Lb4Lb#6: Music for Recuperation

I've written before about the way my body reacts to over the counter cold remedies. People have told me, "People pay good money on the street to feel that way," but I'd rather keep my money and NOT have to deal with the "side effects". As amusing as it might be to have my bedroom furniture talk to me, or to sit and watch the ceiling fan turn rainbow colors while lofting little fairies into the air around me... I'd just as soon stay in control of my own imagination.

Cheer up, honey I hope you can
There is something wrong with me
Radio CureI've been told that certain albums are improved by having your mind artificially expanded.Radioheads keep telling me I'd "get" some of their more obscure stuff if I'd just take a little something to help out, but I like The Wall just fine when I'm cold sober, thank you very much. I think music should stand up on its own, in general.

I have to admit, though, that being wired on cold meds has given certain albums more impact that they would have otherwise had on my cynical brain. Sometimes I don't let them work on the dark, secret parts of my psyche that they are intended for.

So while I won't go seeking them out, my few brushes with the High Life - at perfectly legal and unmodified dosages of Dextromethorphan and Phenylephrine - have given me some appreciation for "pharmacologically enhanced listening experiences"... a "radio cure", if you will.
I wonder why we listen to poets
When nobody gives a fuck
Ashes of American FlagsExperiencing physical weaknesses, along with the usual emotional or spiritual crises, leaves one with time to think about the less obvious ailments. If art has to have a purpose, isn't that a good one?

I was down hard when Wilcocrossed my transom; life was demanding a lot of us, and on top of the long hours of work and commute, I got hit with a pretty serious sinus infection. So, out came the drugs.
I am an American aquarium drinker
I assassin down the avenue
I'm hiding out in the big city blinking
What was I thinking when I let go of you
I Am Trying to Break Your HeartIs there a better way to start an album when you have a fever of 102 degrees Fahrenheit, and are whacked out on decongestant? I swear I could taste the aquarium water, and the fever was causing flashes of light behind my lids anyway.

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot has an interesting story behind it, anyway, which you can track down elsewhere easily enough. For me, the first impression was of a man trying to battle down the dazed delirium of his life and seize the flashes of beauty and joy that he hoped were real before they evaporated into the dream. The teetering balance of breathless harmonies and pleasant pop with the odd and disturbing sound scape creates an effective picture of someone exasperated with his situation, but determined to fix it.

I could certainly relate to that.
Every place around the world it seemed the same
Can't hear the rhythm for the drums
Everybody wants to look the other way
When something wicked this way comes
Jeremiah BluesSometimes, even if you feel it coming and take precautions, sickness can carry you out to sea. Waves of nausea crash over, capsize you and leave you wishing for that blinking city. That's where I was when I ran across The Soul Cages near the end of my college career.

Introspective reflections on his father, and cerebral ocean metaphors were not what the critics wanted from Sting's second solo outing. A lot of Police fans considered this a sign that Sting had "lost it", or had gone soft.

It gave me something to float on while I was drowning, though, and helped me smooth the emotional seas I was navigating. (It didn't hurt that I was recovering from some kind of allergy attack with the help of some anti-histamines, of course.)
Men go crazy in congregations
But they only get better
One by one
All This TimeNothing is a panacea. There is no "one-stop shop", no "one size fits all". Every drug affects everyone differently. These are just two examples of good medicine, taken as needed.

Next time you're down, try these out, and call me in the morning.

Six Little Words: Basic Training pt. I

You are on a bus. It is the middle of the night. You have been awake for twenty hours, and as the bus pulls through a gate guarded by men with machine guns and faces hidden by the shadows from their strangely shaped caps, you see a bizarre line of buildings that appear to have been built upside down. Their ground floor is about half the area of the three upper floors, making it look like a layer cake dropped on its top - a cake made of pale brick with pill-box windows placed high up on the walls. Spotlighting from the ground gives it all an eerie, alien illumination. This will be your home for two months.

The bus pulls up in front of a modular trailer, and you are shuffled off, along with the other riders. You have an envelope with six names on it. The other five people gather loosely around you; strangers who have been told to stay with you because you hold their identities. You are all herded into lines, which slowly file into the short, narrow building full of uniformed men with bulldog faces, bristly haircuts, and a walk that speaks of violence. They don't look at your faces, and if you make eye contact, they will react as if you have physically challenged them. They constantly shout or sneer because you have failed to do something expected of you, or you have done something wrong.

It's as if you are incapable of doing anything right. You stand wrong, you sit wrong, you get up when you are supposed to sit - and don't even think about leaning against a wall or on a table. You try a sheepish grin, hoping for someone to say, "It's alright... just do this." Instead, the person at the desk - Holy Cats, is that supposed to be a woman? - bellows at you: "Are you LAUGHING at me? Get your meat handlers off my desk!"

After another eternity of hurried waiting - going on hour twenty-two - you are herded once again outside. You move in an amorphous mob, like an amoeba with scuffed sneakers and slept-in hair, sheepdogs in camouflage and smokey-the-bear hats nipping at your heels. "Keep moving!" "Hurry UP!" "That way, that way, that way! Did your mother have any children that lived?" Their voices are ice, and their words are chipped stone. Hard, cold edges welcoming you to your new life.

They are ushering your group toward the upside down buildings, cutting out smaller groups and lining them up on the asphalt pads under the overhanging ceilings. Someone barks a number, and it matches the number printed on a card in your hand, so you follow the barking and line up with 49 other dazed sheep in jeans and various T-shirts. Now they start the games.

"Pick up your bags! NO! Not fast enough! Put 'em down! Now, all at the SAME TIME... Pick 'em up...NO!"

"Stand at attention! Do you know HOW to stand at attention? YOU CALL ME 'SIR'! Everything you say will begin with 'Sir'! Sir, yes, SIR! Sir, no, SIR!"

"What does your shirt say? SHUTTUP! I can read! 'Co-ed Naked Firefighter; Find 'Em Hot and Leave 'Em Wet?'... What is THAT supposed to mean?"

Three of them gather around the guy with the Co-ed Naked Shirt. They pepper him with questions, and you stare straight ahead, thanking any god up at this hour that you wore a plain, solid blue shirt today. Yesterday. Whatever. The other guy is flustered, which is the point of this exercise, but he keeps his bearing. He stays at attention, and doesn't look any of them in the eye; they hate that. Unfortunately, he claims not to know what his shirt "means." Why did he wear it? He is slow to answer, and they harangue him.

"Why would you wear a shirt when you don't know what it means?" "Are you dumb? Can't you read it?" "Why would you buy a shirt you can't read? Why would anyone buy a shirt like that?"

"PEER PRESSURE, SIR!"

There is a hanging silence as they all stop yelling, and try to stifle a laugh. He has scored a small point, but one of your fellow newbies fails to hold back a snort, and they are on him like hyenas on a sick zebra. "What are YOU laughing at? Who gave you that haircut? You didn't PAY for that, did you?"

----------

It surprises people when I tell them that I didn't speak for 17 days. I answered questions, and I called cadence. I spoke when spoken to, and gave my reporting statement when required. "Sir, Airman Blogs reports as ordered." They called that the Six Little Words. They made us write it on a slip of paper and repeat it about a thousand times the first morning. For most of us, the boredom was just another test; one of the ongoing mind games, the point usually being to teach us Self-Discipline and Attention to Detail. But, there were still guys that didn't get it.

"Airman Reams reporting as ordered, Sir!"

"WRONG!! Reams, do it again!"

"Sir," Reams flustered, "Airman Reams reporting as ordered!"

"NO! Are you working for a newspaper? No 'reporting'! Do it again!"

"I don't know what you want!" wailed Reams.

"GODDAMMIT, REAMS! YOU CALL ME 'SIR'!!"

No, I didn't speak for 17 days. That was how long it took for them to decide to get rid of Reams.

The Six Little Words weren't the only words Reams had trouble with. He was constantly drawing fire for making dumb little mistakes, and when they came after him, his eyes rolled in his head, and he wailed like a whipped dog. He was nervous all the time, always casting paranoid looks at the rest of us. We tried to help him, but he seemed to blame us for watching his disgrace, and he reacted with defensiveness and suspicion. It was like trying to free a dog with a paw caught in a chain-link fence; he snaps at you and won't let you near him, and whines because you won't set him loose.

He wasn't entirely a victim. They gave him every chance to get with it. I heard the sergeant pull him aside and talk to him in the Calm Voice - the voice of an actual human coming from someone in authority almost brought me to tears as he explained to Reams, "We aren't trying to hurt you. We're putting you under stress so you can learn to function as if you were in combat. You need to learn to take orders and do your job no matter what. We have to be sure you won't fold under pressure. You haven't shown me that you get it, yet."

It was nothing we hadn't been told before; they made no effort to conceal the fact that this was one long, grinding mind game. Marines have to be tough, so they run. The Army has to be combat ready, so they yell "hoo-ah" a lot. Navy guys have to deal with ship-life, so they are taught to swim. We in the Air Force were mostly headed for "behind the lines" duty; administrative support, medical, intelligence, even flight line is well back from the "front" in modern warfare. They wanted to pick at us, needle us, erode our patience, just so they could be sure we weren't going to go nuts someday and kill everyone in our office over some small thing.

We had it better than the other branches of service, and we knew it; but we all needed some basic training in dealing with authority and working under pressure, and that was what they were giving us. (Not to mention some valuable lessons in hygiene and living among other people, which some needed more than others!) Everyone seemed to understand that. Except for Reams.

It was as if he refused to understand what he was supposed to be doing. He wouldn't talk to anyone, except to complain. He wouldn't do his details, never made his bed right, always left something unlocked or unsecured. If we pointed out a mistake he would grow sly, sneer at us and accuse us of picking on him; if we let him get caught making a mistake, he would cry - literally, with real tears - that we weren't watching out for him. The final straw came the day we went to the medical center for blood testing.

Our flight was fifth or sixth in line that day, standing in formation in front of the building in the hot, San Antonio sunshine. The medical center was across the street from the shoppette, where we had been allowed to go our first week to buy essentials; toothpaste, razors, small uniform items, etc. Reams kept glancing over at the vending machines and pay phones, muttering under his breath. Finally, when all of the instructors had their backs turned at the same time, he made his move.

"I've gotta call my mom," he said, and set out straight for the little building across the street. Two hundred and fifty silent airmen stood at attention, no one quite sure what to do. We couldn't stop him without getting into trouble ourselves, and no one wanted to be the one to rat him out. But someone finally uttered a timid "Sir?" A familiar bulldog face turned back toward us, annoyed... and spotted the tall, gangling form of Reams as he disappeared into the shoppette.

We expected quite a show; shouting, running, perhaps even some physical violence. Instead, our sergeant quietly asked one of the other instructors to keep an eye on us, and left. We filed through the building, gave up our blood, and were marched home, where we went straight to our day room and sat quietly on the floor, waiting.

For us, the worse thing that could be done to us, among all of the punishments at their disposal, was Recycling. To be Recycled, taken out of your flight and put back with a "younger" one - people who were two weeks behind yours, and thus, two weeks further from graduating from Basic Military Training - that was considered the ultimate horrible fate. We had received two Recyclees from older flights ourselves; they were pathetic, broken little men. They were obviously simple, terrified, and dismal at their duties. But they had tried harder than Reams had, and we had done our best to make them welcome.

We couldn't imagine anything worse that Recycling, except, perversely, being kicked out. There had been rumors about those few who had disappeared after only one or two nights. Utter losers who hadn't been able to handle even Air Force basic training, and had quietly gone to the commander and asked to be released. Prevailing opinion was that they shouldn't have signed up if they couldn't go the distance; this was a game for adults, not little children who changed their minds and ran home to mommy! The only thing left for that kind of loser - and this opinion was expressed by everyone up to and including the squadron commander - would be a job in a paper hat, serving fried food to people for the rest of said loser's miserable life. Even Recycling was better than that.

After an hour or so of intense silence, broken by uncomfortable whispers, we heard the door guard let someone in. We heard the taps on his boots as he strode down the hall. He burst into the room, a look on his face that was a mixture of irked annoyance, and minor triumph. "Well, Flight, Airman Reams will not be joining us for chow tonight. He has decided that learning the Six Little Words was just too hard. He will have to learn a different Six Little Words."

We were stunned. We felt partially responsible, maybe out of a sense of duty to a 'comrade at arms'; maybe just because we couldn't save him. We also felt relief that we wouldn't have to put up with his crap any more. I think it was this relief that tripped me up. Relief loosened my tongue, and after maintaining a low profile with my 17-day silence, I hazarded a guess as to which Six Little Words Reams would have to learn: "Would you like fries with that?"

Forty-nine airmen and one sergeant burst into laughter, and all eyes focused on me. For a brief moment, I basked in the bonhomie, and the attention, but my blood ran cold the next moment, as the sergeant leveled his glittering, rattlesnake eyes at mine and said, "A funny guy, huh? I'll have to keep my eye on YOU, now!"

To be continued...

Fishing With Dad

Originally posted Wednesday, August 11, 2004

I love my dad. Even better, I know my dad loves me. The only trouble is that we are very much alike.

Oh, sure, growing up I used to hear some of the "small town chatter" that people of my grandparents' generation still believed about fathers and sons. Talk of the way Dr. Eismann's boy acted just like his old man, right down to sitting on his foot when he spoke to people. The whole "he has his eyes and her nose" game they play with newborn babies. I always blew that stuff off until I saw my own sons turning into me. Then I began to look at my dad in a whole new way.

I mentioned one time how I had noticed that I was beginning to turn into him, and he blanched in horror. "I'm so sorry," he said. We laughed about it, too, but there was no denying that sense of dread that men of our line were inescapably cursed to be...well, to be like us. Easy-going, funny, amiable, and yet, hapless. A little accident prone. Somewhat likely to say the wrong thing in public when we got nervous. Nothing flamboyantly evil or wrong, but just us. Frustratingly and unavoidably passing along some kind of dork gene.

My grandfather had a history of clumsiness. He used to restore Volkswagen Beetles - the old kind that used to come to life in movies - and no matter how careful he was, he always picked up some new and unlikely injury. The trunk lid would fall on his arm when he reached for a tool. A fender would leap off the car and crush his toe. Once a tire exploded while he filled it with air. One car was particularly creative, leaving his arms all scabbed up like a nine-year-old skateboard novice: he named it Fang and painted it a horrible shade of orange out of spite.

Dad's luck was more subtly bad, and of a more self-inflicted nature. On long car trips, when we made a rest stop, he would accidentally lock the keys in the car. At church picnics, if he was asked to carry any food into the church, he would slip and drop whatever dish or pie he held top-down on the floor. (He quickly learned to only carry unbreakable things with lids.) I recall one occasion when, after locking the keys in the car while picking my sister and I up at school, we had to cross a busy road to get to my mom and her spare set of keys. Half-way across, while cautioning us to be careful and not to run, his shoes slipped on the hot tarmac. As he went down, flat on his back, he shoved us up onto the curb with his last bit of balance. That was my dad; hapless, but always heroic.

I think it was his resistance to this haplessness that made him so careful. He always had a number of little projects going on; house repair, car repair, painting, mending, landscaping. He always focused hard on things he did around the house, and didn't like it when I came around distracting him. It's not that he didn't want me around; he was just too used to doing these things alone by the time I was old enough to take an interest in them. For my part, I was perfectly content to wander about in my little fantasy world, playing "Star Wars" or "Indiana Jones" by myself. Whenever I got too close to what he was working on, he would gently mention something else I could be doing.

After he had finished the project at hand, he would always come find me to play ball, or go swimming. I think now that he must have felt bad for excluding me, though I didn't take it that way. I never felt neglected at all. Even if I had, I really couldn't blame him; after all, I am his son. I am the Crown Prince of Accidents.

I am the kid that was playing on the frame of his pickup truck while he tied down a full load of lumber the summer he built our cabin in Colorado. Just as he cinched the last knot around the last bundle of 2X4's, there was the soft but definite *POP*Hiissssssss..... of me stepping on the valve stem of his right rear tire. I am also the kid that threw a softball to him while he wasn't looking, and popped him in the nose - this happened on the same day that his bandages came off from the surgery on his "doubly deviated septum".

I think it was my flamboyant display of haplessness that led him to seize that chance to prod me into the military. Of all of the slackers in my generation, I had shown a special talent for apathy and my shoulder muscles were overdeveloped from all of the shrugging I had done.

"What are you going to major in?" Shrug. "What school will you go to?" Shrug. "How are you going to pay for it?" Shrug. "What kind of job are you going to get?" Shrug.

Dad didn't exactly call the recruiter and tell them to come and get me, but after I signed the papers, he acted like he had. His guilt was palpable. I tried to reassure him, telling him that if I hadn't thought it was a good idea I wouldn't have signed up. We weren't at war at the time, and despite the prevailing family trait, he and grandpa had both survived the Army, hadn't they? Besides, I was going into one of the more cerebral desk jobs in the Air Force. (As we were to find out later, there was no way they were ever going to let me so much as look at a weapon.)

He still felt a pang every time we talked about it, though. It was a whole long month before I was to ship out, and while I got more and more excited about the idea of moving on, he seemed more and more concerned. Until one afternoon, when he came to me with a twinkle in his eye and invited me to go fishing.

I knew he had bought a boat. I had seen it under the tarp in the back yard. I also knew that it wasn't ready; most of his projects of late had been related to boat repair. At last, he had made it lake-worthy, and was ready to go. He wanted one last father/son event before I left, and I agreed whole-heartedly.

We dragged out of bed at 3:30 the next morning, packed a cooler full of sandwiches, sodas, and snacks. He waved me off while he hitched up the trailer, so I dozed in the cab of the truck until we were ready. It was about a 45 minute ride to the lake. There were about half a dozen other boats ahead of us at the little concrete launch slip. When our turn came, dawn was creeping over the circle of low hills (we in Arizona called them "mountains") around the lake. The lake was still steely gray and in shadow, while the hills erupted with gold rods of light. Half an hour more, and the dome overhead would already be a pale blue, and the lake would already have overflowed with glare and would have started casting shards of it back at the sun. It would have been nice to see.

However, being who we were, it wasn't meant to be. Our turn came, and I stood by the water, guiding dad as he backed the trailer down into the lake. He set the brake, came back, and we shoved it off. I held the rope as he went and parked, pulling the boat along the little rocky shore so someone else could launch. Dad came down, and we hopped in. The water was lower than either of us had ever seen it, what with the drought being in its third or fourth year. Dad wanted to row out a good distance before firing up the motor. We got out about 100 yards, almost halfway to the line of buoys marking the edge of the lake proper. Dad dropped the engine down and fired it up.

Vrrrr-RRROOOMMMMM!!! *clank*

It was a small sound, like a rock off your windshield. He almost tried to start it again, but thought better of it. When he pulled the engine back up, the propeller was already ruined. It looked like a rose; all of the "petals" were folded up and in on each other. Dad looked down into the water, and saw the large, concrete block that we could see in the settling murk. He uttered the worst profanity I ever heard him use: "Crap." Then his jaw set, and he unshipped the oars.

Yeah, it was funny later. We chuckled wryly over it seven years later, in fact, after I had served my time and returned home with a growing family. He was standing on a chair, helping me put up a shelf in the laundry room. The baby-gate was up across the hallway to keep my son from getting into the nails.

"I better watch it. I'm getting to be as bad as your grandfather, clumsy-wise," he was saying.

Just then, he whacked his thumb with the hammer. Startled, I leapt forward to catch him, and only managed to upset the box of nails. Dad shook his head as they scattered everywhere.

"Well," he said, shaking his head good-naturedly and nursing his thumb, "there's still hope for the boys." The older boy chose that moment to charge around the corner, and ran headlong into the gate, which gave out. After a brief flurry, he landed on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and gripping the gate which lay on his chest.

We sat there, not wanting to laugh, and watching pained, embarrassed, or dazed expressions alternate on our strikingly similar faces. Three generations of hapless men, slowly turning into each other.

"Okay," said Dad, "There's still one more boy."

Part Two: Saying Goodbye

Originally posted Sunday, July 25, 2004

My recruiter told me to stay out of trouble. I was shipping out to basic training in two weeks, and all of the paperwork was done; if I got so much as a speeding ticket, it would screw everything up. I figured I was a pretty easygoing fellow, staying out of trouble should be easy, right?

I tried to have some last minute fun, went crazy and saw some concerts with my friends. Saw Elvis Costello with the Crash Test Dummies, Huey Lewis and the News, and even Kenny Loggins (thanks to the State Fair). Believe it or not, that was great. The last weekend before I was to leave, my oldest friend, Brian, came up with tickets to Jesus Christ Superstar.

Now, Brian and I had known each other since at least seventh grade, when we sat next to each other in band. In all that time, he never expressed any desire to learn to drive or to saddle himself with the expense and bother of owning a car. Until now. We were going to travel across town to Gammage Auditorium to see Jesus Christ Superstar in his brand new - to him - 1978 Honda Civic. He had, inevitably, dubbed it "The Beast."

I lived in my parents' house in the extreme northwest of Phoenix, and Arizona State University is in Tempe, located to the southeast of Phoenix. About 40 miles in The Beast.

We made it, and parked, and waded through the picket lines. Four nuns were marching with signs that said "Don't Make Fun of My Lord" or "The Savior Isn't Silly" in front of the theater. A couple of fundamentalist types were standing off to one side smoldering at the Catholics for trumping their own demonstration. It made me nervous, and I planned to head for exits on the other side of the theater if they started rioting.

The show was great, though they went a little too "campy" during Herod's big scene. It was the scene the protesters objected to, of course. Herod was dancing around in a leather S&M suit, smacking his butt and vamping around Jesus, who stood stoically at center stage. I leaned over to Brian and pointed out that Herod's mockery of Jesus is recorded in the Bible, but you never see anyone protest at the book stores. On our way out, we wondered whether the picketing nuns might have appreciated this point... but this conversation died a quick death when we got to The Beast.

The Beast had developed a problem while we were inside enjoying ourselves: three flat tires. One of them was the spare. After a bit of head scratching, we decided to limp the aged monster across the street to a filling station and try to inflate them for the ride home. Our plan was to see how far we could get before they went flat again, thinking we could leapfrog across town from air pump to air pump. The only danger there was in running out of quarters.

Alas, after filling them up, they were flat again after half a block. We debated turning around to go back to the filling station when I recognized the neighborhood we were in, and suggested that we stop at Bronwyn's place. Bronwyn was my former roommate. He had returned from his summer in South Africa to attend ASU, and set himself up in a tiny little one-bedroom place not far from the campus. We invaded his house, and tried to phone Brian's dad to come and rescue us. No answer.

"It's alright," said Bronwyn. "I'm borrowing a car for the summer. I'll just run you back to Glendale, and you can come pick up The Beast tomorrow." Brilliant!

So, we piled into a tiny little two-door contraption belonging to one of Bronwyn's classmates, an exchange student from Bangladesh, who had left the car, but no insurance or registration documents.

"Well," I said, "just don't get pulled over, because I can't afford any trouble this close to shipping out."

Brian was dejected. His "new" car was a bust, and he was fuming over the possible costs of getting it repaired, towed, and otherwise relocated back to our side of town. As he fumed, he smoked Camel after Camel, flicking the ashes carelessly out the sunroof. Most of them made it out of the car, but I had to duck a few stray cinders that blew back into the microscopic back seat, where I had folded myself up like a very heavy map.

We were cruising down the road, laughing at our own absurdity, when I began to choke on smoke. It didn't smell like cigarettes, though. I looked down, and saw that it was pouring out from UNDER the driver's seat.

Bronwyn noticed it at about the same time, and began furiously changing lanes, trying to get to the side of the road. We careened across eight lanes of traffic, screaming as thickening, blackening smoke poured out the windows. The car finally stopped, and Bronwyn and Brian leapt from the car like it was about to explode, leaving me stuck in the back. I frantically reached around looking for the latch that would release me from the charbroiler I was trapped in, and realized that there was no way out. I heard yelling from outside the car, and heard Brian fumbling around, trying to rescue me. I slipped, and landed head first on the floor of the car, which was littered with papers, and came eye to flame with the smoldering upholstery.

Then I saw salvation: a water bottle!

I unscrewed the cap, and tried to dump the contents on the glowing edges of the carpet, but couldn't fit the bottle under the seat. I tried pouring the water into my hand, but there just wasn't enough room for maneuverability. Somehow, though, I managed to soak some of the papers and stifle the flames. The thick, plastic-smelling reek began to clear, and Brian finally managed to work the latch and hauled me out by the ankles into the relatively fresh air along the side of the highway.

We sat on the berm looking down at the car for a long time, making sure the smoke didn't start up again, and watching for emergency vehicles. Four cops passed us, and didn't notice three smoke-streaked college guys with panic-stricken eyes sitting there on the side of the highway.

Then, since these tragedies happen in threes, Brian asked, "Where are my keys?"

After a brief search of the car, he looked down at the road... And saw there, eight feet down in the only sewer grate for ten miles, the glint of metal from his keys. There was nothing that could be done, but pile back into our illegal firetrap and make our way north.

By the time we got to Brian's place, we were dirty and desperate. We only wanted a drink, and a soft couch to collapse into. My plan was to crash there and call my folks for a ride in the morning.

Except that we couldn't get into the house. Brian's parents were gone, the house was dark, and not one car sat in the driveway. We just looked at each other for a long minute. Both of us were probably thinking the same thing: This will be funny in a few years.

Fortunately, we didn't get caught breaking into his house, since I was supposed to be staying out of trouble.


Next: Six Little Words

Dog Blog: The Death of Doots

From a dog's perspective, it is difficult to see a story unfold. The distractions that bound out of bushes and cause one to charge to the end of the lead - not to mention the sudden, sharp yank that results - make keen observation difficult. The beauty and wonder of the variety of smells defy the description of mere words. And the perplexing behavior of the giant, pink gods that control food, water, and access to the outdoors are frequently a mystery that only becomes clear at distant intervals.

Most of the time I lie around listening to them. The little ones babble and squabble, the bigger ones charge about, moving things and grumbling. There is a lot of noise, and little excitement. But there is something to be said for listening.

I have told some of the tales of the terrorist rabbits, and I shared some of my more embarrassing moments. I even told the story of my friend, the mouse, which was probably not one of the best series of choices I have made. Since then, a lot of waiting has gone on, and a lot of significant events.

The most significant thing, other than waiting for dead mice to show up, was this thing called "vacation". I have been to visit someone called Dr. Andrew several times, mostly to have my nails clipped, and to get shots. You would think this would spoil the allure of Dr. Andrew, but there is just something about him that I find enchanting. I think... maybe... I have a crush on Dr. Andrew.

But it's always been an intermittent thing, since I see him so rarely. But a few weeks ago, the people packed me and some of my things into the car, and took me to Dr. Andrew's office. I was thrilled, until they all hugged me, and petted me, and sent me back... and left me there!

My first thought was that they had gotten tired of me, or blamed me for the mouse situation, and I was being given away. But then Dr. Andrew came in, and it finally sank in that it wasn't supposed to be a "forever" kind of thing. Not that I have any concept of time, but it Dr. Andrew says it's alright, then it's alright.

We had a good time; I spent most of my days with the staff (since I still can't stand other dogs). And eventually, the family came back. We had a joyful/tearful reunion, and we came back to a house that felt... different.

Before leaving, I knew the big folks had made an extra effort to super-clean, and lock up and trace of food. And they set out extra poison and traps all over the place. But the poison was gone, and the traps had been empty when they got back. There were doots all over the usual places. At least they couldn't blame me, since I'd been in the klink.

Things were morose and tense, partly from "coming down" off their vacation high; partly from having to face the mouse problem. And then the other morning, the Hairy Guy went downstairs for a bag of human kibble - they call it "cereal" - and he came back up in a frenzied state of joy. He woke up the Mom Lady, so I knew it was serious.

"We got one!" he announced.

"What?"

"Dead mouse! Downstairs!"

"Ew! Throw it away!"

"I will," he said, chuckling. "Did you want to see it?"

"No!"

So, he grabbed a ziploc bag, and a few minutes later, he brought it upstairs. He didn't try to show it to me; he's not cruel that way. But I saw it. He was a little bigger than last time I saw him, but it was Doots.

The people are happy, now. There has been a victory, and a trophy, even if they did chuck it in the bin. But they're still waiting, and so am I. Because we all know there have to be more, hiding somewhere, working up the nerve to appear.

And what will happen when they do?

Lb4Lb#5: But We're Okay, We're Fine

I wanna clear my head,
I wanna drink that sun,
I'm gonna love you good and strong
While our love is good and young.
- Get Out The MapNormally, this "lb4lb" thing is about an album (or two) that particularly moved me in some way. Nothing is as frustrating as buying an entire CD that only has one or two tracks that you really like on it; and few things are as satisfying as finding a collection of songs that flow together and keep you coming back for the whole set.

But THIS time, I want to talk about a "lb4lb" career.

The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life, after all.
- Closer to fineFolk music doesn't get paid the respect it deserves, partly because folk fans pay it FAR too much respect. It's an art form based on intimacy, and the fandom associated with other genres simply spoils the effect.

Nothing kills the joy of listening to Peter Paul and Mary like hearing someone blather on about the symbolism of Puff The Magic Dragon. (I know it's a work of subtle genius, man, you don't need to explain why!) Nothing makes a noble Woody Guthrie protest song more boring than hearing about how noble and historic it is.

(That's not to say covering folk isn't a great idea. Billy Bragg and Wilco paid a fine tribute to Woody with Mermaid Avenue and Mermaid Avenue Vol. 2; and Bruce Springsteen didPete Seeger proud with We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions.)

Folk is at its best when it is left alone; a troubadour with an instrument. A guitar, three chords, and the Truth. And a little bit of history.

All the shiny little trinkets of temptation
(make new friends)
Something new instead of something old
(but keep the old)
All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface
(but remember what is gold)
And it's fools gold
- Power Of TwoThey've played with Michael Stipe of R.E.M. They toured with The B-52's bassist, Sara Lee. Stephen King set part of a novel around one of their concerts. They sell out tours around the world.

But, there is no reason on earth why the Indigo Girls should be so damned popular. They don't get airplay. They aren't "pretty". Their songs are arguably "all the same" (unless you're actually listening to them). If you're looking at surfaces, theirs is dusty, and someone has written, "Best Buy is that way" in the dust to help move you on.

Scratch beneath that surface, though... you see denim. You feel the calluses on your fingertips. You might smell some weed smoke. But you'll hear those voices. You'll look up to see two women with guitars, and you will swear they are angels giving you something that will change your life.

My friend tanner she says you know
Me and jesus were of the same heart
The only thing that keeps us distant
Is that I keep fuckin up
- Shame On YouI don't really know many facts about Amy Ray and Emily Saliers; I heard they were Christians, I heard they were lesbians. I heard they used to be a couple, and I heard...

I heard the music.

That's all that matters, in the end. There is nothing I can say as a fan that will matter, or make a difference to you. But if you listen to that music, those words.

It took a long time to
become the thing I am to you.
And you won't tear it apart
without a fight, without a heart.
- Become YouThey are tough, honest, beautiful. You won't care about every song on every album; at least, not at first. But they will speak to you, and you will feel something; and it will be like the realization that part of you was asleep. Something you didn't know was hurting will be soothed.

When we get a little distance some things get clearer
Give em the space our hearts grow nearer
I ran as hard as I could and still ended up here
but it's alright
- It's Alright

Part One: How did THAT happen?

Originally posted Saturday, July 17, 2004

I'd had a terrible year. 1993.

It might have made a great country song if I had changed a few of the details. My girlfriend completed a rather drawn-out breaking up process, my roommate went home to South Africa, I lost a great job, and my Datsun's transmission failed on the way home from Tucson (where the now-ex-girlfriend had given me the boot). I ended up moving back into my parents' house, which seemed to have shrunk a bit in the 9 months since I had moved out. And, most telling of all, walking the five miles to work at the Wards department store in the mall was the best prospect I had going.

Things dragged on, and steadily drifted downward over the course of that summer. I had a brief affair with a girl I didn't like, which alienated my best friend because he DID like her. My parents anxiously brooded off-stage, hoping I would pull my head out and grow up. I took small comfort from the small friends - one of the Southern variety, the other of the Philip Morris variety - which I pretended not to have, and my parents pretended not to notice. School started, and for the first time since I was five years old, I wasn't going.

Basically, I could do nothing right, and wasn't sure how to turn it all around.

I still had my dignity, though. Well, maybe not. But, as the song says, Ob-la-di Ob-la-da... and something about a bra. I mustered what professionalism I had, and tried to figure out how I was going to pay for the next semester of school while working in housewares. The job itself wasn't bad. It was a step and a half up from the bottom-feeding drudgery of telemarketing, or the series of grocery stores I had been working at for seven of the eight preceding summers.

With a little effort, I was able to deal with people cheerfully day after day. After a while, I became the "problem" guy; which didn't mean that I was the one causing trouble, for a change. Any customer that one of my co-workers couldn't handle would be thrust my way as though I had some imaginary authority. If I may brag a little, I was good at it.

One lady, for example, was a regular problem; she would bring in all of the junk mail she had collected every two weeks like clockwork. Because she had a store card, a large portion of that mail was from Wards, and she seemed to think that we were personally stuffing all of the envelopes there in our housewares department and sending them to her as some kind of personal attack.

She was wheelchair bound, immensely fat, and also a victim of throat cancer - which had left her with one of those voice boxes that generates a horrible mockery of human speech in lieu of an actual voice. Her husband acted the part of the tall, gaunt, and silent valet who propelled her wherever she wanted to go under a fusillade of unintelligible, computer-generated barks from the voice box. Whoever was at the counter when she arrived would be met with his blank, fishy stare and her robotic tirade compounded by the added assault of stacks of unopened fliers, circulars, coupon books, pre-approved applications, and full-color advertisements being hurled at the counter top. Invariably, they sent for me, because I could understand her.

One afternoon, while helping two flamboyantly homosexual men in matching ruffled leisure suits select throw pillows for their couch, I heard the bi-weekly cyber-attack starting up on Michelle, our newest employee. "Chintz!" I said, tossing an armful of pillows at the indecisive couple, and whirled to Michelle's rescue, leaving them to argue in lisping Spanish over the relative merits of magenta versus burgundy.

"NGET UZ OVF YERR GODDAMNG NGAILING LISZT!" I heard, followed by the soft thump of mail on formica.

"Let me help you, Mrs. Foster," I said, smoothly. She wouldn't be happy until I "called corporate" and set them straight. I dialled Gary, the owner of the tobacco shop next door, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't remove Mrs. Foster from our mailing list, I would testify in court that he wore women's undergarments and abused zoo animals. Or something like that. Mr. Foster nodded solemnly and eyed a pile of toaster ovens.

Meanwhile, a man had wandered over from the lighting department with a set of almost-matching lamp shades. I tried to ignore the brewing storm as Michelle began to argue with him about the price that came up on the register. I had my hands full appeasing the Robot Queen.

"You got the cyber-twins over there?" Gary was asking on the phone.

"Yes, sir," I replied in my sternest tone, "And if you don't stop sending them our fliers, we will lose their business forever!" (They had never bought a single thing from us that I was aware of.)

"Hee hee, thanks for the warning!" Gary said. "I'll take my break before they get here! Even I don't feel right selling her all those cigarettes!"

"But the sign says '20% off', and it's sitting there with these shades," the other man was insisting to Michelle.

"Well, it's ringing up at $10 each, that must be the sale price," Michelle said. She was casting me anguished looks, begging to be bailed out.

I hung up the phone, and turned back to the Fosters. "If you get any more mail from them, you let ME know," I told them, and sympathetically dumped their letters into the trash bin. They rolled away, satisfied... until the next mail delivery.

"Help me get rid of this guy," Michelle whispered at me behind her hand.

"Why don't you just give him the discount?" I asked. "It's only two bucks."

She paled at the suggestion. "Not on MY account! Won't they fire me for that?"

Not wanting to argue in front of him, I turned to the man with the shades. "Where was the sign, sir?" He showed me; it wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't even one of our signs; some joker had brought it over from another store. This guy didn't care about that, though. He by-God wanted those lampshades, and he by-God wanted a deal! I just wanted him to go away.

So, I logged in on a register, rang him up - with the discount - and took his money. "You have a nice day, sir," I said, as sincerely as I ever say it. Just between us, whenever I say the word "sir", it has a special meaning in my mind; an acronym suggesting a profane act combined with criticism of the mental capacity of the one being "sirred." Unless, of course, I respect you.

The man smiled, and cocked his head to one side. "You know," he said, "that showed a great deal of professionalism and leadership. Have you ever considered a career in the military?" I demurred, without laughing. He handed me a business card. "I'm an Air Force recruiter down at the Processing station in downtown Phoenix. Give me a call sometime, and we can talk about getting you out of retail." I politely tucked the card into my breast pocket.

Dad picked me up from work that night, and asked how my day went. I was dying for a cigarette, but didn't want him to know I had ever so much as seen one lit. I reflexively brushed the breast pocket of my shirt, where my smokes had formerly resided, and remembered the card.

"I was offered a job in the Air Force," I said, laughing.

Dad didn't laugh.

Next Week: Saying Goodbye