KEEPING UP WITH THE COCK AND BULLIONS

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

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

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.

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

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

# 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

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