I’m concluding that is just me- a singular voice screaming louder and well beyond the usual banter, frenzy, and white noise in the aftermath of the demise of Kim and Kris’ dissolution of their sacred covenant. There is a silver lining, a phoenix rising from the smoldering passions of a short-lived union. There seems to be a national penchant for those of attitude, entitlement, and the absurd The GOP should capitalize on the hysteria engulfing most media outlets and consider wooing the political aspirations of the now once again Miss Kardashian. I can see the posters already, A Kardashian, Snooki ticket. Both can campaign on how many they have employed. The millions spent on the wedding and its subsequent broadcasts have certainly lined the accounts of many, with scores employed and should have added to the state coffers through income tax. The VP side of the ticket could proclaim its prowess in international diplomacy, especially Italy
What has happened to the philosophical foundations of the Civil Rights Act-/ was it that long ago that thousands of women protested and campaigned for equal rights and equal pay- to break through the glass ceilings of corporate America. Did Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem work so hard just to have the madame Kardashian pimp all the panache and personal remnants her daughters and son’s lives? Are we that detached, disillusioned, or deprived in this country that ‘anything’ Kardashian should have any significance or monetary value? How much do they charge us to see Miss kardashian’s terse smile and more important- why is there even a market for it? Can’t we develop more stringent criteria for how we bequeath the status of celebrity onto anyone?- A neighbor of mine stopped by and asked what subject I was typing about. When I told her the Kardashian family, she replied. “aren’t they one of those characters out of Star trek?” I thanked her for helping me with my ending
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
IN ANOTHER 5 YEARS
On August 7th, 2005 an oversized group of friends, family, near and distant, and people in general that I just didn’t know came for festivities and pay respects as we all celebrated my father’s 90th birthday. There was music, food and an open bar- all had a great time and time was not in my father’s corner as he had to make an early exit, because of mild exhaustion. Once that was announced the party quickly wound down, my father then attempted to make his exit. As he bade farewell to all remaining, he did remark possibly tongue in cheek at the time, “I’ll see you in another five years”. There was a hint of defiance in his tone- enough to prevail and persevere through the following years and acquire several more great grand children and aide in his son’s stroke recovery.
So much that on August 7th, 2010 a smaller configuration of mostly immediate family gathered to celebrate my father’s 95th birthday. There was an eerie mode to this party quite different from the one five years earlier, sons and daughters, grand and great grandchildren all clamored to get ‘that’ photo and throughout it all I thought my father was mildly upset over the commotion. He accommodated all of the photo opps and after an entire afternoon of music ,food, and less drink, it was time for my father to go home As he slowly made his way to his car aiding his stride with his cane, he stopped and turned to those still there, looked halfway up to the sky and said it again, “I’ll see you in the next five years” In some ways there was a sense of assurance in that statement or we imagined his confidence, but it was helpful to hear this affirmation one more time.
However in less than five weeks, yet alone years, my father, patriarch to nine children, countless grand and great grandchildren, and probably on Planned Parenthood’s top ten most wanted list passed away quietly in the middle of the night in a convalescent home. The cruel irony of his solo departure angers and frightens me simultaneously. I have just one daughter and three grand daughters and would not want to be alone in my final moments.
As I stated in earlier posts, my father was my first guitar mentor, every Sunday morning as my mother went to mass, my father would serve all who were willing to listen our communion with the greats of music of that period. Another sad irony is that there are no recordings of my dad strumming and singing. He attempted to yodel basically an extinct, rarely heard musical expression. But we all hear it in our hearts and I would offer a king’s ransom to listen to a recording of my father singing once again.
I also reported that following my stroke that I decided to return to school to acquire my masters degree. And what I didn’t realize about graduate school is how much writing is required in pursuit of the degree. There were many nights when I became overwhelmed with sentence structure, phrasing, and spelling. I would call my father and ask for the correct spelling or phraseology of a sentence or word. He always responded with, “get a dictionary!”- To which I would retort,“I’m talking to it” this banter mildly upset my father but I thought that there was an understanding between the two of us – that this exercise was acceptable. Following his passing, I found myself calling family and friends to help fill the void left vacant by my father. Most of them were not as tolerant or understanding as my father was. So if it’s late in the evening and you hear from me asking how to spell a word or searching for a better expression, please don’t be too upset or offended, I’m actually asking you to step into and fill some mighty big shoes
So much that on August 7th, 2010 a smaller configuration of mostly immediate family gathered to celebrate my father’s 95th birthday. There was an eerie mode to this party quite different from the one five years earlier, sons and daughters, grand and great grandchildren all clamored to get ‘that’ photo and throughout it all I thought my father was mildly upset over the commotion. He accommodated all of the photo opps and after an entire afternoon of music ,food, and less drink, it was time for my father to go home As he slowly made his way to his car aiding his stride with his cane, he stopped and turned to those still there, looked halfway up to the sky and said it again, “I’ll see you in the next five years” In some ways there was a sense of assurance in that statement or we imagined his confidence, but it was helpful to hear this affirmation one more time.
However in less than five weeks, yet alone years, my father, patriarch to nine children, countless grand and great grandchildren, and probably on Planned Parenthood’s top ten most wanted list passed away quietly in the middle of the night in a convalescent home. The cruel irony of his solo departure angers and frightens me simultaneously. I have just one daughter and three grand daughters and would not want to be alone in my final moments.
As I stated in earlier posts, my father was my first guitar mentor, every Sunday morning as my mother went to mass, my father would serve all who were willing to listen our communion with the greats of music of that period. Another sad irony is that there are no recordings of my dad strumming and singing. He attempted to yodel basically an extinct, rarely heard musical expression. But we all hear it in our hearts and I would offer a king’s ransom to listen to a recording of my father singing once again.
I also reported that following my stroke that I decided to return to school to acquire my masters degree. And what I didn’t realize about graduate school is how much writing is required in pursuit of the degree. There were many nights when I became overwhelmed with sentence structure, phrasing, and spelling. I would call my father and ask for the correct spelling or phraseology of a sentence or word. He always responded with, “get a dictionary!”- To which I would retort,“I’m talking to it” this banter mildly upset my father but I thought that there was an understanding between the two of us – that this exercise was acceptable. Following his passing, I found myself calling family and friends to help fill the void left vacant by my father. Most of them were not as tolerant or understanding as my father was. So if it’s late in the evening and you hear from me asking how to spell a word or searching for a better expression, please don’t be too upset or offended, I’m actually asking you to step into and fill some mighty big shoes
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The eleventh commandment
"Thou shalt not piss and moan too much”.I remember while I was going for my bachelors degree, my mother became morbidly ill and was staying at a hospital nearby the campus. After classes I would stop by her room to visit. I must’ve reeked from having smoked a couple of cigarettes, as I neared my mother’s bed she acted as if she was smoking a phantom cigarette, bringing her two fingers close to her lips and taking an imaginary puff. Back then and years later I was a defiant and obstinate smoker, Friends told me that they could smell the smoke all the time. I absolved myself by smoking outside reasoning that the air and wind would prevent the smoke from attaching to me. But the images of my mother reaching out for and smoking an imaginary cig were very profound, unfortunately not shocking enough as I continued to smoke for years after her passing.- I was making my way toward my favorite bus stop when I came upon a homeless woman who had set up temporary quarters at the stop. She was maybe in her mid 30s, looked as if she had been at war with the elements and lost a few battles. The veins in her eyes shot out like bolts from a Tessla coil. She reached down to the seat and picked up an imaginary pipe, pretended to have lighted it and proceeded to take imaginary tokes. What she was smoking could be left to any one’s judgment or imagination including what was left of her’s. But with each hit she became more lethargic. This whole scenario reminded me of the visits with my mother in the hospital. However, I can’t figure what could’ve triggered her actions-except I usually wear a pea coat, maybe I reminded her of someone. But I was upset at the parallel that I made between this woman and my mother. I also became increasingly more upset with my dependence on public transportation. I’m tired of it, I’ve done my part and have played by the rules. I am leaving a small fraction of a percentage of a carbon footprint. I want to drive again! I want to brag about my ride, right now it’s the # 10 bus from Mission Hills toward College Ave. or Old Town. Sort of cramps my style if you catch my drift.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Share a little tea with- - -
- - - Oh how I wish it was Goldie and not Mrs. Palin’s party. I’m getting quite fed up with the hysteria, practically at a national level stirred up by the mouth that bored. Numbers or ratings falling behind? Pick a minority and start bashing. In fact I think that ole Sarah and her starry eyed following should smoke a little of that tea. I can’t help but to recall the movie ’The Russians are coming, The Russians are coming’- with Alan Arkin at the helm of a Russian submarine that inadvertently slips into a New England, Atlantic seaboard town causing panic and mayhem among the villagers. Only now the mantra is’The Mexicans are coming, The Mexicans are coming’- close your windows, lock your doors, talk to your boss and make sure your job is secure-the Mexicans are taking away our jobs, invading our hospitals and stealing from the State coffers to acquire health benefits. Seal the borders, call out the national guard build new fences and barriers. Wasn’t there another country that built a fence/’wall’ around a city to prevent passage? South of San Diego there is a fence that runs all the way into the Pacific Ocean to prevent the immigrants from crossing into the United States and steal American jobs. ALL the way into the Pacific!!-I challenge and defy anyone to provide legitimate and concrete evidence that they lost their job to an illegal immigrant. They won’t, they can’t, they’re too busy being buffaloed by the klutz from the Klondike spewing out her vile and thinly veiled racist remarks seemingly targeting illegal immigration, but in reality aimed at Pennsylvania avenue. What an embarrassment my generation has turned out to be- It wasn’t that long ago that we marched in Selma, Birmingham, and Washington DC to protest the very same thing that we’re part of now. Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, and Jan Brewer- these people are dangerous and to be avoided . Their hateful rhetoric is NO match for the prose and verse that we read and heard in times past.---“like an unchecked cancer, hate corrodes the personality and eats away its vital unity. Hate destroys a man’s sense of values and his objectivity. It causes him to describe the beautiful as ugly and the ugly as beautiful, and to confuse the true with the false and the false with the true”--- Martin Luther King Jr. Lincoln Memorial, Washington DC, August. 1963 . Yes, he had a dream- that all his hippie followers would take their collective sense of values, post them on Ebay and sell out to the highest bidder‘. One of the gubernatorial candidates for the state of California is promising to call out the National Guard and send them to the border if elected. Looks like Black Jack Pershing and Pancho Villa ride again. So think back, before you let Palin, Beck, Limbaugh, and Brewer work you into a state of social stupor, recall the images of the Birmingham fire department hosing the protesters. It happened and can[will] happen again. Share a little tea with everybody. Don’t bogart your opinion.
- Mike
- Mike
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The ghost of Johnny Ramone
Technically it should read the geese of Johnny Ramone. I will explain. Musicians are a superstitious lot. Some time ago my uncle passed away and was interned in a mausoleum very near the grave site of Johnny Ramone, legendary guitarist for the Ramones The cemetery is located in Hollywood, and has many ponds and water fountains situated throughout the grounds. These waterways have become home to many water foul, ducks, and geese, they all roam freely throughout the grounds. I took a break from my uncle’s service and walked over to visit Johnny’s monument. It’s a very impressive bronze statue of John leaning back, knees bent forward, and holding his guitar. His right hand formed a cup as he was holding a pick to strum the strings on the guitar-the left hand was in the third position on the neck as if he was playing one of his famous riffs. In the cup/space made by his holding the pick were laying several actual guitar picks, presumably left there by fans of the Ramones or Johnny- So the debate began- Big sin/little sin-good mojo/bad mojo. I will confess that at that time I had never listened to a Ramone’s recording and that I was pretty unfamiliar with their style of music. But I knew Johnny Ramone to be a great guitarist-soo –I took one of the guitar picks hoping that some of his magic would transmit through it and help me in recapturing my guitar playing ability.All of a sudden, I was surrounded by several geese-all cackling, honking and making a commotion, so I turned and tried to make an exit-But one of the geese in an almost perfect, human like tone of voice cackled or honked out what sounded like to be ‘Michael’! I looked at my sister and asked ,”did you hear that?” She replied that she had and was getting out of the area. So it appeared that I had little choice left. I scooted away the guardian goose and placed the pick back in Johnny’s hand. I was relieved and with sense of alarm dissipating quickly, I was happy to leave the vicinity. This event was a little frightening, even though I wanted to be, I was not sedated. I eventually returned home, picked up my guitar—just in case—but sad to report, there was no spike in my ability to play To those of you who have visited Johnny’s monument and have left a guitar pick in homage to him be assured I did not defile your sacrifice, it’s still there
Friday, December 25, 2009
# 10Measure thrice cut once
Well I have taken this old carpenter adage and adapted it to be my new mantra in life. Even for a task as simple as crossing the street, I look twice to the left and once to the right-while doing that ,I’m reciting in my mind,” left OK, right OK”. Time to cross? No! With the short term memory cross-wired- by the time I’ve gone through this scenario, I feel I had better do it again to be certain, I bruise easily. So welcome to my world – a lot going on upstairs, with less room to process it all.
This little story should be profoundly understood by the caretakers, family, friends and significant (or insignificant) others of those effected by ABI . We have worked hard, some much harder than others, to recover from our initial injuries. While in the hospital, I could barely wait to get home and resume my previous life. There was a pecking order of responsibilities, learn to talk more coherently, walk longer distances and straighter- I tended to veer toward the left [thus my email address’ namesake]- I’ll let you know sometime later, and establish a network of outpatient medical services. The Good news is/was that in a relatively short period of time-on the outside we appear to have made it, turned the corner, and on our way to assume life at the point where we left it temporarily a short time ago. But wait-who’s that guy standing on the street corner turning his head back & forth, left to right as if he’s watching McEnroe give Connors a lesson at Wimbledon. He looks to be OK. I thought so too-I went back to a community college to dip my toes in academia’s waters once again. Having survived relatively unscathed- I decided to go ballistic and get my Masters.
The point of the above diatribe that I am feebly attempting to make is that if left to our own devices and with proper support and guidance, we can make it, succeed and not only return to some semblance of our former selves, but a transformation well beyond that demarcation. Your caretakers, helpers should have a sense of this motivation and desire, be on the same team and they should take advantage of support groups available to assist them with their losses, which can be just as profound as yours. We, the ABI’rs can get too caught up in our own processes and recovery, sometimes failing to recognize the impact our plight has had on those close to you. I was and did.
In a rather poignantly timed, during the holiday season, my very significant other, my private muse decided that my recovery was probably not adequate enough for her own needs. So I spent the Christmas weekend taking sips of a dry shiraz and listening to Joni Mitchell songs-there are no rivers to Skate away on in San Diego
i think i need to completely retune my guitar
Michael
This little story should be profoundly understood by the caretakers, family, friends and significant (or insignificant) others of those effected by ABI . We have worked hard, some much harder than others, to recover from our initial injuries. While in the hospital, I could barely wait to get home and resume my previous life. There was a pecking order of responsibilities, learn to talk more coherently, walk longer distances and straighter- I tended to veer toward the left [thus my email address’ namesake]- I’ll let you know sometime later, and establish a network of outpatient medical services. The Good news is/was that in a relatively short period of time-on the outside we appear to have made it, turned the corner, and on our way to assume life at the point where we left it temporarily a short time ago. But wait-who’s that guy standing on the street corner turning his head back & forth, left to right as if he’s watching McEnroe give Connors a lesson at Wimbledon. He looks to be OK. I thought so too-I went back to a community college to dip my toes in academia’s waters once again. Having survived relatively unscathed- I decided to go ballistic and get my Masters.
The point of the above diatribe that I am feebly attempting to make is that if left to our own devices and with proper support and guidance, we can make it, succeed and not only return to some semblance of our former selves, but a transformation well beyond that demarcation. Your caretakers, helpers should have a sense of this motivation and desire, be on the same team and they should take advantage of support groups available to assist them with their losses, which can be just as profound as yours. We, the ABI’rs can get too caught up in our own processes and recovery, sometimes failing to recognize the impact our plight has had on those close to you. I was and did.
In a rather poignantly timed, during the holiday season, my very significant other, my private muse decided that my recovery was probably not adequate enough for her own needs. So I spent the Christmas weekend taking sips of a dry shiraz and listening to Joni Mitchell songs-there are no rivers to Skate away on in San Diego
i think i need to completely retune my guitar
Michael
Thursday, September 24, 2009
9.The Hand's Rehab Routine is That Nothing is Routine
Every morning at 06:00hrs, I awake and quickly down a cup of green tea, egg white only omelet and toast. This cuisine is complimented by the ingestion of morning medications. Following that feast, I put on the tennies, sneak outside and take a brisk morning walk[Mike] weather permitting, which is nearly every day in Southern Cal. Returning home, I lay on the living room floor and start to count off 15 sit ups[Michael] followed by 25 push ups[Mr. Murphy this is reality checking in]. Actually it’s not that much of a departure from the truth. I can count to 25, got to keep the mental acuity, whether they’re accompanied by any physical regimen is another matter.
Well it’s almost fall here in San Diego. The leaves don’t change much here during fall, one can gauge the advent of the seasons by the length of pants worn It usually ends up being the misplaced Midwesterners, the Packers or Vikings fans who will try to confuse the seasonal signals by wearing shorts and T shirts through all four; During autumn and winter after they have already acclimated to our seasons and show tail-tale signs of a shiver or two. At that point, I like to taunt them a bit by putting on a sweater & coat & remarking about the chill in the air.
So I stay indoors with my devices and gadgets, attempting to revitalize my left arm and hand. My physical therapist gave me a section of this color coded elastic band, like a green translucent piece of inner tube. These bands come in different colors representing different tensile strengths. One needs to simply and carefully tie one end of the green rubber band around a door knob, close the door, and outside of the room of the closed door, go through a series of routines and exercises designed to strengthen the arm.The next device is this ooze named,’Theraputty’--more like silly putty on steroids. Theraputty also comes in different colors, tan through black, representing different densities and levels of resistance. My occupational therapist instructed me to use the putty as often as I can tolerate to help bring the feeling sensation back to my hand at least at the epidermal level. You can roll it, squeeze it, and knead it through your fingers-actually kind of fun. After the fun & games, it’s time to develop ‘Popeye’ fingers. I do this with a device called ‘Gripmaster’, a spring loaded hand grip machine that comes in varying tensions, with individual springs for each finger. This is not your typical stainless steel pretzel, with handles that you used in high school. It’s pretty high tech, some models & makes have adjustable tensile strength per each finger
The coup d’etat of all my routines involves the guitar itself. What is the worst instrument to be in close proximity when someone is first learning it and practicing on a daily basis? Tuba, Drums? –No, I contend it is the violin. How did the families Bell, Rabin, Menuhin, or Grapelli put up with their young prodigy’s practice regimen? Oh those screechy, scratchy, and slurred notes send chills through my spine with just the thought. While I don’t even begin to claim a remote association of talent level to these artists I will admit that my practice annoys me greatly almost to the point of mild depression. To remedy this, I took an old sock and tied it around the neck. No, not mine, the guitar’s- to muffle the sound while I go through my routine of finger picking patterns in hopes to create new neural pathways and muscular motor memory
check that D string,
Michael
Well it’s almost fall here in San Diego. The leaves don’t change much here during fall, one can gauge the advent of the seasons by the length of pants worn It usually ends up being the misplaced Midwesterners, the Packers or Vikings fans who will try to confuse the seasonal signals by wearing shorts and T shirts through all four; During autumn and winter after they have already acclimated to our seasons and show tail-tale signs of a shiver or two. At that point, I like to taunt them a bit by putting on a sweater & coat & remarking about the chill in the air.
So I stay indoors with my devices and gadgets, attempting to revitalize my left arm and hand. My physical therapist gave me a section of this color coded elastic band, like a green translucent piece of inner tube. These bands come in different colors representing different tensile strengths. One needs to simply and carefully tie one end of the green rubber band around a door knob, close the door, and outside of the room of the closed door, go through a series of routines and exercises designed to strengthen the arm.The next device is this ooze named,’Theraputty’--more like silly putty on steroids. Theraputty also comes in different colors, tan through black, representing different densities and levels of resistance. My occupational therapist instructed me to use the putty as often as I can tolerate to help bring the feeling sensation back to my hand at least at the epidermal level. You can roll it, squeeze it, and knead it through your fingers-actually kind of fun. After the fun & games, it’s time to develop ‘Popeye’ fingers. I do this with a device called ‘Gripmaster’, a spring loaded hand grip machine that comes in varying tensions, with individual springs for each finger. This is not your typical stainless steel pretzel, with handles that you used in high school. It’s pretty high tech, some models & makes have adjustable tensile strength per each finger
The coup d’etat of all my routines involves the guitar itself. What is the worst instrument to be in close proximity when someone is first learning it and practicing on a daily basis? Tuba, Drums? –No, I contend it is the violin. How did the families Bell, Rabin, Menuhin, or Grapelli put up with their young prodigy’s practice regimen? Oh those screechy, scratchy, and slurred notes send chills through my spine with just the thought. While I don’t even begin to claim a remote association of talent level to these artists I will admit that my practice annoys me greatly almost to the point of mild depression. To remedy this, I took an old sock and tied it around the neck. No, not mine, the guitar’s- to muffle the sound while I go through my routine of finger picking patterns in hopes to create new neural pathways and muscular motor memory
check that D string,
Michael
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
8.Squeaky wheels that go ungreased become irratating
My friends have critiqued these letters, saying that they are not informative enough, detailed in the early stages of stroke recovery. I chose by design to not delve into the intricacies of my early or immediate recovery following the stroke.What I will admit is that it put a severe emotional, financial, and logistical burden on my family, friends, and loved ones. Very few were left unscathed or uninvolved and my sense of indebtedness and thankfulness becomes overwhelming at times. I hope to honor them all with a complete recovery and to demonstrate to other stroke victims that there is a return to some semblance of normalcy, when you feel empowered enough to write about subjects such as public transportation ordeals.
At this point I must give credit to two organizations that were pivotal in my recovery, first, the San Diego Brain Injury Foundation: (sdbif.org) and the ABI (acquired brain injury classes) held at a local community college here in San Diego. After going to my first ABI class, I felt-at last here I am with people who understand what I’ve been going through, I could just look them in the eye and they knew! During my first class, I was asked to introduce myself and give a brief synopsis of what I had been through. So I stood up and in AA’ish fashion said, “Hi I’m Mike and I had a stroke and I can’t play my guitar anymore’. What I had failed to sense/realize is that there were people there who were struggling with simply the ability to stand up so quickly from a school desk or working with aphasia problems and could barely speak a few words. I was first in the line to sign up for the humility101 class; almost passed
Another reason for not suggesting links or referrals to other websites or agencies is that. Treatment for stroke victims, is constantly in flux and should be tailored to meet the individual requirements, desires, or goals. The key word in the Brain’s ability to recover from a trauma is ‘plasticity’- the ability of the brain to form new neural pathways, to take over or supplement those initially damaged. Had I been more attentive to what my physical and occupational therapists were saying and demonstrated a bit more fortitude to their assignments, I might be performing in that coffee house instead of preparing for it
Besides becoming acquainted with all the appropriate agencies in your area, I would also strongly suggest to become proactive through all phases of your rehabilitation. Once again I would have to acknowledge a key advantage that I had, as mentioned in earlier sections, I’m from a large Irish Catholic family, 6 sisters and 2 brothers,’ the Fighting Murphys’, no not the Sullivans. The full brunt force of the platoon Murphy clan came to my aid, assistance, and advocacy. Without their help, instead of typing words on this keyboard, I probably would have felt pen in hand and would be writing other words on cardboard placards, looking for unused street corners. Yes I am blessed, always have been-seldom acknowledged it.
You really need that electronic tuner?
Mike
At this point I must give credit to two organizations that were pivotal in my recovery, first, the San Diego Brain Injury Foundation: (sdbif.org) and the ABI (acquired brain injury classes) held at a local community college here in San Diego. After going to my first ABI class, I felt-at last here I am with people who understand what I’ve been going through, I could just look them in the eye and they knew! During my first class, I was asked to introduce myself and give a brief synopsis of what I had been through. So I stood up and in AA’ish fashion said, “Hi I’m Mike and I had a stroke and I can’t play my guitar anymore’. What I had failed to sense/realize is that there were people there who were struggling with simply the ability to stand up so quickly from a school desk or working with aphasia problems and could barely speak a few words. I was first in the line to sign up for the humility101 class; almost passed
Another reason for not suggesting links or referrals to other websites or agencies is that. Treatment for stroke victims, is constantly in flux and should be tailored to meet the individual requirements, desires, or goals. The key word in the Brain’s ability to recover from a trauma is ‘plasticity’- the ability of the brain to form new neural pathways, to take over or supplement those initially damaged. Had I been more attentive to what my physical and occupational therapists were saying and demonstrated a bit more fortitude to their assignments, I might be performing in that coffee house instead of preparing for it
Besides becoming acquainted with all the appropriate agencies in your area, I would also strongly suggest to become proactive through all phases of your rehabilitation. Once again I would have to acknowledge a key advantage that I had, as mentioned in earlier sections, I’m from a large Irish Catholic family, 6 sisters and 2 brothers,’ the Fighting Murphys’, no not the Sullivans. The full brunt force of the platoon Murphy clan came to my aid, assistance, and advocacy. Without their help, instead of typing words on this keyboard, I probably would have felt pen in hand and would be writing other words on cardboard placards, looking for unused street corners. Yes I am blessed, always have been-seldom acknowledged it.
You really need that electronic tuner?
Mike
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
7.Schizophrenia,blue meanies or blue tooth
I have 2 degrees and a credential in the behavioral sciences, so when it comes to life’s little oddities I imagine, I’m good- I can handle this. But all the sheepskins from UCLA to SUNY can barely prepare the novice for the experience of riding public transportation.I’m sitting across the bus isle and I’m witnessing someone having what I think is an imaginary conversation to an empty seat. So what would the great Schmoloe do? Attempt to engage, make it a three way exchange, and deduce a proper diagnosis? No, instead I observed more and noticed that not only was this person’s volume level fluctuating, but also that he had some device hanging from or into his ear. Foiled again! Technology scores one over on the science of psychology.- -.
What I have unwontedly become to accept is an overall sense of rudeness by those who use public transportation, especially when it comes to cell phone calls. I don’t know what happens to most people once they place that phone up to their ear. They become completely oblivious to their immediate world and practically with an aire of grandeur and pomposity expect those within earshot to absorb their every word, most of which equates to mindless chatter.
My next complaint is that I do not wish to experience an olfactory replay of someone’s previous meal. I am basically a timid person and having been raised Catholic, I carry an innate sense of guilt. I do not want fingers pointed at me for allegedly having my finger pulled. The cardinal rule for public transportation lies within its name-public-it’s not your exclusive ride, you share the bus or trolley car with twenty or more people. You don’t choose the music or the volume, no smoking, eating, or drinking. We’re all Bozos on this bus, looking to get from point A to B.
your a and b are a little flat,
mike
What I have unwontedly become to accept is an overall sense of rudeness by those who use public transportation, especially when it comes to cell phone calls. I don’t know what happens to most people once they place that phone up to their ear. They become completely oblivious to their immediate world and practically with an aire of grandeur and pomposity expect those within earshot to absorb their every word, most of which equates to mindless chatter.
My next complaint is that I do not wish to experience an olfactory replay of someone’s previous meal. I am basically a timid person and having been raised Catholic, I carry an innate sense of guilt. I do not want fingers pointed at me for allegedly having my finger pulled. The cardinal rule for public transportation lies within its name-public-it’s not your exclusive ride, you share the bus or trolley car with twenty or more people. You don’t choose the music or the volume, no smoking, eating, or drinking. We’re all Bozos on this bus, looking to get from point A to B.
your a and b are a little flat,
mike
Sunday, August 30, 2009
6.Disabilities-are you placard worthy?
Every cloud has its silver lining, in my case it was blue as in blue placard . The stroke took out 25% of my brain concentrating around the right parietal and temporal lobes, earning me an overall diagnosis of ABI, acquired brain injury. ABI is an umbrella term that encompasses most brain injuries acquired after birth. With the current wars in the forefront we’ve become more accustomed to hear about TBI’s, brain injuries as the result of a trauma to the brain. ABC’s anchorman, Bob Woodruff did a courageous and compelling report of his own TBI sustained in his reporting of the war in Iraq and his subsequent recovery. The optimum word in TBI is traumatic and trauma to the brain comes from many sources and not just the battlefield. Car accidents, falls, assaults all contribute to the growing numbers of reported TBI cases.
I was lucky; I dodged a bullet, through the help of family and friends and close proximity to a hospital, I received expeditious care and prevented more serious damage from happening. After the initial recovery and rehabilitation, MY rehab counselors suggested that I apply for disability, with a diagnosis of ABI. Weeks later I received the coveted disabled placard in the mail. Wow front row center in most parking lots & other amenities. While my injuries pale in comparison to those received by Mr. Woodruff, the sense of loss and incapacitation is subjective and not up for review or scrutiny by the parking lot roving vice squads. On too many occasions my girlfriend & I would pull into a disabled space only to be subjected to the leers and sneers of the roving squads. I could almost hear their thoughts, Where’s your wheel chair, walker, or cane? I would then turn toward my girlfriend and say ,”it’s time to gimp it up-give them a show”.Who are these people to cast dispersions on me because I didn’t fit their criteria for who’s entitled to park in the disabled spaces. Am I placard worthy? The state department of motor vehicles has already decided.
stay tuned,
Mike
I was lucky; I dodged a bullet, through the help of family and friends and close proximity to a hospital, I received expeditious care and prevented more serious damage from happening. After the initial recovery and rehabilitation, MY rehab counselors suggested that I apply for disability, with a diagnosis of ABI. Weeks later I received the coveted disabled placard in the mail. Wow front row center in most parking lots & other amenities. While my injuries pale in comparison to those received by Mr. Woodruff, the sense of loss and incapacitation is subjective and not up for review or scrutiny by the parking lot roving vice squads. On too many occasions my girlfriend & I would pull into a disabled space only to be subjected to the leers and sneers of the roving squads. I could almost hear their thoughts, Where’s your wheel chair, walker, or cane? I would then turn toward my girlfriend and say ,”it’s time to gimp it up-give them a show”.Who are these people to cast dispersions on me because I didn’t fit their criteria for who’s entitled to park in the disabled spaces. Am I placard worthy? The state department of motor vehicles has already decided.
stay tuned,
Mike
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
5.I've come to bury seizure,not to praise it
Seizures, who really talks about them? I do and will. Following my stroke I informed my doctors that I still intended to drive my car. Most of them expressed concern about this activity,however I did not understand why. It had been a year after the'event' and I had regained most of my former abilities through extensive rehabilitation and was feeling confident enough to take the car for a little spin around the block.San Diego has been disected several times by major freeways so it takes some considerable navigation of peripheral streets to avoid having to drive on one of them.
It was on a warm ,sunny, postcardish afternoon. I was driving in the marina district of the Harbor, on one of those peripheral streets when my left hand started to tingle in the fingers. Then the hand began to shake,This spread to the whole left arm which began to swing up and down in an erratic motion, at times hitting the ceiling and seat of the vehicle. Like a scene reminiscent of Peter Sellers in 'DR. Stranglove', I had lost complete control of my left arm and knowing nothing about seizures I also had no idea as to what was happening. In a failed effort to gain control of the situation,I grabbed my left arm with my right and tried to put my left hand under my leg,all of this while still driving the car. I remember My last conscious thought was,"this is no good, I've got to hit the brakes.
My next thought was,"who are you?" as I was staring into the face of the EMT person just inches away from mine. The ambulance attendant told me that I had a seizure,grand mal and was on my way to the hospital for treatment.
I've noticed while working in the recovery biz, that a lot of people from less than stellar backrounds use the phrase."I'm so blessed" adnauseam. On that particular day-I was blessed! I could've had that seizure on a freeway- with catastrophic results.Like a scene reminiscent of Paul Newman playing the great Graziano."Somebody up there likes me".
your e is a little flat &
I'm so blessed,
Mike
It was on a warm ,sunny, postcardish afternoon. I was driving in the marina district of the Harbor, on one of those peripheral streets when my left hand started to tingle in the fingers. Then the hand began to shake,This spread to the whole left arm which began to swing up and down in an erratic motion, at times hitting the ceiling and seat of the vehicle. Like a scene reminiscent of Peter Sellers in 'DR. Stranglove', I had lost complete control of my left arm and knowing nothing about seizures I also had no idea as to what was happening. In a failed effort to gain control of the situation,I grabbed my left arm with my right and tried to put my left hand under my leg,all of this while still driving the car. I remember My last conscious thought was,"this is no good, I've got to hit the brakes.
My next thought was,"who are you?" as I was staring into the face of the EMT person just inches away from mine. The ambulance attendant told me that I had a seizure,grand mal and was on my way to the hospital for treatment.
I've noticed while working in the recovery biz, that a lot of people from less than stellar backrounds use the phrase."I'm so blessed" adnauseam. On that particular day-I was blessed! I could've had that seizure on a freeway- with catastrophic results.Like a scene reminiscent of Paul Newman playing the great Graziano."Somebody up there likes me".
your e is a little flat &
I'm so blessed,
Mike
Monday, August 24, 2009
4.The Great Guitar Debate
This section can only get me in trouble. Your first guitar is like your first lover, the memory of every square centimeter of its body becomes firmly entrenched deep within uncharted areas of your cranium. When it becomes time to move on, upgrade to a better instrument. It’s like breaking up- a period of remorse, emptiness followed by the euphoria, excitement, and frustration to find a new guitar,- - -
The two national commercially produced guitars, vying for the coveted, America’s guitar accolade appear to be Martin and Taylor. I live ten miles away from El Cajon, home to Taylor Guitars. One would think that this proximity would skew my
preferences.I also lived in Pennsylvania for close to ten years at least one hundred miles away from Nazareth, Martin’s home town. However, I never made the pilgrimage to the factory. But when push comes to shove- I would have to proclaim Martin
the Harley Davidson of American made guitars. Some might think that this is a dubious entitlement, but Harley has worked hard to maintain their distinctive sound albeit has Martin.
My first guitar a1950Martin 00018 was passed to me by my very 1st guitar mentor, my father, actually I just grabbed it whenever I wanted to play it and at times was reticent to return it back to him. My mother supposedly pawned her engagement ring to make a down payment on the guitar, rendering the instrument beyond priceless. Every Sunday while my mother, a devout catholic, went to mass my father, a devout other than catholic, would sit in their bedroom and go through his litany of western songs. He would sit on the corner of their bed, wearing a baby-blue, tattered, ripped, terrycloth bathrobe singing-strumming and yodeling his way through the likes of , “oh Gualala, wreck of the old 97, tumbling tumble weeds. Not to deny our friends south of the border, my dad also attempted Mariachi music.He did a memorable command performance of ‘Guadalahara’ at the age of 94 just a couple of months ago.
One guitar, two players, one seasoned well versed in many genres and right handed, the other a rookie sweating his way through ‘Puff the Magic Dragon, and south pawed. The solution was inevitable, turn the guitar upside down. My right hand or that part of the brain that controls the right hand recognizes the feel of a Martin neck and can probably identify what fret we’re at from behind
Enough of this ranting and raving, I’m possibly alienating too many of you.Guilds, Gibsons, Breedloves are all excellent instruments. Remember the tenet,
'America's Guitar' on a commercial production scale. Disagree?--Let me know. I will reply.
Stay in tune,
mike
The two national commercially produced guitars, vying for the coveted, America’s guitar accolade appear to be Martin and Taylor. I live ten miles away from El Cajon, home to Taylor Guitars. One would think that this proximity would skew my
preferences.I also lived in Pennsylvania for close to ten years at least one hundred miles away from Nazareth, Martin’s home town. However, I never made the pilgrimage to the factory. But when push comes to shove- I would have to proclaim Martin
the Harley Davidson of American made guitars. Some might think that this is a dubious entitlement, but Harley has worked hard to maintain their distinctive sound albeit has Martin.
My first guitar a1950Martin 00018 was passed to me by my very 1st guitar mentor, my father, actually I just grabbed it whenever I wanted to play it and at times was reticent to return it back to him. My mother supposedly pawned her engagement ring to make a down payment on the guitar, rendering the instrument beyond priceless. Every Sunday while my mother, a devout catholic, went to mass my father, a devout other than catholic, would sit in their bedroom and go through his litany of western songs. He would sit on the corner of their bed, wearing a baby-blue, tattered, ripped, terrycloth bathrobe singing-strumming and yodeling his way through the likes of , “oh Gualala, wreck of the old 97, tumbling tumble weeds. Not to deny our friends south of the border, my dad also attempted Mariachi music.He did a memorable command performance of ‘Guadalahara’ at the age of 94 just a couple of months ago.
One guitar, two players, one seasoned well versed in many genres and right handed, the other a rookie sweating his way through ‘Puff the Magic Dragon, and south pawed. The solution was inevitable, turn the guitar upside down. My right hand or that part of the brain that controls the right hand recognizes the feel of a Martin neck and can probably identify what fret we’re at from behind
Enough of this ranting and raving, I’m possibly alienating too many of you.Guilds, Gibsons, Breedloves are all excellent instruments. Remember the tenet,
'America's Guitar' on a commercial production scale. Disagree?--Let me know. I will reply.
Stay in tune,
mike
Thursday, August 20, 2009
3.coffee houses only the $trong survive
I'm not allowed to drink coffee anymore--I developed a seizure disorder as a result of the stoke . So caffeine[a trigger] is off the intake list. decaf, you say? David Letterman once equated decaf to,"warm brown water". I concur with his assessment,so at this point i have developed a liking for green tea, less caffeine-more antioxidents. Doesn't quite pack the punch as a good ole French roast-sure beats risking having a grand mal.
Well they're really not about coffee.Coffee houses serve a wide array of pastries,beverages,companionship,respite,poetry and music. many a career has been honed or launched in/from coffee houses.San Diego has seen its fair share of them come and go. Of notewothy and lamentable mention is the Heritage in Mission Beach from years back. It is rumored by the artist himself, that Tom Waits use to work and perform there Remaining in that time zone was the Land of Oden and the Candy CO. in La Mesa. Heading back west and tweaking the time machine by decades, Java Joe's in Ocean Beach introduced us to the music of Jewel and Jason Mraz.
So here's the summation-there appears to be a regular set of patrons-i refer to them as grunions who frequent the coffee house venues often yet are unwilling to support them properly, by buying the products being offered for sell or pitching some coins or foldables into the tip jar. Imagine being the owner of one of these establishments,trying to pay your lease,wages, and remaining overhead from the profit margin of coffee and scone sells--pretty tough gig!--solution -charge a cover fee, even on open mike night. Just a couple of bucks or more-it's not going to break the bank. Sure times are tough, but look at the price for a pack of cigs- one always seems to come up with the doe ray for me. They will find it for your cover charge, they want to come in--it will pay your rent & more. Keep your shop alive and thriving. If you see the grunions bringing in and eating their own food, tell them to take it outside
Wow, that felt good to say, with the seizure disorder I'm dependent on public transportation, the DMV takes a dim vue of epileptics behind the wheel. Once I get use to a new coffee house and navigate the buses to get there, I settle into a certain comfort zone and become hesitant to explore further. so support your local coffee bistro, before they get into trouble and have to move on or worse. throw the musicians a couple of bucks also-Be a patron not a putz-support the arts
keep tuning,
Mike
Well they're really not about coffee.Coffee houses serve a wide array of pastries,beverages,companionship,respite,poetry and music. many a career has been honed or launched in/from coffee houses.San Diego has seen its fair share of them come and go. Of notewothy and lamentable mention is the Heritage in Mission Beach from years back. It is rumored by the artist himself, that Tom Waits use to work and perform there Remaining in that time zone was the Land of Oden and the Candy CO. in La Mesa. Heading back west and tweaking the time machine by decades, Java Joe's in Ocean Beach introduced us to the music of Jewel and Jason Mraz.
So here's the summation-there appears to be a regular set of patrons-i refer to them as grunions who frequent the coffee house venues often yet are unwilling to support them properly, by buying the products being offered for sell or pitching some coins or foldables into the tip jar. Imagine being the owner of one of these establishments,trying to pay your lease,wages, and remaining overhead from the profit margin of coffee and scone sells--pretty tough gig!--solution -charge a cover fee, even on open mike night. Just a couple of bucks or more-it's not going to break the bank. Sure times are tough, but look at the price for a pack of cigs- one always seems to come up with the doe ray for me. They will find it for your cover charge, they want to come in--it will pay your rent & more. Keep your shop alive and thriving. If you see the grunions bringing in and eating their own food, tell them to take it outside
Wow, that felt good to say, with the seizure disorder I'm dependent on public transportation, the DMV takes a dim vue of epileptics behind the wheel. Once I get use to a new coffee house and navigate the buses to get there, I settle into a certain comfort zone and become hesitant to explore further. so support your local coffee bistro, before they get into trouble and have to move on or worse. throw the musicians a couple of bucks also-Be a patron not a putz-support the arts
keep tuning,
Mike
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
2.earlier music influences
well it's time to cast a few lines, let out the nets and trawl to bring a few more of you in, I know you're out there. I was, but here I am putting it on the line. I will list my influences in my own personal chronological order of contact.
The first was Peter, Paul, and Mary-and yes I am comfortable enough in my own space to admit that I learned a lot from them. Besides their excellent vocals Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey did some great harmonizing with their guitars and fingerpicking. One would play in the first position while the other capo'd up to the second or third position and blended in with the first.Which one of you will step up to the plate and admit that it took you a while to learn 'Puff-tmd'back then and that once you mastered that Travis style pickin, you felt you were a true folkie--ready for Gerdie's.
Eventually their magic began to fade and new fingerstylists began to reak havoc on my finger tips, taking me to faster and more challenging levels. John Fahey and Leo Kotke kept me occupied for very lengthy periods learning their tricks. but it was up to some guitarists from California, north & south to help bring me to what I then thought was the pinnacle of accousticness. Jorma Kaukonen of Hot Tuna fame teased us all in the beginning of his version of hesitation blues and then left us scratching the top of our heads when he went turbo in the middle portion. I have this recurring nightmare of attempting to perform that song and everyone in the audience drops glasses throughout the entire version. From southern CA, my next vinyl[yes i do have a turntable] mentor is Ry Cooder. In my opinion the 'king of syncopation' was a welcome departure from the repetitious styles of Fahey,Kotke, and Lang. I have always felt that Ry Cooder Has never/yet to receive his just accolades as guitarist extraodinaire. Both he and Jorma have have demonstrated staying power throughout the decades. I have added them to my 'bucket list' of those i would like to see perform.
Well I'm sure i have unintentionally omitted some of your favorites. Add them in the comment section, I'd like to know who I missed. My next diatribe will be on the demise of coffee houses as a venue for accoustic music and then on to the progress of my recovery/rehab.
Stay tuned,
mike
The first was Peter, Paul, and Mary-and yes I am comfortable enough in my own space to admit that I learned a lot from them. Besides their excellent vocals Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey did some great harmonizing with their guitars and fingerpicking. One would play in the first position while the other capo'd up to the second or third position and blended in with the first.Which one of you will step up to the plate and admit that it took you a while to learn 'Puff-tmd'back then and that once you mastered that Travis style pickin, you felt you were a true folkie--ready for Gerdie's.
Eventually their magic began to fade and new fingerstylists began to reak havoc on my finger tips, taking me to faster and more challenging levels. John Fahey and Leo Kotke kept me occupied for very lengthy periods learning their tricks. but it was up to some guitarists from California, north & south to help bring me to what I then thought was the pinnacle of accousticness. Jorma Kaukonen of Hot Tuna fame teased us all in the beginning of his version of hesitation blues and then left us scratching the top of our heads when he went turbo in the middle portion. I have this recurring nightmare of attempting to perform that song and everyone in the audience drops glasses throughout the entire version. From southern CA, my next vinyl[yes i do have a turntable] mentor is Ry Cooder. In my opinion the 'king of syncopation' was a welcome departure from the repetitious styles of Fahey,Kotke, and Lang. I have always felt that Ry Cooder Has never/yet to receive his just accolades as guitarist extraodinaire. Both he and Jorma have have demonstrated staying power throughout the decades. I have added them to my 'bucket list' of those i would like to see perform.
Well I'm sure i have unintentionally omitted some of your favorites. Add them in the comment section, I'd like to know who I missed. My next diatribe will be on the demise of coffee houses as a venue for accoustic music and then on to the progress of my recovery/rehab.
Stay tuned,
mike
Monday, August 17, 2009
1.Lucky Strike/Bad stroke-Recovery-more than 12 steps
More like leaps and bounds, than steps
Well, I recently watched 'julie & julia' and like the other hundreds of thousands I'm not immune from the urge, passion ,or desire to share/exploit my inner most thoughts or rantings on of what's left of my mind with what I imagine to be a fascinated world.
Recovery for me is not in the traditional sense of chemical or alcohol addiction, but rather from the physical effects of a stroke I suffered four years ago. The processes are vaguely the same, the causes are more similar.
Before the stroke, Iwas a slightly accomplished accoustic guitarist-seldom performed-horrible stage fright. My style of guitar playing was/is fingerstylist'cottonpicking, Named after Elisabeth Cotton[for all you 'folkies' she wrote freight train] -she took a right hander's guitar turned it upside down and taught herself to play in that fashion as did I.
My stroke was a right brain ischemic stroke- that effected my left hand's ability to fingerpick. I miss my music like a parent misses a child-I Have dreams about songs i use to play. Everytime I pick up the guitar I am overwhelmed by depression over my inability to play what I use to.
So here's the premise, I will diligently practise every day and develop a left hand rehabilitation routine to expedite a return to my former abilities I calculate this process to take about one year and will document the highs and lows of the journey At the end of that year i will perform at a local coffee house here in San Diego-you'll all be invited 1st cup on me!-- So join me in this blog and share about similar experiences,acoustic music, and addiction/recovery--Bythe way, they weren't Lucky Strikes--Marlboros- to the tune of 3 packs a day, stroke? go figure.Talk to you soon.
mike
Well, I recently watched 'julie & julia' and like the other hundreds of thousands I'm not immune from the urge, passion ,or desire to share/exploit my inner most thoughts or rantings on of what's left of my mind with what I imagine to be a fascinated world.
Recovery for me is not in the traditional sense of chemical or alcohol addiction, but rather from the physical effects of a stroke I suffered four years ago. The processes are vaguely the same, the causes are more similar.
Before the stroke, Iwas a slightly accomplished accoustic guitarist-seldom performed-horrible stage fright. My style of guitar playing was/is fingerstylist'cottonpicking, Named after Elisabeth Cotton[for all you 'folkies' she wrote freight train] -she took a right hander's guitar turned it upside down and taught herself to play in that fashion as did I.
My stroke was a right brain ischemic stroke- that effected my left hand's ability to fingerpick. I miss my music like a parent misses a child-I Have dreams about songs i use to play. Everytime I pick up the guitar I am overwhelmed by depression over my inability to play what I use to.
So here's the premise, I will diligently practise every day and develop a left hand rehabilitation routine to expedite a return to my former abilities I calculate this process to take about one year and will document the highs and lows of the journey At the end of that year i will perform at a local coffee house here in San Diego-you'll all be invited 1st cup on me!-- So join me in this blog and share about similar experiences,acoustic music, and addiction/recovery--Bythe way, they weren't Lucky Strikes--Marlboros- to the tune of 3 packs a day, stroke? go figure.Talk to you soon.
mike
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