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
After recovering from Hep C, and some other stuff, it's time to push ahead for a better world. Here are some new writings for the present and coming days. Welcome to my Music Is Revolution world.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
WEEK 48/ THE LAST SHOT
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
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
Monday, May 08, 2006
WEEK 43, "AND THE BLOG GOES ON"
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
WEEK 42/ THE HOMESTRETCH
> 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.
>
>
> 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.
Monday, April 03, 2006
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY HEADS FOR HOME
> 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.
>
> 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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
GREETINGS FROM NORWAY
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
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
Sunday, February 12, 2006
RETURN OF THE FUNNY GUY
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
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
Sunday, January 22, 2006
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”.
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”.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 24
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.
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.
Monday, December 19, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 23
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.
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.
Friday, December 09, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 22
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 21
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.
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.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 20
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!
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!
Friday, November 18, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 19
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 !
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 !
Monday, November 07, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 18
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”.
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”.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 17
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 16
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 15
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.
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.
Friday, September 30, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 14
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
INTERFERON FUNNY GUY: PART 13
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.
“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.
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