing up and learning how to play in the stuff. Of the many times I went airborne in the winter wonderland, it was because of icy conditions, never snow. Snow gives you just enough traction so that you can make a move without losing it. So, anyway, I’ve been outside and got a blast of Oslo if for only several blocks. If it were a little nicer I would venture farther. These days I play it safe. Honestly, I’m not sure what I have anymore in terms of endurance. I’d like to say I’m able to do most anything I care to do without worrying about the outcome, but I’m most comfortable being on the safe side. So I didn’t fall down, big deal.
I get the feeling Oslo (and I’ve been here before) is a place with a lot of clout. Steeped in Nordic tradition and history, one of the purer modern cities of ancient tradition, without being over run with commercialization. It feels strong, with a good mix of old with modern. I never saw it like that before. These days I am much less distracted with bullshit than I ever was. I feel so much clearer. I can’t help but think the lack of obsession with drinking is the major factor here. My priorities are directed to real needs and not imaginary ones. I am less overwhelmed by delusion and the constant internal nagging “when can I start drinking?”. I hate to belabor a point, but I can’t pretend it isn’t important.
I was watching the past two gigs as fans would talk to me and always they were transparent by the amount of alcohol they had consumed. The beer people were on slow rolling binges of retardation, while those who used hard stuff with whatever were just plain incapacitated. I felt somewhat omnipotent and helpless as I observed the pathetic performances. I was worse not so long ago. If there is one thing I can pass on to anyone undergoing this confusion it’s this: Take this seriously. A minor problem can become an out of control manifesto for self-destruction with not too much effort if you let it get the best of you. I think drinking as a highly regarded noble tradition is nothing more than procrastination by the ounce. It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. On the other hand, plain ordinary people with real lives and feelings and hopes and dreams are less appreciated, but ever so much more important.
Tomorrow we head further north to Tromso, where we must fly in; you cannot drive there. I understand it’s -18c. I wonder if Santa Claus is coming to the show. Ho, ho, ho.

Mike Da’ Vike

RETURN OF THE FUNNY GUY

2006-02-12T22:24:00.000-08:00

I, FUNNY GUY REAPPEARS

After a long absence from the blogscope, the Funny Guy bursts forth with a fresh rant about anything and everything…but first things first. A note to the commentators from the previous entry: Joakim, Ron, and Cavedeb. I like the comments a lot, like more than I can explain, but I have no way of accessing your email address through the blog. If you were to write to me at info@svengirly.com, I would then be able to get back to you with a personal note. Such as if you ask me a question on the blog, I would only be able to post a comment as a way to answer your question. If you write to me through the website it would be more efficient and I can answer your question in more detail. Joakim, I will see you in Stockholm in a couple of weeks. We’re going to rock the joint, you can count on that. Ron, I would love to answer your MC5 question with a personal response. Not that other people aren’t interested in that info, but at this time, it’s better to respond one on one. Cavedeb; thanks so much for being in my corner and giving me a boost in the morale department.
And now to the major news story of the day. Interferon Funny Guy has tested negative for the Hepatitis C virus. Surprisingly, this test result was from a blood sample of last October 2005. Three weeks ago, after my last blog entry, I went to see Bartley and he made a rather off handed remark that I had tested negative some time ago. Why am I worrying about whether the treatment is working when the answer has already been noted? I suppose there are times it’s in the patient’s best interest not to know every detail of his progress. While I know a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I don’t like the feeling of being treated like a laboratory hamster. Once I learned that we were through the barrier, my sense of revitalization took me on a trip of freedom regained. The dark cloud of being held by an invader lifted from my shoulders, and a bright day appeared on the other side. So, it seems, in my case anyway, at 4 months of treatment, the virus was purged according to test standards. It is now closing in on 8 months of my treatment experience. Dr Bartley’s method of treatment prefers that the patient continue the treatment process to completion, 48 weeks. In this way, every effort is made to eradicate any lurking viruses and reduce chances of relapse by a greater margin. OK, that’s fine with me. Knowing that this just a means of overkill is a lot more comforting than wondering if anything is working. The real silver lining of the present routine is not having to give myself blood boosters on a daily basis. My cell counts are all normal, and that was the only mitigating factor that might have derailed my quest. Without multiple shots as a daily action, I am free to feel like a regular person, a wonderful feeling. So that’s the story as of now. I am virus free.
Angela and I have joined a fitness club. During the past 7.5 months of inactivity, I lost a good deal of muscle mass. Since I know a smattering of exercise really won’t bring dramatic results, it only makes sense to provide myself with a more rigorous training schedule. Trying to keep a M/W/F routine is what we have decided on. After one week, I feel pretty good, a little sore, but very inspired to get it on and back in shape in a much better way. Having a partner to workout with is a happy experience, one that keeps you focused and enjoying the challenges.

There are a lot of subjects I want to talk about in the coming blogs. Your comments are always most welcome. I want to talk about obsession and addiction; two human traits that occupy the majority of people young and old. I want to talk about what I’ve learned about these very basic drives and inability of people to say no to themselves.

I also want to talk about what we can do to change the tone of this world from rampant marketing and hustling to a compassionate reality that seeks to lift the burdens of our kind, and construct a creative, happier atmosphere.

One of the reasons I slacked off on the blog recently was because I grew tired of talking about the treatment. There seemed to be not much new in the way of revelations about the whole thing and it felt redundant even talking about it. I suppose by my accounts, most bases were covered one way or another and that by and large most of you got the story for what it was worth. As an overview, I can say the treatment is almost a mirror of the issues in each person’s psyche. It can be easy or hard according to the needs and expectations of each individual. Having a solid partner, i.e., some one who loves you, is the greatest assist I could have hoped for. I thank my wife eternally for what she gave me in terms of sustenance, tolerance, deliverance, perseverance, and good old fashioned humor. She also was a treat to look at when I was capable of nothing else. The remaining four months are a cakewalk as far as I’m concerned. It will be June in no time and we’ll leave it all behind as though it was never a matter of doubt. Before I get too sappy and carried away with euphoria, I should bail on this edition and leave some room for a new entry sooner than this one found it’s way onto the page.

Sayonara brothers and sisters.

Michael Davis

2006-01-22T21:53:00.000-08:00

January 16-22, 2006

Here ‘tis Monday and I’m putting off the shots I need to do. Already 1 in the afternoon, and I should just get up and go into the house and do my duty. Even the small amount of pain has become a minor dread. It is nothing, really, and my loathing of this exercise ridiculous, but all the same, it is almost like being forced to eat your peas at the dinner table. I need to take the meds out of the refrigerator, and let the two items reach room temperature. That at least begins the process, it’s a commitment.
Done, mission completed. I don’t like having to take the time, which is all of about 10 minutes when two injections are required. I hope to hear from Bartley’s office this week that my lab results are back.
Many thanks go out to a couple of people who wrote supportive comments on the blog. Nice to get some feedback and know people care.
The Lords left for Spain today. They are out for 6 weeks. I will join them for the last leg of the tour in Scandinavia - probably not as cold as Detroit in February.

I was thinking about some alcohol related issues that I want to share. When I think back to the very first time I got drunk, or let’s say tried drinking, it took place in a parked vehicle with a couple of my friends. I think we were about 16 at the time. We scored a couple six packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon by way of an older acquaintance and drove to a side street to guzzle them down. Guzzle them down we did, like it was the forbidden wonder of the world. Within minutes, perhaps seconds, a fuzz came down over me that put me out of control of myself. It was like being spun around 6 times and released in a void. It was like being sicker than I had ever been before. I was dizzy. Yet I was compelled to be a part of this ritual for reasons I wasn’t aware of. I was attracted to drinking it seemed from then on, although the first experience of it was totally unpleasant. Throughout my school years, drinking took on a priority for any social activity. The “party” was a drinkers ball. People would talk about which booze was the “good stuff”. Scotch, bourbon, vodka, etc. soon acquired traits that identified the profiles of people that drank them. A Scotch drinker was, on one hand, a person of heritage and wealth. A bourbon drinker was slightly bent, cynical, and tough. Vodka drinkers brought up the rear as serious drinkers, lushes. Beer drinkers, the hardy lager and ale men established the salt of the earth, and so on. Characters, both real and ficticious, brought glorious auras to the habit. In short, the whole imagery of drinking, either as a social attachment, merrymaking, or pseudo anti-depressant, is rife with illusion and delusion. Yet we are compelled to adore this habit as though it were a religious ritual. What is a football game without almighty beer? What is New Years Eve without the holy champagne? I can tell you. It’s just what it is. It’s New Years Eve, and it’s a football game, that is all. The accompaniment of drink is just that. It’s just drinking with an excuse. It puts us right back to where we started, in the parked car, making ourselves uncomfortable. This is what I think is going on. It is peer pressure. Even when I drank alone I was maintaining my self-image, as if I were yoked and driven by a mad sod-buster. The futility of it all! Many times I tried to shake the cycle, always to fail when faced with a situation that brought me to having to choose. I would get my supplies, get my high, and be as miserable, if not more so than I had been previously. Then I would/could pass out. Of course, I should mention that there are people in this world who can take a drink intelligently and move along in their life without undue effects. I would that that were me. However, it may be true that I am better to avoid it altogether. The point is; it doesn’t matter, unless, of course, it matters. Then it is a problem. The hard part, as a friend recently pointed out to me, was they found it impossible to quit when it was going on all around them. I do understand. Actually, the motivational forces that drive us to drink are the same as any substance abuse. The pattern of addiction is the same pattern whether it’s about alcohol, heroin, cocaine, pills, coffee, cigarettes, you name it. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about substances either. So, if you're going to get strung out, get strung out on something that’s good for you, but remember, satisfaction is obtained in moderation. “All you need is love, love, love,..love is all you need”.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 24

2006-01-04T22:42:00.000-08:00

Day 1

It’s a new year. Let’s hope it’s a good one! After all those years of celebrating, complete with non stop cheer and recovery, I cannot imagine what could be more disenchanting than waking in the morning with a pumpkin sized hangover from holiday bliss making. Those are days gone by. It took a very long time to find my way out of that. So, for what it’s worth, I must thank my old Dr. Sethian for bringing me to the doorstep of self-realization and cure. Tomorrow, it will be one year that I removed alcohol from my life. I cannot express how glad I am to be done with it. It just causes so many problems. We had a great holiday, a very happy time.
I keep plodding along, giving myself injections. After missing a couple of weeks of blood enhancing goodies from snafus at the lab and running out of syringes, I’m back to a daily routine. Pain in the ass it is (not literally), forcing myself to do what I know I have to do. I’ll go for a lab analysis tomorrow, this time checking the viral load along with the usual items. Yesterday was lousy. The day after the interferon consistently is unforgiving. Every evening I’m cold. I cram myself under the blankets in fetal mode trying to get warm. Lately I use Lanocane to quell the itching. It had gotten so bad, that I scratched my legs to bleeding. Then the nerves would light up like someone was holding a red-hot iron on a few spots. It’s been going on like this for some time. Funny, how I’ve gotten used to it.
Angela has been great, what a partner. She’s got so much work every day, all day and into the evening. Yet, she manages to run the household and feed everyone, see to their complaints, and keep me in good spirits while we struggle with the longevity of the treatment. It’s alright for us though - we feel pretty good about doing it together. I imagine it could be really tough for someone to have to do it on their own.
I have great plans for this year. In the coming months I’ll have more to talk about with my creative projects. I’ll be in Scandinavia and Italy shortly, and will make a full report as those things develop. That’s it for now. Stay on top. Keep the faith. Sayonara. Happy New Year.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 23

2005-12-19T12:30:00.000-08:00

Of course, it’s not week 23. It’s actually week 26. Somewhere I spaced three weeks of writing this blog, and real time differs with the entry number. No matter, but just to make it clear because I don’t want to be cheated out of any time, ha -ha.
My spirits are lifted these days. As we move to the year's’ end I always feel a sense of renewal. Why in the world January 1 was chosen to start the New Year, I haven’t a clue, but it seems to work as well as anything.
These days are a ping- pong volley of pissed off to positive mood swings. Something can be said for both in terms of motivational benefits. The more pissed off I get the better I fit in. I am so disgusted by the prevailing attitudes in the modern music industry as it marches to absorb the talented and inspired youth culture and produce a pre-fabricated market place. I can’t say much for hip-hop/rap pseudo-stars. They have nothing more to talk about than how clever, cold-blooded, or rich they are personally. Do we really need to hear this tripe? With the exception of Eminem, who actually discusses real issues in his life, hip-hop/rap is a redundant splurge of bloated egos. Maybe I’m missing something?
The so-called “alternative” is a prisoner of it’s own making. Plus, the term “alternative” bothers me. No wonder everywhere you look, the hip trends tend to be retro in character. This modern world is a “no show” for inspiration and creativity. I see my best friends, long time innovators in music, becoming assembly line fabricators of pseudo-music. Musicians will in time become obsolete. “Old school” will refer to a time when a group of players would gather to make spontaneous musical events. Real music will be “old school”. I kid you not. Some people will resist, but it will not be the majority. Mostly, people will accept the new technologies as perfectly natural chains of events, and convenient. In the end, the art form will suffer, leaving us with memories of times when things were more meaningful. I guess I can only do what I feel right doing. So, I will remain with my old school ways until the end of time. I need value. I need things to be worth showing up for. Maybe enough people share these values, and there’s hope after all.
Today, December 19, marks 6 months of treatment.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 22

2005-12-09T13:26:00.000-08:00

The First Rock & Roll Casualty

His name was Brian Jones. To my recollection he was the first actual casualty of rock and roll from his own debauchery. He preceded Elvis by several years, with Jimi, Janice, and Jim bringing in the rest of the field slightly later. There are few today who even know his name, and those that do haven’t much of an idea who this character was unless they’ve done a lot of reading about him. His band, The Rolling Stones, have by and large been happy to “get over it” and not bring up the subject again. I don’t blame them. The story is ugly no matter who tells it. He was a brilliant light at a time when brilliant lights were popping up all around. He had a passionate regard for American blues music. His knowledge of R&B artists of the day as well as ones past made him a guru amongst his peers. He played harp like Little Walter and guitar like Elmore James. He turned on the British youth culture to the style that would come to be known as the “first wave”. Like a fireworks display he rose dramatically, bloomed in the highest night sky, and then fell into cinders back to Earth. Whenever he appeared his radiance captivated the moment. No wonder The Stones would rather quietly brush his debris off the table, he was stealing all the thunder, and becoming totally irresponsible at the same time. I’m no Brian Jones, but I do understand him. I can understand the forces that propelled him into his coffin. It is a matter of fate, and fate only. Nothing could have saved Brian Jones. It was his role to play, and the outcome was anything but a coincidence. Since his time of passing, many persons, young and old, have served similar sentences as victims of their own indiscretion. Some have survived and many haven’t. It all comes roughly in the same packaging: a sense of grandeur followed by disappointment from lack of recognition - a feeling that one is the reason for everything and the recipient of nothing. It is the presence of enlarged and under-nourished ego, heaping plates of arrogant recklessness, all making one feel omnipotent in the face of danger. I understand these forces because I know them from personal experience. In this very terminal mode I became the instrument of my own stumbling. I didn’t bother to address my weakness because I considered myself a brave explorer and distanced myself from my fellows just to show them how larger-than-life I really was.
As I approach the 6 month mark in my treatment, I feel like, not only am I going to make it, but I am fortunate to have such a small price to pay for all the insane things I did in the name of experimentation and bravado. I am also considerably blessed to have the support of my family, who put up with my bitchiness and tender sensibilities, which often times range from comatose inactivity to child like pettiness. Without my family’s constant support and tolerance I may have given up the ghost many times along the way. If I could make it on my own it certainly wouldn’t be with the same quality that I presently enjoy. I think that sometimes we try to inflict the same injustices on others that we feel that we have experienced in our own lives. This may be as a measure of revenge, or may be out of frustration because we can’t stop the redundant, self-perpetuating cycle of self-abuse.
I have no idea of how many people read this blog. If you are diagnosed as Hep C positive, it’s best not to ignore the diagnosis. If you know someone who is Hep C positive, encourage them to seek treatment. Someone is waiting for you to emerge a healthy happy person.
All my numbers are looking good these days. We will continue the treatment. I’ve grown used to it all. I’ll just keep on going until Dr. Bartley tells me we are finished. Whenever that will be -- I haven’t a clue. He tells me almost nothing. Sometimes I feel like a laboratory rat instead of a human being. I am dosed with unknown substances and graphed out on statistics sheets. But I know it’s all worth it in the end. I have more to think of than just myself.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 21

2005-11-29T21:26:00.000-08:00

WEEK (weak) 21
Here we go again.
You know how you get in a rut and it goes on for so long that you just can’t stand it anymore? This week I decided I’d better get moving again before I turn into dust. A good sleep does wonders.
Well I got myself up to start the week and a nice guitar arrived at my door via Expedited Mail Services. A candy grape delight called Jaguar. It is loaded with humbuckers instead of the traditional single coil pickups. Nice axe -- I’m having fun struggling with the intonation.
Everyday I play human pincushion. I’ve become as used to it as can be expected but still twinge little at the thought of having to deal with it.
As weak as I feel, I know I must become active again. Even (especially) the yoga is a struggle, and I don’t feel like I can do it justice until I regain some strength. It’s downright scary. My body isn’t too bad, but if you looked at my limbs you’d wonder what in the hell happened. I kind of look like one of those Don Martin characters that appeared in Mad Magazine back in the sixties: potato torso, wiener arms and legs, hair going in electrostatic directions. It isn’t like the movies in which a guy decides to make a change and the film suddenly catapults through a sequence of speed motion scenes of him running on a track, lifting weights furiously, chowing on salads and doing jumping jacks in front of the TV watching Carmen Electra workout.
Other than that, I’m happy enough.
I was looking at a poster depicting a Ronald Reagan commemorative stamp while standing in line at the post office today. My God, it seems no matter what any of these lunatics did in the service of our nation, it’s ok, and… they get a stamp! It’ll be interesting to see how the future glamorizes Bush’s moment of torching the countryside for heretics and dissenters. Now for old Bill Clinton, he gets the black ball yet he’s the best of the lot. Like Henry VIII, Clinton and Henry suffer prejudice attached to a sexually loaded situation. Henry VIII created separation of church and state. Is that bad? Sex…mmm…good.
Oh, I’m sure Bill will get his stamp some day. History may forget the “B.J,” in time, but maybe not. People love that stuff. It’s what everybody loves to talk about, especially if it’s someone else. I want him to get a stamp because of it!
See Ya.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 20

2005-11-27T15:22:00.000-08:00

WEEK 20

Honestly, sometimes it’s just hard to find anything I feel like talking about. I’m sick of repeating myself about my physical state. I’m exhausted with talking about the treatment, the drugs, the side effects, and all that I feel on account of it, and…. I’m a week behind with my entry. Still, I owe an installment and something must appear or I’ll be cursed.
Last week I got an alumni association hard cover book listing every one who’s ever graduated from Cass Technical High School in Detroit since it’s inception as a public school in about 1928 or so. That list comprises essentially an index of every graduating class and the names of the graduates. The first half of the book is dedicated to listing individuals, their whereabouts, occupations, and contact info if the organization was able to locate and gather any current information. Obviously, many of the people who were part of the 600+ that graduated in 1961 have disappeared from the radar. Interestingly, I found a few names that mattered in some vague way. Aside from myself, there were three other characters from the art department that had some current information. They are Jim Latimer, Arthur Dworin, and Ron Whyte.
Jim Latimer and I were pretty good friends in the last year of high school and then also for a while at Wayne State University. We recently have been in touch through a quirk of fate where his brother came to the Amoeba record store performance in September and volunteered to put me in touch with Jim. Jim is now living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He is a published writer/ illustrator, storyteller, and psychologist. He has several degrees and I’m very proud of him. Some day we will get together and recall our lives to each other. In our email exchanges I asked him if he remembered Arthur Dworin.
Arthur was a remarkable character because while we all were clamoring to become commercial artists, Arthur Dworin was playing out a sincere role as a serious, sensuous, impassioned painter. It was a touch of the Van Gogh and a dash of Verrochio. He had wild, skyward tousled hair, and looked half- mad, as if he was about to come unglued. He was quite an antithesis to the common commercial art student of the time. He made an impression on me though I really didn’t know him. No one knew him. He was a mystery. He now lives in New York City and is a videographic artist. I suspect he is still a passionate, creative individual and successful in his own right. Jim Latimer had bemusingly commented, “Yeah, Arthur…I wonder whatever happened to him?”.
The third character, Ronald Whyte, was the “star” of the art department. He was fastidious and meticulous in his work and his drawing had that look about it. He was awarded a scholarship to Art Center School of Design, in Pasadena, California, (my new hometown), and in everyone's eyes he was a shoo-in to be a successful artist. He was the opposite pole from Dworins’ insatiable painter geek. Ron Whyte lives not too far from Pasadena, near Palm Springs, and he is a self-employed artist. I don’t doubt that he is successful. I didn’t really know Ron in school. Yet, he also made a lasting impression on me.
My listing states my occupation as “rock star”. I’m sure if any of these guys ever read that, and if they remembered me at all they probably wouldn’t comprehend it. Of course Latimer was well aware of my career and music. So, it’s also possible Dworin and Whyte have some awareness of me.
All the other names in the book seem irrelevant. A couple of people that I wondered about were “whereabouts unknown,” but on the whole these few names are symbolic of my high school days. If I were so inclined I would be tempted to contact these persons, but then again, I wonder what for? Apart from James Latimer, with whom I had an actual friendship, there really isn’t any point in hashing up old stories with old people that I never knew. I’m really just satisfied to know that they are somewhere and doing what they like to do. Vaya con Dios, amigos.

I’ve been in the treatment tank for 5 months now… alcohol-free for nearly 11. I don’t feel “good” and I don’t feel “bad”. I feel lucky. I feel lucky to be where I am, who I am, what I am, doing what I’m doing, and to be with who I’m with. I feel lucky that fate has given me a mission to “make it right” and "make it right now”. The holiday season is started, and for once I feel a sense of contentment and anticipation. No matter what anyone's beliefs may be, I sincerely hope for all to enjoy and appreciate the experience of friends and family. I also want to extend my deepest, most profound and humble wish that the human race with all its complexity will find a way to shine its light on all of humanity and respect the majesty of the universe. And don’t forget the good food, the pretty decorations, and the happy faces of the children!

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 19

2005-11-18T21:20:00.000-08:00

WEEK 19 "It’s just my 19th week nervous breakdown"

I’m feeling better these days, and still scratching like a flea-bitten hound. Well I looked in my mirror and what did I see? It was an old-ass man a-comin’ after me. I said, hey brother, now slow your truck down, I’ll be catchin’ a ride next time around. Now don’t run me over where I’m standing in the road, cause I feel too weak to carry my load. Said all right boy, if you wanna hang tough and shake it, give it one more try, I know you can make it.
I asked Angela if people who wind up in a concentration camp and are finally released ever regain their former state of physique. She said "those who work at it do." I have to admit these months of inactivity have taken a huge toll on my body. I recoil at the sight. I’ve taken it for granted that the body is like an inherited blob of meat that grows to maturity and finally parks at the grave in more or less the same form. Six months of inactivity and you’ll change your opinion on that. My Aunt Lu used to say "use it, or lose it." I have lost more than my share lately. With an indefinite end to the treatment, I’m worried that another six months of atrophy would be horrendously devastating. I haven’t ridden my bike since spring. Everything has shrunken. My legs, arms, shoulders, and face look as if I had been starving. Yet my appetite is good. What’s more, I have gained weight in my midsection. I feel clumsy and unstable, short of breath and fearful that I’m soon to be sporting "handicapped" license plates. What am I going to do?
I started asking about fitness clubs. I know I haven’t the motivation or the strength to work out on my own. But I see a problem with fitness clubs. I’m not at a level to be comfortable at a fitness club. I need to address the age factor with the treatment factor with the every other factor that makes my situation unique. Angela has been going to a yoga instructor for a while now and talking about the effect it is having on her. She also gave me Dr. Andrew Weil’s book called Healthy Aging. We have discussed my concerns. I realize I need to start a recovery from a still position and work from the inside to the outside. To dive into a strenuous physical challenge wouldn’t work in the long run. Today I had my first instructional Yoga session.
http://www.hepatitisaustralia.com/pages/Treatment_of_Hepatitis_C.htm
I put the above link in because the writer perfectly describes what I have experienced these past 5 months. I couldn’t have written it better myself. Excepting the hair loss and nausea, it is dead on. The statement "while I was ill, I thought I’d never be well again" is particularly bell-ringing. That is the current cause of my hysteria. It is one hard thing to convey to someone who doesn’t have that feeling, but believe me, it is wreaking havoc in my spirit. That’s partially why I am turning to yoga for a therapeutic resolution. Yoga treats the spirit, the mind, and the body as an integrated, interdependent system. It heals from the inside to outside. I see it as the perfect direction to regain power. Like I said, yesterday was my first yoga session. Boy, was I surprised that yoga is not only painless it strives to give you comfort. Like my instructor said- if it hurts, it’s wrong.
For one hour, I was led through seemingly non-demanding stretching and breathing exercises. They lasted on average of a few to several minutes. Nothing was particularly stressful, nor was it remotely rigorous. I did not sweat, grow tired, or become distracted. In fact, the opposite was more the truth. I relaxed, became calm, and attentively watched as Fiona demonstrated the techniques of the ancient art/meditation/therapy/religion. From the very beginning, and everyone surely must start at the very beginning, the focus is on breathing, correct breathing. Together with ritual arm/hand pattern, simple turning from one direction to the other, raising to above the head, through circular gestures, and the final pose of peace and prayer, several repetitions of each movement were executed. Assuming poses, reaching to limits of comfort, never beyond. At times I questioned in my mind what could the effectiveness of such basic simplicity be? I, like most people am indoctrinated by the slogan "no pain, no gain." At the end of the hour session, we shared a ritual respect gesture - namaste: "The light in me recognizes and honors the light in you." As I walked toward the car where Angela was waiting, I felt a strange sensation that I hadn’t had when I came there. I was straighter. I was calmer. I was relieved of tightness and constriction of mind, body, and spirit. I told Angela something worked. All the anxiety I approached the session with was transformed to completely the opposite. Halleluja !

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 18

2005-11-07T10:31:00.002-08:00

WEEK 18

The new age of my treatment has begun. Ruth, a nurse from US BIOSERVICES, came by early this past week with the meds and syringes for giving myself injections of two blood enhancing agents. One is for red cell deficiency (anemia). The other is for white cell deficiency (vulnerability to infection). Each vile contains 1mililiter of liquid. Each substance is to be injected separately. The Neupogen (white cell) is a daily injection. The Procrit (red cell) is injected 3 times a week. The process is not that difficult. It is quite like the interferon injection, with the exception that I must draw the substance into a syringe from its vile. I am also given a second needle to change out the first needle, as the penetration into the rubber top of the vile can dull the point somewhat. This is an optional maneuver, but one that I take advantage of since it is offered. I found the injections slightly more irritating than the Interferon simply because a larger amount of material is being pushed in. Also, the injection site produces a rash and mild discomfort, with a small amount of bleeding, but nothing more than minimal. Imagine that on my Interferon day, if I doubled up on the Procrit and Neupogen, I could be giving myself 3 injections at once.

At first I was annoyed at having to perform extra tasks as part of my treatment. I am now responsible for multi tasks and additional attention giving to the process. How can that be fair? Oh how quickly I am grounded by the thought that literally millions of people give themselves injections of insulin many times in a single day to survive diabetes. And they didn’t CHOOSE to be that way. So, I am grateful for what I have once again.

After a few days, I have accepted my new routine. It isn’t so bad. I’ll keep looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. Nurse Ruth told me that I will start feeling a bit stronger after several weeks of taking the Procrit.

I was feeling more than a little deflated as this day wore on. A zoom on the Harley this morning was a good thing, but without a serious destination, I soon returned home without plan or motivation. I gawked at the computer for a while, until I was exhausted looking at irrelevant items that I really couldn’t justify spending money for. Later in the afternoon the weather turned gloomy. Sinjin asked me to take him to the skate shop/streetwear store to get his board gripped. I dropped him off in front, as there is never any parking on the street in downtown (Old Pasadena). It is a continuous fashion parade, shopping orgy and hip café- hop seven days a week. As a means of killing time I decided on stopping by the Bentley dealership to see if they had a car I had seen early in the week on Santa Monica Blvd. It was a deep blue sedan, with a sloping rear window. I had been quite impressed at the time and wanted to see one up close. They had it. After a brief conversation with a sales person, I noted a couple of facts and left the showroom. Approximately $200,000, a cool 12 city/ 19 highway mpg, a short wheel base sports sedan, second to none. I called Angela right away. She was approving, as she noted it cost much less than a house. I returned home and placed the sales person’s card under a magnet on the “fridge”. It’s amazing what a fantasy shopping trip to the Bentley dealer can do for your mood. I recommend it.

Last week as we sat at the dinner table, Sinjin’s cell phone rang, he answered it and talked with his friend. I was thinking how funny and not uncommon it would be if everyone at the table were talking to someone else on a cell phone while they were having dinner. The “New World” is on us.

Tonight I was listening to a pop station on a 1970’s Onkyo receiver, driving classic JBL studio control monitors at a low volume. I was enjoying it. Angela came into the room and noted that there was a huge amount of static coming from the speakers. After she left, I looked at the meters on the receiver. It showed the signal to be dead centered, strong and locked in on the quartz tuner. I raised the volume to see if it got better. I couldn’t be sure if it was better or just louder. I decided it was just like old cars. No matter how much we may love them for what they remind us of, the truth is, the new stuff is light years more efficient. The exception to that is my 1973 Ampeg SVT amplifier. Then again, it also weights a whopping 85 or 90 lbs. The speaker cabinet weights twice that, but boy does it sound good!

Nobody wants to let go of the old stuff. I guess in some way, it is how we recognize ourselves and where we have been. When we were kids, we couldn’t afford anything. So now that we can, having that old thing is a way to return to the past and the dreams of our younger days. I suppose there is an aesthetic side of it that makes it all worth the effort. But somewhere along the way, we have to let go of the old thing. It drains our energy, and causes us to remain in a place that has long since stopped serving us positively. So it serves us negatively by taking our power and sending it backwards to something like a fantasy that is ongoing. We must learn to let go, and by doing that, we can free all the energies to move on. We let go, not only for ourselves, but to cut the ties that bind, and give that which is released its freedom from us.

Angela said something tonight that I noted as key - the reason I am responding well to the treatment is because I am coming from a position of inner strength and personal balance and growth. I also think that it is because I am loved and cared for. I am not just on my own. I know that if I fall to the ground, someone will catch my fall. “Ring out, I feel fine. This girl said she’s mine. So let the bells ring, loud and clear”.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 17

2005-10-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

WEEK 17

Can you believe it, another week goes by, just like that? Yes, it is week 17, the holy week of Halloween. We stressed and waited and I telephoned the doctor’s office every day. What was the lab result on the viral load? The previous week Bartley had announced my WBC had dipped to unacceptable levels. In addition to that, my red cell count was also unacceptable. The lab hadn’t finished with the viral numbers, so we waited and checked every day to get the results. If it didn’t hit a target number for treatment progress, it would be pointless to continue treatment given the damage being done to my general health as a by-product. There would be the option of ordering the blood enhancers to recreate some vitality in my chemistry. However, without evidence that 4 months of treatment had produced a targeted result, going further would make little sense. Then Wednesday, Bartley’s receptionist told me by telephone that I would be continuing the medication. Later I spoke with Doctor Bartley. “We are within a target number on treatment and I will order the blood medication right away”. He wasn’t telling me any specific numbers, only that we had reached the target. When you think of your own needs, you aren’t ready to be put into a graph and viewed objectively, but that is exactly how the medical community perceives the progress of your treatment. I understand now that my perspectives have been so narrow and self centered as long as I can remember. I understand now that my perceptions might not be the most accurate criteria. I realize I have more to learn now than ever before.

So, just like that, I went from denial and willingness to abandon the discomfort and negative sides of enduring the treatment, to being grateful to be in a position to continue my quest. Angela explained how significant it is that my virus hasn’t mutated into the stage that makes it resistant to treatment -- that at that point you are saddled with a liver destroying entity and you are on a short fuse to the end. I’m learning much new information and insights along the way. For instance, not many days go by that I don’t hear of someone I know having Hep C. It really is becoming one of the major health issues confronting this generation. All of us who experienced the try-anything standard of the last 30 or 40 years have probably put ourselves at risk and should get checked for the virus. It can be beaten, but it has to be detected and treated as soon as possible. In other words waiting around for when you feel like dealing with it, is not a smart thing. One of my friends who has Hep C has been told that he would probably die from other causes long before his Hepatitis C virus will take his life. I used to think that argument was valid. I no longer believe it. How would anyone know the probability of impact or timeline of a disease that had been unknown until recently? A patronizing piece of advice if you ask me, and certainly an advise that is dangerous. My advice is to find out if you are infected immediately. Then, make the decision to treat your infection before falling into the complacent attitude that there is plenty of time. It is not an easy thing, but it isn’t so terrible either. It’s better than being told you’ve waited too long. Angela says that you will never be stronger than you are right now to take on the treatment. The longer you wait, the more difficult it will be. But then, life is about choices, isn’t it?

Thanks for hanging in with me on this story. I think the best news and bottom line on the whole trip is that the virus is being eradicated. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. It’s going to work. It may be a year. It may be less. It’s going to work. Yes it is.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 16

2005-10-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

WEEK 16

Ok, week 16, 17, I don’t know. Anyway, last week I tried to make a blog of it but it just wasn’t happening. A little tired of talking/complaining/explaining/proclaiming, each and every drama pertaining to Interferon and its sidekick Riba. Not that any of it has changed. In fact, some new distractions are besetting the normally pacific nature of M.D. It’s the usual fatigue and weary state of energy, plus the now 24/7 itchy skin manifestation that is my personal shadow. AAIEEE!!! I’m a scratching machine. Plus the dogs came up with fleas this week, and if you’ve ever had an animal with fleas, well, you know what that can do to your psyche.

The past week has been great, actually, because I have finally gotten to do my thing as a special guest with The Lords of Altamont. I did three tunes with them at The Scene in Glendale, CA. It couldn’t have gone down better. I am really pumped up now. The set I did with Darren McCarty’s band in Detroit was cool, no doubt, but this one was out of control satisfying. I got to do all the singing and it just seemed like everything was finally the way it should be. Next weekend we will be in Vegas for Halloween. We can work up a couple more tunes this week and there will be no stopping us. Gearhead is super excited about this and we are too. I’m feeling all the frustrations of years of restraints peeling away like layers of an onion or the skin from an avocado. So, which is it, avocado or onion? Right now I have all positive expectations. This is what I have been waiting for all these years.

Opportunity leads to more opportunity. As I step away from the remnants of the past, my past remains as important as ever insofar as who I am. I’m ok with all of it, but best of all I get to write my own story from here on. I’m no longer champing at the bit to get free of anyone else's self-appointed anointed flat-tire push wagons. This is my jockey move on the track. It’s all over baby. It’s a new world disorder now.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 15

2005-10-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

WEEK 15

This week I spaced my appointment with Dr. Bartley. Two more weeks before I get the word if treatment is working or not.

We went to Santa Paula in Ventura Co. on Sunday to Faulkner Farms Pumpkin Patch. It really is an awesome trip. The drive is beautiful through the hilly landscape north and west of L.A. It is a different California than sprawling Los Angeles. No freeway tie-ups, just clear sailing through picturesque rich farmland and terraced hillsides that call up the vision of a time when California was a crop-producing center of the West. There countless Mexican immigrants cleared land then sowed, tended, and harvested the produce of what must have seemed to be paradise. We flock to its aura with a small hoard of Metropolitans as though we had entered a museum of quaint and extinct culture. It is so refreshing. Leave the cell phone in the car, this is the hallowed glorious past. As all the originals tend to be swallowed up by capital seeking control and more capital, a precious few of us have located a truly gratifying weekend remnant of something honorable and uncomplicated. Faulkner Farm is 125 years old. It maintains a research facility for ecological study. There are hayrides, pony rides, music, barbeque, corn on the cob, cider, pumpkin pie, animals, sunflower fields, and some handsome looking Faulkner lasses to serve you. We happened to discover this place last year and remembered to come back again. Each year I buy a few fruit crate labels from an elderly Hispanic man and his wife. Some of his labels are so rare and beautiful that they are priced at hundreds of dollars apiece. The ones I buy are 3 for $20. The paintings/ pictures on them are indescribably beautiful in their design and content - very art deco. Of course, we bought pumpkins, and made stops at roadside fruit stands too. Maybe every place has a harvest celebration of its own. Ours is pretty special, and it gives us Californians a touch of reality we need.

I’m still having trouble with my skin. I itch all the time, all over. It’s like measles or chickenpox, but not those things. It’s enough to drive you mad. My lip continues to bother me, as it still isn’t right. I can’t wait to know if I’m getting rid of the virus. So, I wait just the same. And yes, I’m tired a lot of the time, but gotten used to that. I can only maintain a faith that one day I can get free of this pharmacological lifestyle, and clean the medicine cabinet of all the little brown plastic vials.

Lots of old friends from the past are coming into my picture. People I hardly thought I’d ever see or talk to again are in my life again. A distant relative has come forward with startling information about my family that had been lost in the web of time. It’s a time of return to the beginning. It’s a time of return to the source; APOCATESTASIS. Thirtysix years ago Raeanne Rubinstein did a center spread photo collage of me in The East Village Other, an underground newspaper from lower Manhattan. She titled the piece APOCATESTASIS, a Greek word meaning return to the source. I never understood what I had to do with that. I saw Raeanne last year at our show at The House of Blues in Anaheim. When I asked her about the East Village Other photo piece, she said she didn’t remember it.

Talk more next week. M.D.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 14

2005-09-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

WEEK 14

Holy Jumpin’ Jack Flash, people are coming out of the wood work to tell me about they’re own struggles with Hep C, and other “chemo” related hell rides. What it means is that to go through what chemo does to your being takes you out of what you’ve become and sets you spinning back to where you came from. You are going to hold on to anything to keep from blowing away in a stormblast of disintegration. In the end, you have to take it head on, and trust that you are a better person than you think. At least that’s how I see it. “Trust in fate” my old friend, Bobby Lee, in Ann Arbor used to say. In a way, I do. But I also think you can change pathways in a split second, and it can be monumental. Thus, you can call your own plays and change them at the line of scrimage. Oooh, that was a good one! Some people are going; what the hell is he talking about… football, dear hearts…football.

Oh yeah, I haven’t mentioned about the open bleeding lip sore that won’t go away. It starts whenever I touch a microphone while singing. A day or two later my lip becomes inflamed, and eventually splits open. Then it moves from spot to spot until any sort of contact turns it into a bleeding hole. This ain’t normal. Lots of skin abnormalities happen. Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on. This last one took nearly a month to heal! Ouch. It took Angela and me a long time to put two and two together that this is related to my reduced/devastated immune system.

The whole week of taking care of the boys has been, well, … ok. At this point I’m getting over-stressed about having to do everything. As I try to finish a task they add to it before I even finish the first pile. I ‘m working up a strategy to fix that. Also, when I correct something, it only corrects that moment not the behavior. This results in a constant berating of each individual until I hate myself for being such a grouch. For the most part they all have behaved better than they normally do. They’re trying to be good scouts. It’s all right.

My wife will be home two nights from now. She and Jake have done the blitzkrieg press tour of Europe. We all will be glad to be reunited.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 13

2005-09-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

WEEK 13
“Brothers and sisters, I wanna see a sea of hands”
Brother J.C. Crawford

This week, a monster gathering of outraged citizens converged on Washington D.C. to speak up and speak out against the BUSH LEAGUE mentality that has everyone spellbound in lunacy regarding our current governing body; the Republican missionary mobsters. It’s hopeless, but at least some people made it important enough to take a stand publicly. The BUSH LEAGUE can barely swallow it’s own lies. Yet, they keep throwing Georgie out there to do the declaration of war. It’s the same old story; can’t leave it because it would look like we lost. Yep, in the same way that Vietnam was an unattainable victory. What are you going to do, lock up the entire country? Our guys are targets, and their guys are martyrs. We didn’t learn anything! This is one putrid page in American history. My hat’s off to those who made the trip and voiced what many already know. People of the rock press ask if things have changed much in the 38 years since the time of the MC5. The answer is yes…it’s much worse.

Me and my interferon are getting along better lately. I’m having a surge in activity. I’m taking on tasks with vigor. I actually rode a bicycle every day for 4 days. I was out on the H.D. today. The weather was optimum, and blasting down the 210 freeway was about as good as sex. I take the pills and nothing happens. I take out the Harley and feel like I’m 14.

Angela is working in Europe for the week, on a press tour with LORDS OF ALTAMONT singer, THE LORD FARFIZA, Jake Cavaliere. Dan and I are handling the site-based Svengirly duties. In the meanwhile, I’m wrangling da home boys for the rest of this week. That may be as challenging as “The Treatment.” Everyday is a day I look forward to. It is a complete 180 degree shift from the old Mike. Not that I was a pessimist ever -- I just had an attitude that being negative was cool somehow. OK, It’s late, but it’s never too late.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 12

2005-09-20T10:01:00.000-07:00

WEEK 12
“I feel good; I knew that I would”; - James Brown

After 12 weeks of treatment, I’m on the sunny side for a change. I guess I’m sort of getting used to it. Shot day blends in with everything else. I don’t care for getting poked, but it isn’t that bad and it’s over in a second. What a weenie, I used to drill myself every day. Now I see a needle and immediately look for a place to hide. The mind is a willing accomplice for the ego. I feel good that I have a normal reaction at last.

With the DKT/MC5 performance series concluded, I feel a sense of beginning, more than one of ending. Like a ship leaving port and starting a new journey, we have cleared the harbor and set the course for the “New World”. I saw an old friend at the UCLA- Royce Hall show, Michael Simmons, the writer. I told him about the treatment, and that I was 12 weeks into it. He was aghast that I was doing gigs and being treated. What’s the big deal, I asked him. Life must go on, interferon and all.

Is “C” an epidemic? I keep hearing of more and more people having it or having gone through treatment. One thing that is consistent is that most people struggle with the treatment. I haven’t heard of any failures. You tend to forget the hardship once it has past. One thing that helped me a great deal recently was getting out with Gilby Clarke and his motorcycle-riding buddies last weekend. We met up in Sherman Oaks and rode over Topanga Canyon to Malibu. There were 8 bikes, and what a sound! Eight Harleys with open pipes roaring over the road. At first I was hesitant to go, but in my gut I knew I needed to get out and do something just for recreation. I had been a recluse since the start of summer with the interferon and all, and I was getting just plain lazy. I was also socially withdrawn, and maybe a little ashamed about my physical stature. I knew that the only way to gain strength is to put out some action. So, I decided it was best to brave it out. I am very glad I did. It seemed to turn the tide of monotony that had me doing week after week of the same basic behavior. It was; pills, shot, pills. Then; pills, pills for the next six days. And repeat. Of course the trips and plane rides helped throw me off balance, so, that I was always in a state of recovering from an overwhelming task. Since the bike ride to Malibu I’ve felt more like myself than I have in a long time. I’m once again interested in my bike, and doing some customizing. I feel a lot better than just a couple of weeks ago. I want this to be a permanent improvement. We will see.

I sign off on week 12 as a turning point in this yearlong struggle to recapture my essential being. I don’t think it’s a cakewalk from here on out. I’m ready for the next fence, whatever it is. I only know that as long as I stick to the battle plan, the day will be mine at the finish. Even if it doesn’t work, I am better off than I was. The only way to lose is to quit.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 11

2005-09-11T22:12:00.000-07:00

WEEK 11

I’m finally sleeping on my own (straight, no chaser). Man, that first few days last week was a bitch. I thought I was going to die. Spiritually, I’m down again. I don’t feel any drive at all. I know this is a phase. I go through up and down waves on a regular basis. It felt like a touch of fall today. That always picks me up. I use to love the fall back in Michigan. I use to love starting school again. It’s more like the beginning than the end. The Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashana is now. A big point of starting the new year is the time of atonement. That’s when you take the time to come to terms of forgiveness with everyone you know. You ask them to forgive any injury you may have caused them, knowingly or unknowingly. This way you can begin the new year with true absolution and leave the past without clutter and bitterness. Makes sense to me.

A big week lies ahead. Presumably, this week we are doing the last regular gigs as DKT/MC5. Next Saturday we will perform the third and last gig with our old fave co-headliners, The Sun Ra Arkestra. Going back to 1967, in Ann Arbor and Detroit, we met and shared the stage with The Arkestra and Sun Ra, himself. This is the third contemporary bill we have played this year, with the first being in London at The Royal Festival Hall, the second in New York City at Central Park Summer Stage, and finally in Los Angeles at UCLA’s Royce Hall. It marks the end of two years of touring the music of The MC5 to the world and the many fans who never expected to hear that music live from it’s original members. With two of our colleges sadly deceased, we managed to deliver the sound that abounds with the help and artistic contributions of several guest musicians who have earned my undying respect and gratitude. Not only was our artistic experience enriched by these gifted people, we also bonded with an whole new group of friends.

It has been 8 months since I have drunk ANY alcohol and 3 months of treatment for Hepatitis C. All in all, I’m better off than I can find specific reasons for. Feeling like a trampled cat, and uncomfortably cast adrift on an unfamiliar raft, I have to believe this is the groundwork for a much more real and rewarding life in the near future. I have work to do -- some really exciting musical projects that you'll hear about soon. I have many things that need my attention. I think when you are trapped in a life of self-indulgence, you don’t really give it your all. The point is to savor the experience of your life with balance and an even temperament. Angela sent me a great little piece on moderation last week. It's from The DailyOM. I have inserted it below.
http://www.dailyom.com/articles/2005/505.html
Health Through Balance
Everything In Moderation

Because life is short, the temptation to overindulge is ever-present. We want to glean as much pleasure as possible from everything such as what we eat or what we do. Or, conversely, we are so driven to stay healthy or be successful that we throw ourselves into exercise or work with abandon. But the true means of achieving what you want lies not in overdoing it, but in moderation. A balanced life does not lean in one direction, but contains a measure of each element: work and play; friends, family, and solitude; pleasure and abstinence; and necessities and indulgences. The ancient Greeks practiced moderation in all things, believing that in excess, virtues became vices. And so it is. Things that benefit your body and soul in one amount, whether it is medication, nutrients, forethought, or introspection, can be harmful in higher amounts.

The concept of moderation is embodied in the middle ground between all extremes and is thus a source of steadiness. It is simply the capacity to exercise self-control. Living moderately often means forgoing short-term pleasures in favor of deeper, long lasting happiness and considering all aspects of your actions. It also means never categorizing anything in terms of 'always good' or 'always bad.' Sleeping in for hours may seem a wonderful idea until you consider the daytime lost and the difficulty you may have sleeping later. Avoiding all sweets feels like the healthiest choice, but may not be if it's making you feel deprived. A strong sense of thrift can become stinginess just as a strong sense of generosity can become a tendency to spend beyond your means. The benefits of moderation are said to be a healthy body, a clear mind, increased vigor, and a welling up of positive emotions.

Moderation eschews rigid control in favor of allowing you just enough of any one thing for it to be satisfying, but not enough for it to be detrimental. Thus, it unlocks a healthy lifestyle without denying any pleasures, any ambitions, or your changing will, through equilibrium and equanimity in all things. Living a balanced life leads to rewarding experiences that not only heal and nurture, but can also fulfill you to a fantastic degree.

I found myself rethinking points in the article long after I read it. It’s a very cool bit. It’s short and sweet, and right to the point. Angela also sent me a link to a Hepatitis C self-help group web site last week. So, I’ll see about donating any of these installments if they’re interested. (Thanks lizbeth1)

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 10

2005-09-06T09:26:00.000-07:00

WEEK 10

I am midway into ten weeks of therapy. Today we have returned from Vegas again. This time from playing a private party for Vice Magazine. I begin to be more inspired by upcoming projects, and less focusing on discomforts and complaint. I took the shot the morning we left for Vegas, and really never gave it any thought thereafter. I still find it awkward to have to remember my evening medication every day. If I didn’t put the pills in little containers of two, I seriously would lose track of taking them. Now my theory is starting to be that with the big general inner quarrels in my life somewhat controlled, I can cope with the alterations to my metabolism less stressfully. So I accept getting up in the middle of the night to snack, I don’t worry about getting back to sleep, I feel good in my bed, and I am at home in myself. If I knew how to explain the path to that door, I would break the news for all to see and use.

I saw Bartley today. I saw a book on the table in his reception room that bore his name as the author. It was called “Beyond Fear” Isaac Anthony Bartley, MD. A week ago I gave a blood sample, and it was about 4 weeks since the first one which showed very little change in my white blood count. This time, however, I was experiencing a different sort of physical mood than I had before. When he told me that my white blood count was particularly low, I was not as much surprised as I was disappointed. Disappointed because what he told me next was that were my white blood cell count to get any lower, we would have to look at other options; i.e. discontinue treatment. These drugs can set up dangerous situations in the body, and we must remember, not everyone is able to successfully complete treatment. An option he spoke of was a blood-enhancing drug that is currently the center of the Lance Armstrong controversy. EXPENSIVE, EXPENSIVE, EXPENSIVE! If my cell count stabilizes, everything will be all right. We have decided to wait until the 14th week to check the virus. Damn, I was hoping for a miracle cure. Remember too, the entire treatment is a developing therapy, and as such, nothing is a given. Another thing Dr. Bartley stressed was to get off the sleeping pills! We don’t know if there are any sleep deprivation issues until we have a clean slate to examine. So, I’m going to do everything he asks me to do, and keep reporting on this blog, and keep the course until I can make a firmer report. That’s it for now.

LABOR DAY/ “The Summertime Blues”

Final official- end-of-the-summer comments and thoughts on this Labor Day Weekend, 2005. For three days, since I’ve seen Dr. Bartley, I have been struggling with my mind and body over the constraints I was given by Bartley to cease all forms of relief available (other than Tylenol or Ibuprofen) outside of my own physical resources. Specifically, to clean up the sleeping pill obsession. That’s when it hit me. This isn’t just about a virus. No, not just about a virus. This is about reversing a trend that I turned into a lifelong career of convenient retreat. If it doesn’t feel right, I, and many others like me, go running to the medicine cabinet, or the beer store, or whatever one can find in a bottle, container, or package that fixes the ill. All things can be avoided through magic substances that are readily available, legal or otherwise. Sometime in 1963 at the age of 20, I decided it was time to leave my father’s house and start living on my own. Immediately, I ceased a regular diet, or any regular form of maintenance, other than what was convenient and a quick fill. Beef jerky, Slim Jims, Hostess cakes, donuts, chips, burgers, pizza, soda, beer, cheese and crackers; get the picture? I smoked, drank, stayed up all night, and after a while, took drugs. Now, I was wrestling with the fact that a few paces away was a bottle of tranqs, or sleep aids, and I could slip over to the medicine cabinet, down one or two, and be asleep in 20 minutes. My head was wracked with fatigue, and my brain was becoming franticly obsessed. Angela was asleep, no one would know….except me. There it was, like a huge neon sign. I needed to undo 40+ years of lackadazical attitude, and entitlement. It’s like “cold turkey” from yourself. Three or four days, with each day a little easier, until a normal (?) state of being kicks in. Dr. Bartley said my body was confused by all the meds I was taking. I needed to get back to square one, and see what was the truth. At this point, a difficult thing to do, but I had to make it or be unfaithful to myself “because there ain’t no cure for the Summertime blues”.

I look at the drawn, clay-like face in the mirror. I see the new lines and dimness in the eyes. I’m back in the pit of self contempt. I think of all the people I’ve wounded over the years, some catastrophically. I think about the loss of a child to drug overdose. I think of the countless shameful acts that have shaped the character that I am. I look at my past, my reckless decisions, my blown opportunities, and I ask the universe; why do I deserve another chance? The answer is because it’s never too late to find that cure. It’s never too late to be worth the space you were given --to help someone else find that cure. It’s never too late to say please help me. What more can I say at the end of this long, cruel summer? I say this; I’ve heard it a million times. I’ve heard it at award ceremonies. I’ve heard it at induction to halls of fame, dinnertime toasts, press conferences, on TV and radio. Someone is always saying it. Someone is always saying it because it is the truth. I know. I have proven it over the course of 40+ years. I could do none of this or anything else, without the love, support, and trust of my wife, my partner, and my best friend, Angela L. Davis. She says the strength is really in there and she is merely holding my hand, but for me, that is the ticket. The challenge is more than a virus. The challenge is to be true to yourself.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 8 & 9

2005-08-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

WEEK 8

Ah, …Brazil. A week of working non-stop. Everyday press and public appearances; TV and radio. Holing up in my room, trying to sleep through the night. I had some pretty potent sleepers to get me through. It seemed like the more I slept, the less rested I felt. Could have been the workload and pressure. Finally, we played the festival on a Saturday, partied (so-called) on Sunday, floated the day away on Monday, and boarded our flight that evening for home. Many days, much talking, much riding in vans through the endless Sao Paulo traffic jammed streets. I learned a new form of aggressive driving while riding around Sao Paulo. It takes ages to get anywhere. Our hosts were about the nicest, most caring, honest and giving people I have ever met. My experience was as fabulous as any place I have ever been. I cannot express the warmth I felt with the crew from Sao Paulo. There are 22 million people in Sao Paulo, Brazil. As for the Interferon and Ribavirin, I can’t say I was much affected by it, other than the always present fatigue I have everyday. The flying kicks my ass; ten hours on one flight, and another 3 or 4 on the second one. Upon arrival at LAX, I don’t know what day it is or if it’s morning or evening. I’m glad to be home, but a dangerous situation is looming unseen. The fatigue, the stress of travel, the loneliness of a hotel room, the challenge of getting to sleep, are all building a powder keg in my psyche. For a while I have harbored malicious feelings of jealousy and entrapment….but now we move to Week 9.

WEEK 9

It doesn’t take long this time for Angela to throw down and say she’s had enough! It’s a good thing in the end because we are finally going to talk about the rot that is building up inside me. I guess it’s about Wednesday or Thursday. We face each from our desks after a brief exchange of bitterness. She cries, she sobs, she tells me I’m torturing her with criticism. I am blaming her for everything I perceive as wrong with my life. I am assigning fault to Angela for a) having kids in the first place, b) the way they behave, c) decorating our house (not to my specs), d) buying food at the store that I would never eat in a million years, e) and, maybe, for loving me without reservation. As she explains her unhappiness through her tears, I see my arguments vanish as if they were all conceived by a self-centered moron. Ok, some of my complaints are reasonable, but the bottom line is as plain as the nose on your face. I’ve been working on a bad play with a bad dialogue and a bad ending. All inside, well hidden, except for the constant negativity.

When you have a true partner there’s not much you can’t overcome because the will is there. So I spill the whole story. I’m jealous. I don’t want to share her. I want to have a say in all our decisions. Most of all, I trust you, but I need to be an equal. She knows exactly what I am saying. She loves me and she lets me know it right away. We understand each other. She is very strong. I am very lucky. We got over the top of the mountain. We can go on as a better team. The funny thing is, once I told all the dark secrets, none of it bothers me anymore. At the end of the week we went to Vegas for Sister Kim’s wedding.
I’m having great difficulty doing anything normal. Eating food can be unpleasant. Or unpleasant later. It seems to take forever to digest a meal. My solution; eat less volume. Sleeping without an aid is holy hell. Sometimes just breathing is impossible. I feel weak and half-boiled. At mid-day I become almost comatose. I’m putting on a good front though.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2005-08-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

Michael is currently in Sao Paulo, Brazil, where DKT/MC5 will headline the Campari Rock Festival. He had his injection on Monday morning before leaving for the long hours of travel, but slept on the flight and has felt pretty good all week. Michael, Wayne, and Dennis apppeared on a nationally televised nightly talk show right after they landed, and played two songs as a trio for the first time. The emails to Svengirly have been very numerous and enthusiastic. The schedule this week has been brutal and exciting. Michael is well and happy and will catch everyone up when he returns.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 7

2005-08-05T18:10:00.000-07:00

Hey, what’s up? Now for the shocker of the month, that which has come totally unexpected in the midst of all the “feeling fine.” First of all, New York was great, greater than I ever imagined. It was an unbelievably moving 4 days of welcome and musical transcendence in the capital of people. It did, however, take all of my available energy and health, and leave me beyond exhausted. Trying to recover from the trip and grueling schedule several days later at home, I realized that a slow moving fog bank of funk had crept into my being at some point, and I was suffering from all the things that I thought had been handled. It had come on in a wave of subtle disintegration, and infected my attitude, until I’m going “What the fuck is the matter with me? I don’t feel like myself anymore”. The biggest problem is the fatigue, and not being able to catch up on sleep. All week it has had me in a depression I did not understand. Where had the happy-go-lucky guy that used to be me gone, and was he ever coming back? I was thinking this treatment wasn’t what I needed to be doing; I was ready to chuck the whole thing and have a beer. I told this to everyone at a little dinner party we were having last night, and the reaction was something like the sound one makes at the sight of seeing an injured animal; pity and sadness. I knew I had better not be serious about abandoning my mission. Angela was becoming quite anxious about my mental state and it's effect on our relationship. I was becoming distant and hostile, isolated and frustrated. This is a dangerous time completely, because you are very serious about complaining, and can injure those you love with harsh words and attitudes you normally don’t have. Fortunately, I had a good sleep, with two horrendous dreams that were about me losing Angela and our relationship. I awoke having to recall the details of those dreams in the quiet of our room, until Angela appeared, and then I promptly told her every detail, relieving all the tension and unsure feelings that had been building up for some time. I realized at some point that I had been slipping into a despondent nature for at least since the Finland trip, but maybe even earlier than that. Let’s say a good month. These drugs are very powerful and tricky. They reduce your immune system, making you vulnerable to anything that could take you down. Being sick on top of being exhausted doesn’t get it. I started thinking about all the people who decided to clean up their health at a late date, only to wind up looking like a ghost image of their former selves. I was scared, thinking that was my fate. But it’s like any illness or pain; while you have it, you suffer, but when it breaks, it’s just a memory. I once heard the great Philadelphia Eagles, and later, Green Bay Packer defensive end, Reggie White (may have been Deacon Jones) say; “Fatigue makes cowards of us all….It’s those that rise above their weakness that wins the prize”.

I’ll be leaving for Brazil on Monday. By the time I return, it will have been 8 weeks of treatment. Thanks to everyone who is following my story, and sending their support.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 6

2005-07-26T09:56:00.000-07:00

WEEK 6

It’s almost routine. Monday again, and same ol’ shot of little soldiers on a search and destroy patrol. I don’t even fret about getting poked. I barely feel it. I get sleepy-tired at various times all day. I nap a little, but the sleepy-tired anemic feeling stays around most the time. That is the only nuisance anymore. I’m told by Dr. Bartley that we don’t check the virus until 12 weeks.

We are off to New York in two days. Once again, a gig is happening well into the week, and I’m a distance from the two Interferon affected days. New York will be a great experience; two shows, lots of press, a radio appearance with Dave Marsh, our old buddy from the heyday of the band. I bitch about the travel, but this is the greatest job in the world. I love it in spite of all its weirdness. “It’s the sound that abounds and resounds and rebounds off the ceiling.”

I wonder why I even care about attacking the Hepatitis C virus. I have two reasons basically. One is to be as strong as I can for my family. I frittered away a lot of my natural health when I was a young person because I was more interested in experience than excellence. Now I have a progressive outlook and a family that looks to me for many things. It’s a housecleaning of sorts. The second reason is that I want to be an example for people who are Hep C positive. If I can inspire someone to pick up the gauntlet and powerfuck the virus out of their system, it’s a worthwhile thing to tell my story. Plus I like writing anyway. So I found a muse for myself at the same time. Ok, all you metal-heads, that’s it for this week. There just aren’t many chilling tales of horror with the treatment. I’ll be back in SoCal on the red-eye Sunday night. I will have the update on the NY gigs and any associated maladies that cropped up with regard to being at war with THE VIRUS. ‘Til then..

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 5

2005-07-22T10:39:00.000-07:00

HOME

So I was gone all of 5 days, 6 planes, 1 gig. A one–off in the land of the midnight sun. The traveling kicked my ass, but good. I’m still not really over it. As for the treatment, it wasn’t a factor. I only had to take the Ribaviren, anyway. Being at a 10 hour time difference made it fairly easy to adjust my dosage taking time. Merely subtract 2 hours from the current time and that is a 12 hour interval. It worked out fine.

WEEK 5

I went to see Dr. Bartley on Monday. He said my blood count didn’t change too much.*(see editor's note) So, everything was looking good. I did the Monday shot of Interferon when I got home. This time I took Ibuprofen as a pre-med. Everything was smooth this time. The only thing in the last two days that is remarkable is a definite case of lethargy. This may be heightened by extreme jet lag and lack of sleep, that the all of last week was. I, in fact, suffer from insomnia, but haven’t recognized it as such until now. If I can get on a normal sleep schedule, I think the lethargy will go away.

Editor's Note:
*This refers to a complete count of red and white blood cells. A viral cell count doesn't occur until week 12 of the treatment.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 4

2005-07-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

WEEK 4

It’s Monday again and I can’t believe how full of dread I am in anticipating today’s shot. I guess last week with the two-day hangover was a reminder that things change. Plus, after blowing the second shot, I got too sure that this was going to be no problem. There’s always something to learn. The script can change with any new twist of circumstance.

It’s been 4 hours now since Angela administered the shot. I’ve become squeamish about poking myself with needles -- that’s a new one. This time I had a dose of Ibuprofen before the Interferon. Then I waited a good 45 minutes before doing anything further. I’ve been out to the store, ate a small supper, and now I feel relaxed enough to write in the journal. I have yet to feel those hideous chills or the aching in my body. I did nap for a half an hour right after the shot. All in all, I feel all right. I’m going to take another Ibuprofen in a while and hope for an evening free of side effects. I do feel sleepy and heavy- eyed. However, this is not the irritation that I was feeling last week. It just goes to show you how important it is to follow your doctor’s orders.

The first thing Dr. Sethian said to me when I told him about the side effects was, did I take the pain medication before the shot? I’m just trying to create a formula that makes the whole process easy to bear as possible. So far, today has been good.

Tuesday, tired-day. Okay, a pattern is starting to emerge. I am getting what the fatigue thing is about. It is not debilitating, just nagging and ever present on the day after the shot. I am pulling myself through the day’s chores though because tomorrow I leave for Finland to play a festival. This is my first time out on the medication. I have been playing all year without alcohol which was a little weird at first – that beer in hand was always just part of the deal. Anyway, I like it this way. But we’ll see how I do on a weird sleep schedule, long flights, and late nights. I only have to pack the Ribavarin because I don’t have another shot until Monday, and I will be home then. By the way, I know how lucky I am to have a job and a lifestyle that is pretty well suited to this treatment. Most people do not have the luxury of taking naps when they are tired and just letting the drugs do their thing. More about that when I get back.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 3

2005-07-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

WEEK 3

“I said hey, hey babe, it’s the 4th of July,” Dave Alvin

Monday, July 4, 2005. I might have guessed. I made an error or two in the Interferon injection the week before. First, I forgot to mix the solution, which may have seriously diminished the effectiveness of the dose. Second, I didn’t bring it to room temperature after it had been refrigerated for the past week. This time I had Angela execute the entire process. Angela is the sort of person who doesn’t go anywhere she hasn’t been before without a MapQuest. I never have to worry about leaving anything around, because it will be scooped up and disposed of within seconds. If ever I am unable to find something, I immediately switch to “Angela mode”, and search the places where she deems a thing to be “out of sight.” Angela reads and follows written instructions better than anyone you will ever meet. This time the shot was administered correctly.

Earlier I had racked the 20 miles on the bike that has become my daily routine. At the completion of the medication, I ate a pastrami on rye, and then was given a strawberries and cream frappucino from Starbucks (my fast-food of choice). Two hours later (now) I’m feeling drowsy enough to lie down for a siesta and wait for Sonoran style hot dogs and fireworks. Geez, this is pretty tough.

It got tougher, a lot tougher. At about 4 hours past the time Ang gave me the injection, my body started to feel chilled. Inside the house it was warm, but the breezes caused by the ceiling fans were annoying. Along with the chills, came a dull sort of aching in my entire body, right on down to my fingertips. On top of these distractions was a general feeling of listlessness. My English friends might say, “It takes the piss out of you”. Now I was finding things to be crabby about. I was taking care to not react. Well now, we had forgotten one thing we were advised to do. That is to take a hit of Tylenol or Ibuprofen just before the shot. I now took the Ibuprofen. Things began to mellow out. The chills subsided, the aches disappeared, and the listlessness just turned into being relaxed. At 6 hours past the injection, although I feel tiredness, (not unusual if you ride a bicycle 20 miles a day), I believe the nastiest bit of the side effects are over. This might be just exactly what Dr. Bartley and Marc Johnson were describing as the common side effects of the treatment. So for what it’s worth, I think I’m a pretty normal subject who experiences the usual abnormal feelings of this drug, without entering the area where things are intolerable. If this is as bad as it gets, I’m going to be all right. Now, a little strawberry shortcake and a fire works display. Happy Birthday America.

“THEY CALL IT STORMY MONDAY, BUT TUESDAY IS OH SO BAD”; BB KING

Just when you think you are past the rough water, you get the dose of reality that you been waiting for. They said it was going to be two days of discomfort, and they didn’t lie. I went to see my regular doctor, Dr. Sethian at 9:30 am. He was elated about the reduction of the size of my liver. Really? “Yeah, let me show a drawing I made when you came here in January. It was three times the size of now.” I studied the sketch. Hmmm. When I got home we called Dr. Bartley’s office to see when he wanted to check the blood again. We were told to come over this day to have blood drawn. As the afternoon approached, I became aware of chill in my entire body. It was warm in the house, but I was feeling chilled. And I was pissed at just about everything. I felt weak and tired. I had skipped biking for doctor appointments with the intention of getting a swim in before the day was through. I just didn’t feel like it. I didn’t have it. It wasn’t about being lazy, it was an energy thing. I was worthless. I decided to go with the flow and rest. I knew this was Day 2 Blues. It was just as bad as Monday in the sense that feeling shitty is a shitty feeling in any form. Now I know; this is the typical side effect reaction that I had been pre-warned about. You get two days of wretch, and the rest is cool. I did the bike today. I’m feeling stronger, and a little bigger, ever so slightly. I’m on the cusp of breaking into a weight in the 160’s. I’m after 175lbs.

So, Dr. Bartley gets a blood sample, and, in a few days I find out if anything is happening. But first duty calls -- I leave for Finland next Wednesday.

“IT’S A BRAND NEW DAY-E-A,” Parliament/Funkadelic

Yesterday, Wednesday, our houseguest Mat arrived. Mat is a Michigan State University PHD candidate doing his doctoral thesis on the MC5/White Panthers socio-political influences, and the potential of pop culture to reshape society and its political nature. We spent a few hours yesterday afternoon discussing the issues and my opinions regarding them. We’ve enjoyed the whole thing immensely. I got him laughing on most of the responses, but there you have it. It’s my nature. I like to put a spin on anything serious, just to keep from becoming a fist full of slogans. Without playing into this report as an airing out of my regrets concerning MC5’s ridiculous rhetorical assault stage tactics, let me be clear that the hippies (God bless ‘em), euphorically stunned with their freedom, like sheep at the slaughterhouse gate, gamely took their places in line before the axe man, defiant and beautiful to the end, confounded by the sound of their longhair draped heads hitting the kill floor. Never again will I allow myself to be used as the puppet-boy crier for anyone’s “righteous” causes. Even now a curious battle rages on over who owns the rights to the “righteousness.” Leapin’ lysergic sugar cubes, Batman, who put the fuck in the Motherfucker?

Mat and Angela and I all had a great time. We enjoyed turning a mild mannered, inspired Wisconsin lad onto the serenity of Southern California and sharing several grand meals together. I always like helping out these academic guys with their research writing. Maybe someone who wasn’t there can analyze it a whole lot better than those that crawled out from the thick of it. No one can quite figure it out. So it creeps on as a burning question for eternity. What happened? If nothing else, a lot of people got graduate degrees trying to contain the mystery in theoretic writing. That’s cool. I don’t give a damn about legacies. It’s not for me to say! I’m a guy in a band. And if nothing else, we sure had a fun time dressing up in awesome clothes and crashing people’s heads with big sound. If you’re going to talk about the era as a phenomenal episode, then it’s about a million times more things than just the MC5.

Mat left this morning, bound for East Lansing and the pretty green mid- Michigan countryside. I can feel the breezes and the warmth of the summer sun, expect rain, and dream of magical far away places amid the smells of alfalfa and cornfields. It almost brings a tear to my eye thinking of it; thinking of it as “home”. Look at what God has given us. That’s what I’m talking about.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 2

2005-06-27T12:18:00.000-07:00

Monday is here again. We’re going to see if having a shot of Interferon produces another meltdown. I’m sitting in the bathroom by myself trying to do everything correctly. The only hitch was when I pulled back on the plunger that regulates the dose amount, a geyser stream of the stuff shot into the air and caused me to curse. “Fuck! I blew it all over the floor!” Angela, quick to sense the overreaction, comes in to the room to see what happened. There’s still a lot of liquid in the syringe. Everything is all right. I push the little sharpie into my fat roll at midriff level, and push the plunger the rest of the way. “That didn’t seem like anything happened.” Once again, Angela assures me it was a go. But she also can’t believe how easy it goes in. I took a nap a bit later in the afternoon. This time I said the Interferon made me do it. When I awoke, I astonished Angela with a food request. “ I want a Double-Double and a strawberry shake from “In ‘N Out Burger?” Sounds like loss of appetite to me. I wolfed it; it was great.

I have to mention that off and on for the past year I have been trying to work out. I bought a relatively expensive bicycle after the end of last year’s tour, like I spent a couple thousand on it. It’s a Klein with a beautiful blue/black paint job and some great parts. There’s some carbon fiber and the rest aluminum. It’s sweet. We live right next to The Rose Bowl. The Rose Bowl is 3.3 miles around including the golf course. Usually, at the point where I’m starting to feel slightly in shape, we have to go on tour, or some medical thing happens that interrupts the whole process. But now it looks like with only Finland on the gig schedule, I can get with a program for a while. I begin this, the second week of treatment, by doing 4 laps of The Rose Bowl. So that’s about 13 miles, which isn’t much to real cyclists. They do 40+ mile runs routinely. But this old-timer needs to be realistic.

And I bought a month of pool use membership at The Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. This is a gorgeous facility with two pools, three three-level diving platforms, and a couple of one-meter diving boards at the side. On the first day I did 20 laps in a 25 yard lane. It’s a start. By Thursday, I was up to 20 miles on the bike, and 30 laps in the pool. It’s a start. Sometime in the middle of week two, I acquired a nickname. Given to me by my wife, Angela, I became known as “Interferon Funny Guy.”

As I explained at the beginning of this report, depression is a heavy disabling side effect associated with Interferon use. Depression as a chronic mental disorder is classified as a psychosis. Depression as I know it is a state of mind brought about by an event or disappointment that is so severe as to leave me unable to participate in a regular life without constant reminder that all hope is lost. It is very hard to put into words the effect of depression. It’s probably the root cause of addiction. It takes all the fight out of you. It isolates the sufferer from everything and everyone. The world is small and lonely. Nothing has any value. Living is a charade. A psychiatrist on TV once said: ”The easiest thing to tell a depressed person and the most futile thing to say to them is; cheer up.” It’s the one thing they CAN’T do.

So who is Interferon Funny Guy? As week two motored on, I kept looking for a negative trend. I went to The Rose Bowl everyday. I went to the pool everyday. I ate wonderful food, mainly consisting of yogurt, granola, always bananas, salads prepared with all natural greens, and nuts, and cheeses and chicken dishes with exotic flavors, wrapped in lettuce leaves. I’d keep a water bottle going as a matter of course and a glass of fruit juice or a ginger brew occasionally. I never denied myself anything outright, except fast food and processed food, just because we avoid that fare in general. I don’t trust it, or the industry that produces it. I don’t think a once in a while dining of certain fast food items is a death sentence, but I do think using it, as a means to nourish you regularly is suicidal and ignorant. You can eat a few chips and ranch dip, or chips and guacamole is cool, but it’s only a treat. You can have a treat. It’s good for your mood.

So then, when I couldn’t find the pothole in the “Treatment”, I started joking, and being my playful, natural self. “What’s the matter? I don’t drink, I’m on some kind of hell drug that kills any bad guy it can find in my body and maybe some good guys too. I am not obsessed about eBay, or money, or lack of it. I’ve never been so ok in my whole life as I am RIGHT NOW.” Have I been approved? Who approved? When did all this get all right? Well here it is. It got all right when I looked into the pit, saw who was running the show, and said “alright motherfucker, you got to answer to me now. You’re fired! Get the fuck out!” Right then and there I got approved, and went straight to work. This really sounds too simple. All I know is that something is telling me "you got it right."

Tomorrow is Monday again. Yea! What’s this? I’m waiting on Mondays? Yes, tomorrow is Monday. This is going to last for a whole year as far as I’m concerned. If the doctor tells me it’s ok to stop, then that’s when I stop. It doesn’t matter really because I like the fact that I’m standing up for the fight. In any event, we’re not counting the chickens just yet. Anything can happen at any time. So the reason for writing a journal is have a record of the events as they happen. I’ll keep up the entries and try to avoid being monotonous.

Angela calls me Interferon Funny Guy because we all expected this maudlin, self -absorbed, cranky complainer to move in, and what we got was Michael Silver Tongue Flash, or Michael D Flex. That’s my pimp name, but I’m ok with Interferon Funny Guy.

INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 1

2005-06-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

Just about four decades ago, when I was invincible and full of curiosity, risking all in the name of experience, I managed to acquire an unwanted rider called Hepatitis C. I was an I.V. drug user and daily drinker for most of that time. The drug using being for the most part a series of binges that would last anywhere from a few months to several years at some point per decade. I’m talking about hard-core intravenous drug use. The actual embarkation of the Hepatitis C freeloader is not actually known. He may have sneaked on board at any time in the years between 1963 and 1986. He may have jumped the freight in the early 1970’s, or maybe in the middle 1980’s. Regardless of the time of his intrusion, he remains tucked in some recess of my body, slowly going about his business of survival. Oh yeah, my name is Michael Davis. I’m a bass player in a rock band. I’ve been hard-core into this lifestyle of rock and roll for 40 years. It’s not unusual for someone in my profession to be a drug user. In fact, it’s almost cliché that musicians tend to get loaded, particularly if they are extraordinarily gifted, and/or black. Alcoholism is also characteristic of “my people.” Hepatitis C, being a blood borne infection is not a concern of an alcoholic/drunkard, but, truth is, substance abuse seems to like the company of many substances. We, who have risked the lifestyle, know the endlessness of our weakness for psychophysical displacement.

When I learned that I tested positive for the Hepatitis C virus, my reaction was somewhat blasé. “I don’t feel anything unusual. So…what of it?” “It could lead to complications,” said my doctor. “Your liver is susceptible to permanent damage, cirrhosis, and ultimately, your death. Are you eager to die? Is there nothing in life that you value? Is there anyone else who may care if you live or die?” “Holy cow, I’m NOT alone. I have a wife and kids and my life is the best it has ever been. This matters! What do you want me to do?”

My doctor told me he was sending me to a lab for ultrasound pictures of my liver, and referring me to a specialist. And so it began: the challenge to rid my being of the alien invader that had taken up residence somewhere in my gastro enterological machinery. The little devil walked right in on a silver spoon, and surged through the tiny hole in a disposable syringe that I willingly, no, eagerly accepted from a previous shooter. It’s kind of a vampire tale; you have to invite him in or he’s just waiting around for his chance. I said yes to infection! Can you believe it? Damn! It’s that easy. It’s not that easy to lose. There’s a treatment. Let’s say a developing research for treatment. Otherwise, the Hepatitis C virus is not well known. It’s only since 1989 that the specific virus called Hepatitis C was isolated. Until then, it did not even exist to medical science. Yet, it existed in me! Ah, well it’s a lucky thing that this devil moves so slowly I couldn’t even tell anything was there. A lucky thing it is that I have a doctor who looked at my numbers from blood work, and wanted to find out why my liver was showing abnormal amounts of antibodies.

My specialist, Dr. Isaac Bartley, a very well known Gastroenterologist in Los Angeles, explained several facts surrounding “The Treatment.” Among them was the fact that the recovery rate is around 70%, a marked improvement from just a few years previous when 50% was the average, and chance of remission was common after stopping the treatment. The new deal was/is a two-fold attack of injections of Interferon Alpha, and oral ingestion of Ribavirin. I haven’t researched the how-it-works aspect of any of these chemicals. So, I have no idea what is going on in the battle itself. This isn’t why I’m writing this journal of my experience. I only wish to report what Interferon has done for me and how it went down in my case.

The second fact is side effects. There is a list of scary, bewildering, torturous, unrelenting side effects. Most devastating on the list is a hideous multi-headed monster called depression. The fact that depression is the sole property of it’s creator means that only the patient can know what it is for him or her, where it originates, and how to get a grip on it, if at all. It is infinite in nature, and it is self perpetuating. It is real and it is imagined all at once. And it is a big problem. Those who know the depths of depression can be terrified by the very thought of it. I am told that it is the main reason many people reject treatment- the fear of depression. I have known depression. I have felt the bottom of the hole from which there seems to be no escape. My depression lasted for several years, but I knew the cause of it, which helped. And I believed that time would eventually heal the wound and one day I would forget my sadness. It came to pass. Those days are well behind me now, and the fact that I was so completely devastated, I regard as quite incredible. Yet it was as overwhelming as anything ever at the time.

Other side effects can be flu-like symptoms, fatigue, drowsiness, joint ache, nausea, apathy, etc., or let’s say, anything could likely be a side effect of Interferon Alpha. The treatment can last from 6 months to 1 year. It may be that a more potent form of Interferon is necessary to effectively deal with the virus. Being that there is more than one strain of the virus, trial and error is how we must take on the enemy. With all of these factors in mind, I decide that I can, and will, undergo the treatment process, for better or for worse, and ultimately me and my doctors will prevail, because we are stronger, smarter, and determined to defeat the bug.

And, by the way, no alcohol at any time, as alcohol will undermine the effectiveness of the treatment, and continue to damage the liver. I haven’t drunk anything alcoholic for 6 months. I have entirely left the craving behind. And along with that I have discovered clarity in my mind, body and soul. I feel like a young person, but with the limitations that come with age and atrophy. My wit, will, and want is alive and well. I don’t fear temptation to drink. It is meaningless and ludicrous to persist with the old behavior. If I’m happy, why should I fuck with it?

THE JOURNAL; DAY 1

It’s June 20, 2005 - the day of The Summer Solstice. It’s 12:00 noon. A young man whose name is Marc, comes to our house on Claremont Street in Pasadena, CA. Marc is the Director of Nursing, a Registered Nurse, from US Bioservices, www.usbioservices.com, and a heck of a nice guy. Marc has come to deliver my medication, an information pack, and instruct me on the procedures of administering my treatment. As we chat for perhaps an hour, I begin to feel anticipation of the point of no return. Once I commit I’m in. It’s a matter of honor and self-respect to keep my pledge and goal sacred. How bad can it be? I’ve done things to my body that could have brought down whole herds of cattle. I’ve ingested substances that could create tidal pools of dead crustaceans. Press on, it can’t be that bad. Whoa, the shot! Hey, it only goes in the fat. No muscle, no vein, pinch of fat, and that’s that? It’s done. Cool. Didn’t feel a thing…yet.

After Marc leaves, I begin to have mild waves of chill. I sit in the sun until it becomes uncomfortable and then retreat to the house where a fan on the ceiling blows away any warmth I may have absorbed. My body feels achy and stressed. At about the forth hour post shot, I’m sitting once again in the sun on the patio. In what can’t really qualify as a thought, I feel emotionally overwhelmed. I’m looking into a darkness of mind that recognizes itself as a lousy, no good son of a bitch that doesn’t deserve the attention of a hoard of cockroaches. I see a fool and a fake. I rise from the seat, and enter the office where my wife, Angela is busy at her desk, sorting out the slew of emails and phone contacts that make up the tasks of running a business. I seat myself at my desk and click some email boxes open to see if anyone in the world knows me. No. Angela is in her diligent work mode. She is unstoppable, accepting all challenges, and charming the most resistant bushwhackers, none of whom can deny or ignore the radiance of the person they’ve been lucky enough to make contact with. She is asking me a question I think. Oh yes, uh, I’m ok, sort of, and…She looks a bit closer, and tells me; ”your eyes are all watery and…your not feeling well, are you?” Just then a big tear falls down the right side of my face, and I say; “I don’t know”. Another tear falls down the left side of my face. It’s on. I can’t hide. I’m in full tear flow, and Angela is up out of her chair, and caressing my head. I’m sobbing as quietly as I possibly can, not knowing at all what it’s about. The Interferon is jerking me into a pit of self-loathing. For the next two hours I can’t stop crying. I’m beginning to enjoy a headache as a diversion, when a brilliant thought crosses my mind. I’m going to take a couple of Tylenol and try to relax. Within the next hour, things taper off. The headache gone, the trauma of realizing I’m a pathetic loser has passed, the aches, the chills, the hopelessness that is my life floated harmlessly to the heavenly blue sky. And there she is. The one. The woman who gives me the sword to conquer my demon. Amen.

I have come to realize that talking is basically the cure to most mental illnesses. Without speech and communication, we fall like scattered debris into an abyss of fantasy and fear. Even the most freely associated streams of words can lead one to the door that opens onto a place where we can find the heart of the being our mother cradled in her arms and adored. We remember in our lost memories that the eyes that first beheld us in the first minute of the first hour of the first day of our little lives saw us as we REALLY are, and not the mess we became. Those eyes that said it all: APPROVAL. That is what we seek, and strive to be. In all our wandering can we feel the gaze of pure love ever again? Can we be who we REALLY are? Well, why not? How to undo all the wrong that’s been done? Talk about it. Talk about it. After all, a mess is just something that needs attention and cleaning up. If you can put the troublesome things away in places where they don’t keep you stumbling over them, you can use your time and space more efficiently. You can grow, just like starting all over.

We sat there on the bed, Angela and me, and I talked awhile about the disappointments I had handed to people over the years. Particularly to my parents, both now deceased. Of all my shame and regrets, the bombs I laid on my parents are the deepest and most painful. But even that darkness can be brightened when you look at it in focus. So we talked and focused, and talked and hugged. After a while, I knew, I just knew, I could beat this thing, what ever it was. It didn’t frighten me any more. Nor did it hold me down like a pinned wrestler. I was up, off the mat, and ready for phase 2, the Ribavirin doses.

I know nothing about Ribavirin, in part, because virtually nothing was said about it by Dr. Bartley or by Marc Johnson of US Bioservices. Two 250 milligram caps, twice a day is the dosage. Since there was virtually nothing said, I made the assumption that it was much less a hardship than the Interferon. Sensing a modest amount of victory, I ate the caps with no hesitation or foreboding. To be honest, I felt nothing from the Ribavirin. The next morning I took the next 500 milligrams of Ribavirin, and steadied myself for the long haul. I wasn’t thinking the coast is clear just yet. Let’s give it every opportunity to fuck with us. Then we’ll see if it actually is doing what it’s supposed to. I was looking forward to next Monday, and the big second shot of whack-it. My confidence was growing.

The rest of the first week was normal. I had to snap to attention a couple of times when I couldn’t remember if I had taken my dose or not. After a pill count one night, I figured everything was cool, and I hadn’t missed anything. One of those first days I fell asleep for an hour and a half in the afternoon and forgot to take Gabriel to his clarinet lesson. I said the Ribavirin made me do it.