Had To Share This

Got this one from the good Dr. Zaius. Had to share it right away.

http://www.zaiusnation.blogspot.com/

The "Shit Hits The Fan" Friday Random Ten

I started nursing school this week. In between kids, work and a huge amount of studying, I'm trying to continue blogging. The shit has hit the fan.

1. Tombstone Blues- Bob Dylan
2. The World Turns Around Her- The Byrds
3. People Take Pictures of Each Other- The Kinks
4. Blue Hotel Room- Joni Mitchell
5. Work Out- The Fondas
6. Interstate Love Song- Stone Temple Pilots
7. It's Too Late- Amy Grant
8. Waiting For The Big One- Peter Gabriel
9. Fat Man In The Bathtub- Little Feat
10. Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll- Ian Dury and the Blockheads


Notes:
1. The second track on the terrific "Highway 61" album.
2. I hear this one a lot on Little Steven's Underground Garage.
3. From "The Village Preservation Society" album, which has really grown on me in recent years.
4. Recently Netflixed a great dvd, "Refuge of the Roads," about the tour that supported "Hejira," the album this is from.
5. Love these Detroit rockers!
6. We bought this one on Rock Band recently. I love singing this one.
7. This was from a Carole King tribute album that came out in the nineties. It's one of those rare covers that does justice to the original. Found myself playing both the original and cover during my two divorces. The line "Still I'm glad for what we had and how I once loved you" is one of my favorites ever.
8. A wryly humorous song from Peter Gabriel's first post-Genesis solo album.
9. Little Feat was formed when Frank Zappa recognized how good Lowell George was and told him he needed to leave the Mothers of Invention and form his own band. Thankfully he followed Zappa's advice.
10. Loved hearing this song on the radio when I was in high school in the late seventies. Of the three things, I was getting only Rock and Roll.

The Beginning

In January, I had what I thought was my annual bout of bronchitis. I started coughing constantly, all day and all night. It was so bad, I had to sleep in another room so that Kim could sleep-- I was even coughing in my sleep.

Years ago, I read a statistic that said that married men live longer than unmarried men. I think that there's a simple explanation for that: wives make you go to the doctor. After the third day of me coughing and constantly gasping for breath, and me saying that it wasn't a problem, that it would go away in a day or two, Kim made a doctor's appointment for me, and told me that if I didn't go, we'd be charged 50 dollars.

Earlier that day, I had taken a drive out to Lagrange, Illinois, where my high school was. It was well below zero that day, and despite my wheezing and coughing, I made it there, trudging through the snow for a couple of blocks and walked into my high school, something I hadn't done in nearly three decades.

A couple of days before, I had gone to turn in my application to Truman College's nursing program. I had discovered that they no longer had my high school transcript, which I'd given them when I signed up to take Spanish classes at the school in 1988. They only kept them on file for seven years. I'd called the records person at my old high school, and when I drove out there, she had my transcripts waiting for me. I turned my application in, along with the transcripts, that afternoon.

The next day, I kept my doctor's appointment. My doctor clipped on blood oxygen monitor onto my finger and had me breath into a device that I learned, this summer, is called a spirometer, which measures your lung capacity. She had me walk around the hallway of the medical suite while observing my behavior and the oxygen level. I could tell that she'd formed a conclusion-- a conclusion I'd come to at the same time-- but was surprised about some readings. Specifically, my lung capacity was really high, given what she had concluded I had.

I realized something that had become painfully obvious-- that I had asthma. I asked her if she thought this was the case-- she confirmed that she thought it was too.

My physician gave me a "nebulizer" treatment, which caused me a little amusement-- my mother-in-law has a home nebulizer she uses twice a day for treatment of her COPD-- and told me she wanted to run two blood tests to rule out two other possibilities-- there was an outside chance that it could be a blood clot in my lung, which could be fatal if the blood clot broke loose and went into my brain or heart. Her thoroughness is something I've come to appreciate. She told me that if I had a "positive" on one of the tests, she was going to ask me to go to the Emergency Room that night.

On the way home, I filled the prescription she'd given me for an inhaler-- something my son has been using since he was diagnosed with asthma when he was little. I went home, had a light dinner and went to work.

I'd been at work for about a half hour when I got a call from my doctor. A test called a "D-Dimer" test had come up positive; it's a test for a protein that's present when you have a blood clot. It had a pretty high rate of false positives, she told me, but as a precaution, she'd already set me up for a trip to the Emergency Room at Northwestern Hospital. She'd triaged me to get in immediately.

I was a little stunned. If I left, there would only be one waiter on, so I asked if it was okay if I waited a couple of hours to go in, until the dinner rush was over. She told me that she would prefer if I went immediately, but it would be okay if I went in a couple of hours.

I told my boss the situation, and he showed me once again, as he had in the past, what a good guy he is. He told me to go. Immediately. For him, people and family always come first, something he's demonstrated in the past.

I called Kim and told her what was going on. I asked if she'd drive me to the hospital. She pointed out that I might have to stay overnight, and that I should pack an overnight bag. I agreed. I told her I'd meet her at home.

When she got home, she was in a dither. I had to kiddingly remind her that it was probably okay, and that it was me that might have a blood clot in his lung. Staying calm in emergencies has always been one of my strong suits.

We parked the car and walked down to the Emergency Room. My doctor was true to her word-- I gave the intake nurse my name, sat for maybe three minutes, and was whisked past people who had obviously been there for a while. I got more than one dirty look from other patients in the ER lobby.

I was brought in to the ER and put in a cubicle. They quickly hooked up an EKG and a blood pressure cuff. They were going to have to give me a CT scan, so they needed to make sure my kidneys were functioning normally-- they would have to filter out the dye they would inject in my veins for the CT scan to work. They drew blood and left the IV in me in case I needed anything else.

The kidney test came back okay, and after about a half hour I was brought to the room the CT machine was in. It took about two minutes for the CT scan and I was brought back to the cubicle.

At some point a male nurse named Duane checked in on me. He was a chatty, gregarious guy, about sixty years old. I told him that I had just applied to nursing school. It turned out that he, like me, had left another profession in his forties to enter nursing. He talked about how he had left Northwestern a couple of times for other jobs, but had come back twice. It was very clear that he loved his job. He told me that he intended to do it for at least another ten years.

A while later, a doctor came in and told me that my lungs were clear; no clot. It was just asthma. A couple of weeks later, when I checked in with my physician to see how I was doing on the asthma meds, she told me that they had also spotted a kidney stone and an "inguinal hernia," which apparently runs in my family-- my father and brothers have had them as well.

In April, I found out I had been accepted into the nursing program at Truman. They had had 190 slots and 1,000 applicants. I realize now how lucky I was.

Later, I thought about the lessons of that night-- how I was going to have to deal with people as stubborn as I had been. I'm certain now that I've had asthma since I was a kid, but had been in total denial, no matter how much I suffered from the symptoms. And I realize now how encouraging it been to meet Nurse Duane. I think I knew, at that moment, that I'd made the right decision.

Since January, I finished the last non-nursing school coursework I needed for nursing school, Anatomy I and II. I've since learned enough to actually understand what asthma is-- a constriction of the bronchiole tubes, the tubes that bring air to the alveoli sacs where oxygen is sent to the blood and carbon dioxide is taken out. I learned just what an inguinal hernia is. And I learned, I think, why my doctor was surprised to see my lung capacity as I suffered from an asthma attack on that bitter cold afternoon.

This summer we learned to use a spirometer, the device for measuring lung capacity, in my Anatomy II class. When we did mine, my lab partner Paul thought that we'd made a mistake and redid it-- my lung capacity was twice was most people's were, and about 30% higher than the next highest in class. We redid it, but it came out the same. I realize now that even in the midst of an asthma attack, my lung capacity appeared almost normal because it had so much excess.

Today, I had another short doctor's appointment, for the nurse to check my second TB test (negative) and to pick up my medical paperwork for school. I noticed that under the heading Medical Conditions, my physician had noted "Asthma (well controlled). I found it funny that as I head into one last career, in the medical field, one of the biggest lessons I got was outside of the classroom.

This week was a flurry. I'll try to post again this weekend about my initial observations and experiences starting this next adventure in my life.

The Sentence

A couple of Fridays ago, I went to the sentencing of the young gang member who murdered my friend Mark "Atwood" Evans three years ago. He was convicted a few weeks ago of murdering one of the accomplices in the robbery in which Mark got killed-- he was afraid the guy was going to "roll" on him.

Mark is the guy in the middle of the picture, in back. We'd been close friends since meeting as students at Eastern Illinois University in the early eighties.

On the night of June 3/4, 2006, a group of guys, one of whom was the son of former tenants of his, pounded on his door sometime late at night-- probably around 2:30 a.m. They intended to rob him. Since he did not have any money with him, they attempted to take him to an ATM machine. He tried to run away. The guy who had the gun-- the one sentenced-- shot him in the neck, and he collapsed after running a few yards. The shooter then stood over him and shot him three more times.

A month later, a fifteen-year-old Sudanese immigrant, whose family had been Mark's tenants, was murdered a few blocks away. It was, as it turned out, related.

In December, 2007, over a year after the two murders, a 20 year old gang member was arrested for both murders. Another accomplice, had been caught shortly after Mark's murder, and is serving a 12 year sentence for attempted armed robbery for what happened that night. He testified in the case.

He was found guilty a few weeks ago. We were told that the minimum sentence, by Illinois law, would be 45 years. This is "real time;" no time off for good behavior. No parole.

Before the sentencing, they gave the defendent a chance to speak. He continued to deny having killed anybody. His last words: "And one more thing-- whatever happened to reasonable doubt?" It was obvious his lawyer had coached him.

It was a strange moment, when the judge meted out the sentence. I was sitting with the victim's mother and with the author Alex Kotlowitz ("There Are No Children Here"). He is working on a story about the case. The judge explained his rationale for the sentence-- that the perpetrator had not only killed someone, but had threatened witnesses. It was clear to the judge that he'd killed Mark as well, and that the murder was planned and premediated to cover up Mark's murder. The judge gave him 45 years for the murder and another 25 for using a gun in the murder. 70 years. Again, "real time;" no parole. He is 23 years old now, so this is essentially a life sentence.

On that Friday night, old friend Eric, who was one of Mark's closest friends as well, dropped by with Simon, another friend of Mark's. We talked about it all; we recalled that the last time Eric and Simon were in the house was with Mark. We'd sat out on my back porch, where I'd dragged a television and dvd player, and we watched "Westway to the World," a documentary about the Clash. It was probably in 2003.

Three years later, Eric and Simon were both out with Mark the night he was killed.

In the course of our discussion, Eric blamed himself; he was certain that Mark thought it was him pounding on the door. We told him not to take that blame on. Yes, he frequently crashed at Mark's place when he was here in the city, had been out drinking and knew he shouldn't make the hour-long drive home. But he always called beforehand. I reminded him that I and half of his other friends had shown up at his place in an emergency-- he was the kind of guy you could count on. Nonetheless, we couldn't keep him from taking the blame.

I told them my recollections of the trial. How the stenographer would pop onto Facebook on the latptop she had along with her steno machine. About the judge's refusal to have people in handcuffs or ankle bracelets in his courtroom; twice I witnessed him make baliffs take defendants back to have restraints removed. It was clear that the judge respected the defendants' dignity. I was struck by the judge's mix of humor and seriousness-- and how the judge brushed off the defendant's thanks for treating him with respect-- that his thanks would have no bearing on the sentence.

Eric and I talked about how we felt, and we both realized we felt the same: elated. I don't know if it's right to feel so good about this guy facing the rest of his life in a cage, but that's how we feel. We know that there's a good chance that they won't get a conviction in Mark's case. The only witness they have is the guy who served as a lookout in the robbery. They had 15 witnesses in the other guy's case. This is probably the only justice we'll get.

Some of the other people in the extended group of friends of Mark have said that it didn't make them feel any better. Eric and I didn't feel that way. A guy who killed a beloved friend, then murdered a child to cover up that killing was put away for what is almost certainly his natural life. We felt great. After 3 years of pain, the guy who caused this pain felt some himself. Some day, with a little luck-- okay, a lot of luck-- he'll eventually be 42 years old, the age Mark was when he murdered him, and maybe, god willing and the creek don't rise, he'll have some flash of insight at how violent and stupid he was that night, and maybe even feel some remorse for the two murders he committed, for the lives he took, for the lives of loved ones that were damaged and destroyed. Then, maybe I'll have some empathy for him. But for now, I can only feel glad that his life is gone, and that he'll spend the rest of his life living in fear of the predators like him that are all around him.

The End of the Summer Friday Random Ten

Holy shit-- I'm starting nursing school on Monday!

I went to the doctor this morning for a couple of more shots and took a whiz in a cup-- I'm about to spend a career around a bunch of drugs and they want to make sure I'm not addicted to them. Sounds reasonable.

And if you all behave, I won't post a picture of my awful uniform I have to wear at the hospital during my clinicals.


1. Time- Pink Floyd
2. Peace- The Cult
3. Please Come To Boston- Dave Loggins
4. I Wanna Be Your Dog- Iggy and the Stooges
5. Search and Destroy- Iggy and the Stooges
6. Friday On My Mind- The Easybeats
7. Mamunia- Paul McCartney and the Wings
8. You Never Can Tell- Chuck Berry
9. In Between Days- The Cure
10. Devine Intervention- Matthew Sweet


Notes:
1. This album still sounds really good to me 36 years after its release.
2. These guys are best known for their eighties hit "She Sells Sanctuary."
3. Soft rock, I know, but I like it. I heard an interview on the radio years ago with Kenny Loggins, who had just gone solo (from Loggins and Messinah). He said people kept requesting "Please Come To Boston," and one night he actually tried to play it, to disastrous results.
4. From Iggy and the Stooge's first album.
5. What do you know-- an Iggy and the Stooges twofer-- this one's from their second, Raw Power.
6. The perfect Friday song.
7. A pretty little song from "Band On The Run."
8. This is the song John Travolta and Uma Thurman danced to in "Pulp Fiction."
9. The Cure got overplayed in the eighties, but I'm finally getting over that.
10. My old friend Lulu argues that Matthew Sweet's "Girlfriend" album may have been the best album of the nineties. It was surely one of the best..

I'm Just Wondering...

Has anybody ever noticed how much a 1998 Toyota Camry looks like a Chevy Impala, especially when it's the same color? Neither did I until about the third time I walked up and tried to unlock my neighbor's Impala.

One Last Note About Woodstock

British singer Joe Cocker was little known in the United States when he performed at Woodstock in August of 1969. His arrangement of the Beatles' "With A Little Help From My Friends" launched him into legend. He did, of course, significantly change the lyrics. Click on the link below to see the fabled performance with a helpful transcript of the altered lyrics.

http://www.elwp.com/Joe%20Cocker.html

Thanks to Kristi and Skyler's Dad for this one!

Reflections On Woodstock

It's been interesting to read all the different takes on the 1969 Woodstock Festival. The festival launched many bands into superstardom and has been both lionized and reviled from both the right and the left.

One of the things that people have forgotten is that one of the reasons that attendance was so high at the concert is that it was widely rumored that Bob Dylan, who was living in Woodstock at the time-- though the festival, despite the name, actually took place in Bethel, New York, which is 43 miles from Woodstock-- was going to perform. In fact, Dylan was, like the Beatles, The Doors, Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones, invited, and like them, declined.

Still, some big name bands did show up. The Band, who were living in Woodstock and recording with Bob Dylan (sessions that were for years only available as bootlegs called the Basement Tapes-- they were finally legitimately released some time ago), did show up. David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash, having left their well-known respective groups, The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield and The Hollies, performed one of their first gigs, prompting Stills' comment that they were "scared shitless." Crosby, Stills and Nash still record and perform today.

The Who, who were considered the headlining act, had just released Tommy, and played a 25 song set. Creedence Clearwater Revival, who were at the top of their hitmaking days, appeared as well. The Jefferson Airplane, two years out of the "Summer of Love," performed, opening with the incendiary call to revolution, "Volunteers." Hendrix' performance of "The Star Spangled Banner" has entered into rock lore (I saw the guitar he performed it with at the Experience Music Project, EMP, in Seattle a few years ago).

Other lesser-known acts became legend. Richie Havens, a fairly obscure folkie, was asked to extend his opener set because festival organizers were having trouble getting other acts to the stage because of the huge crowd-- and the fact that the roads were jammed for miles out. His performance, which stretched to three hours and was featured in the subsequent album and movie, made him a legend. The song he's best known for, his adaptation of the spiritual "Motherless Child" was played because he was running out of material to play.

Forty years later, I have some thoughts on it all.

I think that the music absolutely has stood the test of time. I still love hearing Canned Heat, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Hendrix, Crosby, Stills and Nash, the Who, the Jefferson Airplane, Creedence and many of the other bands and musicians who performed.

One of the experiences that seemed common to the festival-goers (and musicians), drugs, have had a less happy history. Drugs have become entrenched in our society. They've ruined countless lives and made parts of our major cities, and parts of Mexico into free-fire zones, as people involved in the drug trade-- even the seemingly innocuous marijuana-- kill one another by the thousands. And of course, within a couple of years, several of the greatest performers at the festival-- Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Al Wilson (singer for Canned Heat) were dead of drug-related causes. Over time, the toll would become higher-- Tim Hardin and Jerry Garcia would eventually join that group. David Crosby is only alive because of a liver transplant.

And what about the ideals of peace and love? My last post was about the couple who were captured in the now-iconic photo. They're still together. Bobby Ecoline, one half of that couple, started a food pantry in Pine Bush, New York, where they live. I think that many of the people in that generation, the ones who took those ideals seriously, and weren't in it just for the sex and drugs (and there were plenty who were), have continued to practice those ideals. One of them is Richie Havens. He founded the Northwind Undersea Institute, a children's oceanographic museum in the Bronx, which is dedicated to teaching environmental issues to inner city kids.

Not everybody who performed at Woodstock have kept the ideals. My friend Carlo, who is the leader of Las Guitarras de Espana, a flamenco-influenced group, opened for the reconstituted Jefferson Airplane at a suburban Chicago summer festival some years ago. One of the things he noticed is that the members of the group, which was the most overtly political of all the acts at Woodstock, all arrived separately, each in their own limo. "Got the Revolution," huh?