Laying A Life Of Fanship On The Line

Today is not the anniversary of anything notable regarding the life or death of Jerry Jeff Walker, my personal musical hero. So what am I doing here? It's something I couldn't really form in my head, immediately after hearing of his demise, from complications of throat cancer in October of 2020 — a summing up of my feelings, of grief, and gratitude in general, of his contribution to my emotional wellbeing throughout my life.

The closest I ever came to actually meeting the man, was painting him a comical portrait of a cowpoke standing at the horse "Trigger's" grave, with "Here lies Trigger; He just couldn't Go No Mo" in a mock comic-lyrical eulogy — a chuckle, more than any editorial comment; a memento which I entrusted to a bartender who'd assured me he was connected to the crew of an upcoming live Walker appearance at a local venue — and that he'd get it to my hero's people. I'd graphically dedicated the artwork to Walker. "Rest easy brother" I was assured… I had no cash for a ticket. I never found out whether Jerry Jeff had ever seen it, much less accepted it.

That's showbiz.

I first discovered the 'outlaw genius' of Walker's music… how? I have two possible routes, and one of them has to be the right one. The Viva Terlingua years were recent history, and Walker was a guest performer on a TV show I happened to watch regularly — he seemed a tall, lean drink of water with a guitar and a stranger's sneer. One of the tunes he conjured was 'Contrary To Ordinary,' a subject that resonated somehow. I was hooked almost immediately, and made a mental note of the artist's name — it was easy to hold onto; a three-name, five syllable moniker… even a slight illiteration. Jerry Jeff… Walker. It was still on my mind during my next trip to Tower Records.

Tower was a music lovers' Disneyland then… LPs, 8-Tracks and that new convenient format for new music aficionados, cassettes! Yeah, Cassette Tapes were a new thing then.

I'd had plenty of blank cassettes, and had operated as if the only kind of cassette tapes available retail were blank… for one's cassette recorder, to be recorded upon. Cassette recorders attached to radios and therefor capable of recording directly off the air, were a revelation — a technological marvel. The concept of a prerecorded music album available as a Cassette Tape was an original idea that everyone wondered why it had taken so long to come about! At least in the part of the country where I lived and worked.

Tower Records possessed a new section to browse: the cassette albums. Soon, they also had that natural follow-up section, the Budget Bin — for cassettes. It was there that I happened to be browsing when my memory bank suddenly asked "and how about that Jerry Jeff guy?"

The most attractive feature of bargain cassettes was that they were Big Bargains; the budget selection was already offering product at merely a dollar each. And there… the muses smiled upon me. Each for only a dollar, were the albums A Good Night For Singing and Cow Jazz, two prominent — and then, fairly new — Jerry Jeff Walker offerings!

There was no debate which to get, they both were carefully placed in my cart, immediately. I HAD to hear more of this guy, whomever he was… and learn as much as I could about him! The fact that both albums had been sent to Dollar Bin Purgatory made no discernible difference to my listening tastes.

I don't recall what else I found and bought, that trip to Tower… I had procured sought-after treasure, for a most reasonable price.

So was that TV show appearance, or those two cassettes, my first actual indulgence into Jerry Jeff's universe? Between the two disparate measures, I'd made a crucial decision, that THIS GUY was now a permanent denizen of my music collection! And I never, ever, regretted it.

By this time, his 'Greatest Hit' Mr. Bojangles and its fabeled legacy were simply a vague reference point. I'd heard Sammy Davis sing it well before I ever heard Walker's original. I had already known whom Tom Waits was, and owned a copy of his Swordfish Trombone, upon which resided his addictive 'The Piano Has Been Drinking.' The incredulity floored me, that the first Walker recording I heard from that purchase, on Good Night For Singing, was the Waits tune, 'Heart of a Saturday Night,' covered by Walker in his own style — fast and rowdy at first, then calmed down to a ballad briefly before the fade-out. This already flirted with the award Best Music Purchase of the Year, in my world.

He'd created a whole new — and decidedly more palatable — take of Tom Waits. And a few minutes later, Jerry Jeff frosted the cake, with a song that promptly took a spot among my Personal Top Ten, where it remains to this day: 'Couldn't Do Nothin' Right.' It was a tune that spoke to me personally, tugged at my heartstrings, and rang with melancholy truth. A song that alone would eventually account for my wearing the tape out with repeated play, and necessitate a search for a replacement, and yet once more again, when Compact Discs evolved into the new 'preferred' format of serious music consumers.

As the following years rolled on, I discovered that even Jerry Jeff's supposedly sad music had a unique quality of lightening my emotional load, of cheering me up. It gave me a melodic assurance that I was somehow not alone. That others felt these emotions, had these troubles, processed them in ways similar to how I did.

My parents had been avid Country & Western Music fans, but their tastes were common and mainstream; traditional AM Radio fare; steel guitars, banjos, fiddles… with names of stars I'd heard many times on The Grand Ol' Opry program and all its related, packaged TV shows. Porter Wagoner, Loretta Lynn, Buck Owens, et al. Here, in my own life, was a figure they'd never heard of; a purveyor of a similar genre, but not an exact one. 'Outlaw Country' was just emerging. But what did it really mean?

There are plenty of alternate definitions of Outlaw Country, but though Jerry Jeff's influence may have been partially responsible for it, it was evolving away, even from that independent outpost. The term "Gonzo" became a thing. It was Folk-Rock-Outlaw… with emphasis on Backporch Relaxed. It viewed life with a chuckle and a melancholy tear. It found its roots in the free-wheeling but precarious 'Busking' life that Jerry Jeff had traveled to find himself at the secure and stable husband and family-man destinations he'd arrived at yet without abandoning his origins, symbolized by spouse Susan Streit… and where he had contentedly remained. Being a Jerry Jeff Walker fan was a statement of pride in that journey, and with its destiny, while still being just a tad jealous of his success.

Jerry Jeff accomplished that ultimate pinnacle in the modern music business; he owned his own label, and his career was not diminished by its self-imposed isolation. His manager was his wife — and her role was not one of nepotism, but became one of logistical genius.

Walker became synonymous with the Austin, Texas music scene — other "top names" were organs of Nashville, Tennessee, but none were its most vital. The Traditional Country Music Capitol survived as its hub whomever was prominent at the moment, even after the passing of nearly all its most ubiquitous stars, Ernest Tubb, Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Roy Acuff, Johnny Cash and all the rest. But Jerry Jeff Walker was Austin. If you talked Austin music, you eventually talked Walker.

Along with Jerry Jeff, one got around to discussing and appreciating the names connected, closely or distantly, to him; Gary P. Nunn, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Austin's Guitar God John Inmon — who played lead in Walker's ensemble, and a dozen more of the Lost Gonzo Universe. If one got hardcore, also listed was the group Circus Maximus, upon whose Byrds-inspired tracks Jerry Jeff's smooth, youthful baritone vocals flowed like country wine. Jerry Jeff brought about newbies' appreciation of talents unknown to fringe-coastal fans — the Guy Clarks, the Townes Van Zandts… to arrive at Walker's connections to the few traditional 'outlaws' like, oh, Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings.

Walker's full biography is chronicled elsewhere, by historians far more steeped in it. Yes, he wasn't originally a country boy, but a New Yorker named Paul Crosby... It's out there to be read. My purpose here is to describe what Walker became to me, a very average listener appreciative and caught up in the awe of the offbeat legend — the obsession from an outsider's perspective.

My obsession first fully revealed itself as a legitimate mania, with the discovery of an unnamed music catalog that had revealed the existence of the double-album A Man Must Carry On. I had no idea of its content, but I had to possess a copy… and could find it nowhere. The catalog listed it as 'sold out.' My good buddy from college, then currently working as a clerk at Wherehouse, sent a query out and found it was 'out of print.' After that defeat, I'd consigned myself as denied a cherished find.

That is until the Tower Records Bargain Cassette bin struck once more. The downside was that the second cassette cartridge in the set had a flaw and tangled irrepairably due to its age, or perhaps its cheapness. But I had sides A and B, if not C and D. The bottom-line: I wound up buying another copy of the set, when another showed up elsewhere, even at a steeper price, just to possess one complete set. A music lover must carry on. One of the prominent tracks on the double album was 'L.A. Freeway' written by Guy Clark, which introduced me to Walker's legendary random blurt of "Turn me loose, I'll never be the same!" to the live crowd listening. And the song itself became an anthem, during my own life's adventures in southern California, 'taking Hollywood by storm.' Also new revelations were his inclusion of the Hondo Crouch vocal of 'Luchenbach Moon' — which introduced me to the Hondo chapter of Walker's biography.

I never found every single one of Walker's albums, but his songs overlapped on so many other albums, that I eventually owned everything I loved, and/or deemed necessary. Today when something of Walker's catalog that I've never heard before, crops up, it's a pleasant surprise and a trip, awkwardly, down memory lane.

Walker did not write every one of his iconic recordings, but in many cases, became so associated with a given tune that it in turn became believed that he wrote it. A case in point was Paul Seibel's lazily melodic 'Long Afternoons.' Even a Bob Dylan work found itself briefly under the Walker spell — 'One Too Many Mornings.'

But as Jerry Jeff's life sped along and constantly evolved, so did the tone of his own music. The arrival of his children brought with them gems in his productivity like 'She Knows Her Daddy Sings,' 'Django's Lullaby,' and Walker's now perennial favorite 'The Pickup Truck Song,' which referenced his own childhood and early life — including Hondo — as well as those of his kids.

As Hondo Crouch, the founder of the musical tourist stop "town" of Luchenbach, Texas is both represented and honored in Walker's universe — the man and his landmark — so is the progress of Walker's own family that in its way carries on the tradition.

But the one drawback to the direction of Walker's output was his departure of the busker's philosophy, its sole focus becoming the retelling of his life story in song. Not a bad drawback, but a one-note direction; every lyric self-referential, every title a chapter heading of a same book.

Gone were the outlaw-poignance of lost loves and old roads walked at daybreak, that had enchanted me so as in the heart-string tugs of A Good Night For Singing and Reunion. Now albums like Moon Child and Scamp merely regaled Walker's listeners with musical photo albums of eras past. Those were good times, but they had all previously been celebrated — in albums that were themselves already definitive.

Though not exactly a fixture on radio, even on dedicated country stations, and rarely on television, Walker's sound and muse permeated. The ultimate sublime moment happened one afternoon in a suburban liquor store… I stood at the magazine rack, reaching for the latest issue of Mad. Over the store's sound system suddenly roared 'Let 'Er Go,' Walker's late-life anthem, celebrating the reminiscent look back upon his own life from the comforting trail's end of Belize, Walker's final residence. The clerks smiled, and semi-danced a subtle jig to it. Willie Nelson can't boast that.

Indy country music star Mark Dollar's rendition of 'Long Afternoons' — available to hear on Youtube — explores the territory to which Walker opened a crucial door, and subliminally invited his fans, those whom were also musicians, to navigate.

Walker's musical legacy is respected, even by those not into country music per se. He went from a young man walking a highway from New York to New Orleans, a guitar on his back, to music industry legend cherished and explored by the devoutly curious. From troubadour to star, to an aesthetic — how far a journey lived, and how self-absolute can that be?

Jerry Jeff Walker blew minds with his music, and blew them again by passing away — like a mere mortal — at 78, October 23, 2020 — from throat cancer. The same death as other icons, like Sammy Davis, Eddie Van Halen, George Harrison, and even Humphrey Bogart.

"Best-Of's" of various titles, and concert albums, abounded. Walker's final young musical ward — the Robin to his Batman — Todd Snider, allowed us all to rediscover Walker's legacy with a fresh take. On the day of Walker's demise, Snider posted a live solo concert on Youtube, before a video camera alone, to a grateful online audience; his tribute to the man, featuring a "greatest hits" list of Walker gems. He concluded by adding the most vulnerable of all Walker tunes, 'Laying My Life On The Line' and commenting that any young musician in search of his or her performance soul, should look up his late big buddy. I second that. Amen.

It's a shame how irrelevant your dreams became.

A stroke. You read about them, and the ordeals some of your life's heroes had struggling with them as they got older. You see them warned about, in pamphlets and medical postings online; zippy illustrations and abbreviated lists of symptoms.

They sound dreadful, and as one ages, something is always swimming in the backwaters of one's mind, to be on the lookout for those symptoms. They serve a warning. But none of them showed up to warn me.

Like a trolling shark that knows not to let its dorsal fin protrude from the water into view… but just glides silently beneath the surface, searching stealthily for its prey… patiently waiting for its prey to happen along… and mess up in its vigil of being 'on guard' — distracted — busy doing something else…

The foreboding headache, the slurred speech, the facial paralysis and mental lapse, the stiffening and sudden difficulty of one's bodily movements — all failed to make their appearances.

But 'Send In The Clowns' anyway.

It was a Monday, which with my current work schedule, was a day off. That much was in my favor. One moment I was brightly aware, sipping coffee, perusing through my social media accounts, and in the next moment I was suddenly — surprisingly — rundown tired, fighting to keep my eyes open.

I trudged into the bedroom for a quick catnap. I was drained. Maybe it was a delayed reaction somehow? Maybe I'd just gotten up that late morning too soon? Perhaps I'd not allowed a full night's sleep to get its job done? I glanced at the clock and saw roughly three o'clock; a drowsy afternoon. My head touched the pillow, and I relaxed into place. All was normal, if a bit puzzling. I paid that no mind, and dozed, beginning with a long, softly exhausted sigh, and was then… out.

I was just as suddenly wide awake ninety-or-so minutes later. I stared at the ceiling and noticed something slightly… off about it. I sat up, and positioned myself on the edge of the bed — still nothing out of the ordinary. But something was strange. Reality itself seemed to belong to an old movie — faded, a bit grainy, and I think I even saw the "blip" of a badly spliced jump-cut amid it all.

My immediate reaction, being a Type 2 Diabetic, was that I was somehow having a diabetic reaction to something. But it was a kind of reaction I'd certainly never heard of before. I decided that I needed to check my blood glucose anyway… and proceeded to rise.

My right side worked, but my left side did not!

A shocking lurch and near-fall! I felt like I was dragging a limp body along with me, but the limp body was half of my own. I grabbed the doorframe, and just barely prevented a plunge head-first to the floor. That would have been painful. I could not make my left leg respond, but managed to swing it in a jerking, random fashion to where it propped me up, like a kickstand on a bicycle, and allowed me to grab the bathroom counter beyond the doorway.

Had my left side fallen asleep? Had I laid on it wrong? What had happened during my nap?

I'm not sure I remember how, but I managed to get to my glucometer and testing supplies, prick my finger and check my glucose level. The reading that glared back at me was… 515. Gulp. I didn't know my little glucometer could display such a high reading. Well… that somehow was the first medical clue that something was wrong.

All I'd done that day was sip coffee, and had made myself a bologna sandwich — with mustard — for a midmorning meal. I'd had no breakfast or lunch; it wasn't like I'd devoured an entire carrot cake with creme frosting and washed it down with a half-gallon of Heineken — to get such a horrendous glucose level!

My continued clown-car stagger got me to my computer chair, to sit and think. What I did next was to get online and look up these terrible symptoms. I sloppily got onto the Internet — only my right hand could type — and went onto WebMD, or was it some other medical site? I typed, as best I could, a description of what was happening, into the search engine.

My current symptoms all fell into the same category online: Half the signs of a stroke. A stroke? But… I'd read of strokes, and knew they were usually accompanied by headache, slurred speech or a complete inability to speak, utter confusion… I had none of that, so far.

But I definitely had the unresponsive body, all on one side, which definitely spelled out a stroke. I fought my way back to the bedroom, for my phone, and a 9-1-1 call.

If I fell along the way, I don't remember it. It was a Fight Or Flight moment, and I couldn't exactly fly.

I got the phone open, and dialed the numbers.

"9-1-1, what's the address of your emergency?"

I told her the address; my speech had not been slurred, nor was there any cloud of confusion; in fact, I felt a sudden rush of clarity.

"What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I think… I just had a stroke."

In the five minutes or less that it took the paramedics to arrive, I'd somehow made it to my front door — finally — to let them in. Getting me aboard the ambulance, I informed them of my enormous glucose reading, and they immediately retook a glucometer test. In just that short a time, my glucose had dropped back down… to 202. When we arrived at the hospital, it was tested again… and now had dropped to 166. From 515 down to 166, in about fifteen minutes!

The immediate "crisis event" had seemingly passed. Now the long journey had begun back to mental stability, awareness, and physical ability. I was in the ER for about three hours as they questioned, retested, and treated me. Even the overhead sound system had blared "ER, Stroke Alert incoming… ER, Stroke Alert incoming…" I was the 'incoming' like an aerial attack! By and by, they had procured a regular bed for me elsewhere on another floor, and secured me to it. I was not even allowed off the bed, with an alarm attached in case I attempted to get up, much less rise to go to the bathroom… without someone knowing I had, and there watching.

For the following four days I was administered blood thinners, my veins flushed with saline, needle poked, my movements monitored, and was asked and repeat-asked simple — almost silly-level but important — questions, to monitor my cognitive status… I felt like a lab rat.

"Do you know where you are?" "Why were you brought here?" "What's your name?" "Tell me your birthday." "How many fingers am I holding up?" "Let's see you touch your nose… now touch my finger… now the same only with your left hand… Now with your eyes closed..." "Point to me. Now point to the nurse. Now the same with your left…" "Raise your eyebrows… look to your left… now look to your right… now stick out your tongue… now smile… now frown…"

I seemed to pass all the overly simple requests, and the emotion auditions. But it wasn't a perfect performance. My left eye now had an ever-so-slight droop. Both my left hand and left leg showed a "drift" when I was asked to hold them out and keep them there for a five-count. My left hand wanted to "drift" away, and my left leg wanted to drop first, before my right.

When asked to touch my knee with my opposing foot's heel, and trace a line down my shin to the other foot, my right foot could do it… but my left leg wanted to merely cross my right leg, not trace a line down anything.

My coordination was either lacking altogether or severely overcompensating. When reaching for my water cup with my left hand, it could not finesse an easy grab… my attempt to move my arm was a wild over-shot that threatened to knock the cup to the floor. Eventually I could roughly modulate my arm's effort, and with concentration, make it stop just before impact, and shakily negotiate my fingers around the cup… then actually take a sip from it. It was all a mentally exhausting work assignment.

This stuff was toddler-simple. Why was it beating me?

It was extremely helpful that my concentration and reasoning capability was intact, and I could readily communicate with my nurse and instructor. I imagined those stroke victims who lose even that, and it was terrifying.

THE HOSPITAL ENNUI

My life was put on pause. My job was immediately on hold — my company follows the law, and complies with the state rules that forbid firing for medical emergencies… but had no real sick-leave plan. Meaning, when my working stopped, so eventually would my pay. There were still rent and utilities at home to worry over.

I'd need — at least a minor — miracle.

Getting any decent sleep in a hospital, especially under such dire circumstances when watchful monitoring is called for, is nigh impossible. As soon as the last nurse leaves, with a comment like "Now get some rest," the next nurse enters with a new reason to poke a needle into something. Or with that same series of silly-but-important questions.

The hospital's day begins before any reasonable person's, at roughly 4:30 a.m. The alarm clock is yet a new nurse coming on duty, and she must be formally introduced, and her/his name written on a room marker board. Then, a new set of vitals is taken. Perhaps a new blood test, which of course brings another needle into play. "Make a fist," in the case of a post-stroke patient may be a slightly tall order.

Breakfast is still about three hours away, and they have plans to keep one wide awake.

Breakfast, it becomes apparent, may or may not be worth waiting for. Are those eggs or mashed potatoes? And why don't they at least taste like one or the other? Whichever, they become better than hunger pains all morning until lunch — which may as likely be just as unrecognizable, but sustenance nonetheless. Maybe hospital food is like sausage; if you find any enjoyment in it, it's best not to watch it being made.

Maybe 'enjoyment' is an inaccurate term, but 'solace.' One becomes grateful to have it, regardless.

The day floats lazily on, or perhaps drones. The bed becomes uncomfortable, and difficult to lie still in. Getting up is forbidden without buzzing for the Nurse Station to send someone to monitor one's action. First, they have to switch off the "bed alarm." I set it off once, accidentally, and it's loud and annoying.

The saline they I.V. into one to keep one hydrated works its magic all day and night, and the urinal bottle gets a wet workout. That's how I triggered that pesky alarm. After lunch one day (thankfully 'after') I dropped the near-full receptacle — I leaned to grab it before it splashed to the floor. With my faulty coordination, I of course missed. BED ALARM! PEE ALL OVER FLOOR! At once!

TMI: At that point in my stay, my urine had become water-clear, and was basically little more than warm water from my bladder, rather than a gross yellow-orange tsunami for the clean-up crew to deal with. Fortunately.

The nurses took it in stride. They proceeded to let the room cleanup cue a need for a ME cleanup. That Monday evening, I'd planned to have a shower. But instead, I'd had a stroke. Had been brought to the hospital. I hadn't bathed in days, and had lain in my own funk through an urgent, nerve-racking medical ordeal.

I could not yet stand in a shower, like I'd planned at home. "We're gonna sponge you," sounded both like a plan of action and a warning to prepare emotionally for trouble.

The lights were turned all the way up. Into my hospital room were brought sponges and a pair of buckets, by two nurses (about my age). Were they about to wash my car? One bucket had sudsy soapy water, the other was for a rinsing. "Get his gown off." They didn't stop with my gown — I still had on my socks and underwear from the first night I'd arrived. Off they were pulled as well!

Now I'm laying in a brightly lit room, stark-raving nekkid, with two women on either side, working sponges full of soapy wash. This was more "action" all at once than I'd had in years. In brief, they proceeded with a full cavity search! Every hiding place my body had, and a few I never thought of, were dug into and cleansed with a dose of cold, wet shock therapy. Yeah, they rolled me on my side, and while one nurse held me securely in place, the other went right to the "butt stuff."

"OOOOOOOWOW thank you Nurse!" That washrag had to have been kept in the freezer. She scrubbed every inch I possessed; my other rosey cheeks and between them.

Having found nothing in my "safe," then it was on to the family jewels displayed openly. My chest, armpits, neck and all the rest was processed quickly, but special attention was taken to clean my valuables!

She had THAT in hand… and inspected THOSE individually, going over them with the rag. The other nurse attempted to distract me with a little clinical conversation. My own one-liners interrupted occasionally. Finally it was "Careful with those, I've only got two!"

What I got back was "We're nurses; you got nothing we ain't seen every day!"

"Well if this is a honeymoon, the stroke was nothing!"

That got a laugh. Humor can be the great equalizer, and it seemed to make her hands gentler.

What downtime there was, was not as restful as one might imagine. The TV system available to patients offers everything from informational videos about the hospital and the various entities around the community that support it, a selection of mood-altering ambiance channels (waterfalls, fireplaces, rainstorms, walks in the country, etc.) and the usual assortment of regular TV channels and a movie channel that offers both old and recent theatrical releases. The quiet between midnight and the next wake-up call at 4 a.m. is punctuated by the screams of other, delusional, hallucinating patients somewhere else on the floor, and the constant search for the TV remote, which is also the buzzer for the Nurse's Station, as it tumbles off the mattress to the ground, or into the mechanisms of the bed itself.

They haven't really yet mastered the concept of an unlosable control box in a hospital bed, despite leaps and bounds in monitoring technology.

The last time I was hospitalized, I saw The Force Awakens for the first time — no ticket price, just a lengthy hospital stay. Saw it. No time to rewatch. This go-around, I saw Godzilla Vs. Kong… and now I'm glad I didn't buy a ticket. For the record, I still prefer the old monster-suitfest King Kong Vs. Godzilla from Toho Studios.

Eventually the days become predictable, and can be felt winding down at about sundown. The needle pokes become less frequent, and nurses file through just to introduce me to the next nurse taking over the current one's shift.

"Let me know if you need anything" translates down to "Stop dropping the call-box down the crevices into the bed mechanism."

In all the hospital stays I've had, I've never had any repeat nurses. No "remember me?" moments. Except one, and maybe I should count my blessings.

Big, blond, tubby and didn't look like he'd ever missed a meal in his life, the male nurse I recall as 'Thomas' I also recall thinking was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Merely trying to switch out an I.V., he had blood spatter all over me and my bedding. He worked rolls of tape by picking at them with a ballpoint pen. He pressed inadequately small cotton balls into my bloody gushers of I.V. wounds, and generally wasn't bashful with those snide remarks that made it seem like everything happening was my fault.

Are there still medieval types like this in the medical profession? Apparently so.

His parting remark to me I remember vividly: "Good thing I don't have diabetes and die young."

I spoke to the Head Nurse about him… and got him again a week later. His only reference to the previous shitshow he'd orchestrated was the quip: "Okay I admit I suck at this."

My quip back: "Can I have someone who doesn't?"

I somehow survived being 'treated' by Thomas, and so far had never encountered him a third time. Thank God.

I have been subject to 'polite rudeness' and 'cordial evil' in hospitals before. Like the time a few years ago when the Head Doctor on the floor came in to ask how I was doing, and inform me "We need the bed." And the E.R. nurse who once glared and actually said "So… we see your problem… what do you expect us to do about it?" That was the time my foot had swollen to twice its size, and the treatment wound up being an incision and drainage procedure including the amputation of a toe… after an afternoon convincing anyone who'd listen that I was… actually sick.

The "medical system" sometimes has deserved the 'medieval' description I just bestowed upon good ol' Thomas. It's not the advancement of the technology, but the 16th Century Egos of the staff involved. They're overworked… perhaps undercompensated… and have to deal with The Gross… I get it.

But now came the truest wake up call. The doctor on duty, dropped by to state "We've done all we can for you, the rest is up to your therapist, whomever that is."

"What do you mean by 'whomever'?"

He handed me a list of phone numbers. He added "now you're just laying around," and left the room.

It was Thanksgiving Eve.

The hint was thusly given, and it was no surprise when the following day… for lunch they served Turkey and Dressing… and then announced that I was being discharged. That night. Thanksgiving night. Yes, when all rides home are not available because everyone was on holiday. They discharged me knowing full well I may have to stay the night, with my insurance no longer picking up the tab (because I was discharged) and that I would be billed directly.

Well that just wouldn't work out well. And they put me in that situation intentionally. To either get me to leave, or bill me up the patoot for. I found myself arguing the Social Services Manager in circles over the phone. She was ticked because I was inconveniencing her Thanksgiving. She thought HER Thanksgiving was ruined… really.

They could take me home via ambulance… for $1,400. My house is about 3 blocks from the hospital.

Finally, since I was apparently free to do so, I got dressed. I told them, I was going to take my walker (my insurance had provided it after a previous phone battle to get them to bring it TO THE HOSPITAL where I actually was, instead of leaving it sitting on my front steps 3 blocks away) and I was going to WALK HOME. In the dark. Thanksgiving night. Happy Thanksgiving, Rob!

"We can't have you do THAT! You'd be an insurance liability!"

"You already saw my insurance to the exit door, by discharging me."

"Does walking home sound very smart to you?"

"Does discharging me intentionally on a holiday when all the transport services were off, sound any smarter?"

"Can't you call an Über?"

"So... I'm on my own, getting home? And by the way, no, I don't have the type of current phone necessary for an Über app… if any Übers are running tonight… because it is a holiday off…"

"Stop being difficult!"

"I didn't put myself in this situation, I'm just trying to deal with it. As long as you come off smelling like a rose… but remember, roses are fertilized with horseshit."

"I don't appreciate that."

"Guess what I'm failing to appreciate…"

"I'll call Über for you, and call you right back." And no following call ever arrived. She'd 'handled' my problem, and was done with it, for all anyone knew.

Again, I began a vigil… in 30 minutes I'd walk, or perhaps hobble, home. And just hope I'd be unaccosted in the dark, or hit by traffic crossing streets at my slower-then-a-drunk-slug mode, so soon after a stroke.

I still had I.V. tubes hanging from both arms. Upon being discharged, they had unhooked me, but the I.V.s were still present. I begged my nurse, when he happened in, to remove them so I could begin the long 3-block trek home… on foot if I had to.

"I gotta get signatures."

Cue massive eye-roll. "Could you do what's necessary, and get these OUT… please. They're not connected to anything."

He left. Another nurse entered… and began trying to get my I.V. tubes reconnected to the machine!!

"I'm discharged! I need them OUT, not hooked back in!" That nurse left in a huff.

Finally my main nurse returned with a stack of papers requiring signatures. And initials. And drawn maps to the lost pirate treasure, and all else. He left them with me, to sign, with the I.V.s still riding my arms with vampiric needles stuck into place, and octopus sprawls of plastic tubes hanging!

Just as I began working the pen, avoiding the tubes to make it touch the papers… he returned. "The ambulance to take you home is here… and the hospital is absorbing the cost."

"Better not keep them waiting, huh. So let's get these G.D. I.V.s OUT already... shall we."

"Sign those."

"Going as fast as my limp arms full of tubes will let me… promise."

About 15 signatures later… he got one arm free of I.V. tubage. One down, one to go. Another stack required signing beforehand, though. Another round of signatures later, he was willing to free my remaining arm of useless I.V. plastic and needles.

"Is the ambulance even still here waiting for me?"

"I'll check," and he was again off, to go make another 20-minute phone call. This was, in a word, maddening. Was I being charged to sit on this hospital bed, in this room, and wait on every slow-poked bureaucratic formality to play out? My insurance was signed off, as soon as I'd been discharged… now hours ago. I decided to get brazen.

I got up, walker and all, and stood in the door of the hospital room, as if I was 'hanging out.'

My nurse yelled at me, from down the hall… I thought the intercom was working, but I guess not for this. "They're coming up to get you!" Finally… something resembling action.

If I'd known I'd be such trouble, I'd never bothered having the stroke!

The young and alert 20-somethings who'd brought the ambulance for me were not jaded; they'd not been alive long enough to become so. They had me lay on a gurney, assured me they'd not forget my walker, or the bag containing the rest of my belongings, and merrily wheeled me downstairs — smiling, joking, telling me how much trouble I wasn't. I was actually something for them to do on such a slow night. I told them I was glad to help, and thankful for theirs.

A relieved sigh escaped as my nostrils met the cool night air outside. The ride home took all of five minutes. And just like that, I was at my own front door. On a dark stoop, with a walker, but on the other side of the door, was home, waiting as I'd left it, those four nights previous. My valiant young saviors helped me inside, and made sure I was secure… and waved so long.

I was in my own messy kitchen again… unwashed dishes still waited patiently, and had not started to stink yet. My bed, still unmade, invited me back into its rumpled folds. No tumbling call-boxes to smack the floor. My lamp welcomed my return. As did my TV, and my chair.

No one else seemed to mind where I'd ended up — amid my quiet little nook on the planet. All that was left was the unpredictable week ahead, with all its twists and turns and frustrations that I'd encounter soon enough. Right now… a can of soda beckoned, and after I stood at my own toilet relieving my equally exhausted bladder, without the monitoring eyes of a stranger looming, I plopped my tired ass in a livingroom chair, switched on the TV, and heard all about what the rest of the world was suffering through.

The next morning, I'd have to actually drive my own car to the pharmacy where all my new scary prescribed meds waited.

But after a stroke… not everything is quite as scary.

My Own Personal Twilight Zone: The Matrix Glitches

(Disclaimer: Regarding what I am about to relate to you, you simply must take me at my word, or we have nothing. I am not trying to perpetrate a hoax, or propagate a joke narrative. There is no punchline.

The following bit of strangeness actually happened, and I have no logical explanation for it. What I do know, is that it is all true — in granite. I make nothing up here. The events in my life connected to this weird twist were so monumental, so etched in my mind, so visible at the time, and memorable of the time, that there is simply NO WAY I've "misremembered it." It signaled an indelible change in my life, it began for me a proverbial 'dark night of the soul' and I recall every moment. I can only say that there is no way I can make you believe it the way that I believe it — I can only ask that you hear me out.

If you find it merely amusing, that's fine. If you think it all a crock of balder-dash… there is nothing I can add for you, other than my shrugging shoulders and a question mark floating above my head. Ready? Here it is.)

In the early Spring of 2002, I was finally following a certain dream, unfettered by family-spun doubt. My mother — the west coast leader of self-doubt and self-defeat — had passed away from a terrifying struggle with lung cancer. After the initial mourning, the family house in a 'middle of nowhere' — literally a town and a street on the edge of vast wilderness — had been sold, and I possessed half of the earnings, sharing with my sister. I waited a tad too long before finally venturing forth, but I made the commitment to relocate to Hollywood, California — doing the usual "take the movie capitol by storm" thing. With 15 years of theatre under my belt, and no real contacts of which everyone says one needs to do so, I was somehow succeeding to get an actual Hollywood apartment, and hitting the audition trail. I am also a writer, and trolled those various circles as well. I was befriended by a certain local Movie Business/Screenwriting Maven, whose friendship I still hold precious and important, and took part in weekly acting improv & writing brainstorming meetings she held. Her universe was a center for creatives, including an annual dinner party — that was a gathering of various industry types; not a drink-off with wildly loud music sending the neighbors into fits, but a meet-and-network event, free of high pressure dealmaking — in a casual, intimidation-free setting.

In many ways it was a unique, pleasant situation to be in, right in the heart of Movieland — talking legitimate turkey with real, actual movers and shakers, who in turn, got to see one at his/her most natural. Most newbies cannot even imagine such a set-up, but for a time, it existed. And I was a part of it. I had moved to Hollywood at a perfect time to do so — chalk it up to timing, and dumb luck.

Needless to say, my audition ratio also got a surprise boost. In my first year alone, I'd been on over a hundred auditions, had a legitimate agent, and had conversed with high-end professionals, and even a few talent managers — agents on a whole other level, who did a lot of the hard legwork for you. I did not procure one of those "super agents," but was able to get a lot of insider info that sometimes takes years to accumulate. All without even having a SAG Card!

As equally surprising, my actual agent was an old hand — he knew the lay of the land, and worked with a number of important names. His name was Dale Garrick… and he treated me the way I'd hoped to be treated, like a fellow professional, rather than another newbie with puppy dog eyes and an empty hand out.

His agency still exists, though he himself passed away at 88, in November of 2009 — a few years after I'd amicably left his representation. His obit was in The Hollywood Reporter. That is a small element of the weirdness, in its way — keep a note of that date.

During our involvement together, as Agent and Client, Dale had managed to procure for me a possibly career-making audition! It was at either NBC or CBS, and for a major co-starring role in a new sitcom, being developed for the then-hottest comedian working, a New York attorney turned stand-up comic, Greg Giraldo. Beginning to sound familiar?

The producers saw Giraldo as the second coming of Jerry Seinfeld. A prime-time sitcom was immediately put into the works, called at the time, The Greg Giraldo Show. It was an actual weekly sitcom in the initial stages of production, not the one-time special he later filmed, by the same title — but I'm jumping ahead of myself. The part I was auditioning for, was his equivalent of a George Costanza or a Kramer character. The character's working name was "Big Gary," and the name changed a number of times over a few months as it was revised and rethought.

Now, before I continue, ask yourself — if you remember following Giraldo's career, is that it's all starting to ring somewhat familiar but yet 'not exactly right'? You're about to hear the why of how it doesn't seem quite correct. It's the strangeness for which I have no explanation — but I pledge to you that I am relating an absolute truthful account of my experience. Now, onward…

That first audition was a congregating of mammoth-sized hopefuls, who weighed in, on average, at about 350 lbs. each. At 6' 4" and a mere 260 lbs. myself, it was one of the first times I'd ever been among the smallest in the room. I was overwhelmed at how many gargantuan actors there were out among the Hollywood arsenal of potential players. I and one other actor, about my own size, had been the first of the field to arrive. All the rest, about a couple of hundred in total, were still waddling in from the parking lot!

To some agents, the name "Big Gary" was taken literally — to mean a 'big' actor who may or may not have been about to drop dead of a fatty heart attack. I decided to somehow use that one (minor) difference to my benefit, somehow. Here's how it went down…

That other actor my size was called into the inner sanctum first, for his audition. I was second in line, of the entire event. When I was called in, it was into a conference room, at which my chair was at the end of the table, with the rest in the room focused on me. I remember the name 'Quinn' spoken, and my memory used to know each name present. But those, in which to research, have mysteriously even vanished online, some twenty years later!

Giraldo himself was not present. I'd be auditioning line-readings, with a stand-in reading Greg's lines. It was not that unusual a situation — the 'stars' have schedules to keep. Auditioning newbies is not high on their to-do lists. OK, good enough, I thought to myself — it's workable, if it's all I get.

I read scenes from the pilot script with the stand-in. It drew smiles and chuckles from various members of the group. I was thanked, but before I was dismissed, one of the crew added, "It seems you have something to add — have we overlooked anything in your opinion?"

"Well, yes," I said. "The name 'Big Gary' — the 'big' seems to indicate that you want something physical from him, not just a lot of verbal humor and set-ups for Greg's lines." I elaborated further, rising from the chair. "You've got an entire waiting room out there full of giant men — most of them 'big' by virtue of being overweight. Talented guys, I'm sure, but each one is a heart attack waiting to happen."

I then did something quite brazen. I plopped back into my chair, tipped it over and rolled backward, winding up on the floor, propped up against the wall — a comic pratfall. "I'm the guy who can do stuff like that for you, without needing a medic, or an emergency trip to the E.R. Much less all the insurance hassle."

I was pulling this instant demo-stunt out of my ass, but I had their attention. "Most of them can't touch their toes… some of them can't SEE their toes… much less provide slapstick, and a 'big' character practically is a walking source of implied slapstick. He gets in his own way — comedically — giving fodder for Greg's cynical commentary, and providing all the belly-laughs that are in the script."

I was told my perception was accurate — they had just never considered that the actor playing 'Big Gary' would necessitate a certain sense of physical durability! I had shown them this aspect, in full, to their own faces. I was again thanked, and credited with 'giving them something to think about.' I left unsure if I'd captured the part, but assured that I had impressed them with an important contribution nonetheless.

I left, saying "Say hi to Greg for me!" I and Greg Giraldo had never met, but just the implication that we might be pals, and familiar with each other, gave an impression that I was worth remembering; everything one can do for oneself at these things is a plus.

The callback came a week later. It was Dale. "They talked about you all night," he said. "Whatever you did, they want more of it! They want to see you back!" The 'callback' is where the producers have narrowed the field from the hundreds, down to a handful they want to fine-tune their options with. It's a good thing — it means they liked you well enough to be torn between you and some other choice. Now is the time to bring one's A-Game and nail it!

The day before that secondary audition, my world crumbled, with but another single phone call. It wasn't Dale, but one of Dale's office assistants. She simply told me, "Giraldo's sitcom has been cancelled… there's no next audition now." And then she said what makes this entire tale a leap into the surreal. When you hear it, and are perhaps aware of the "reality" involved, you will immediately understand why. Her next statement was, "They found Giraldo dead, from a drug overdose."

Greg Giraldo had partied too hard, took too much of his party substance of choice, and dropped dead.

This was 2002. You see why this is weird as hell yet?

If you look up Greg Giraldo online, you'll see he went on appearing in shows and working on sitcoms, well past 2002, until his death by overdose at 44… in 2010. Whatever actually happened, it seems like a time-blip (something out of a science fiction) in my very real life. Something gave Greg a second chance, unkilled him, and let him live a surplus eight years, until he (again) killed himself via drug overdose years later.

For that eight years, I had regaled friends with my story of my oh-so-near chance at stardom — costarring on The Greg Giraldo Show along-side the late Greg Giraldo, and more yet — had looked up the producers online, in which they recounted the doomed sitcom after its star's DEATH in web-published interviews and reports. All until I tried looking it all up again, just a couple of years ago and found it had all… changed.

To this.

Greg Giraldo was suddenly, mysteriously, BACK alive — with no recollections that he HAD DIED in 2002 — making TV appearances, working at night clubs, and even performing in a one-time special called (gulp) The Greg Giraldo Show… until RE-DYING of yet another overdose… in 2010. Well, for what ever voodoo doctor, wizard or Dr. Frankenstein that revived him, he fell back into his destructive ways and managed the exact same fatal screw-up, eight years later.

The screw-up I had been told of, directly, over the phone, in 2002, that had ENDED my auditioning career. I'd become disgusted and depressed, and my downward spiral began. That's HUGE… not something that someone just one day "remembers differently", much less "all wrong." I have been forever puzzled by this strange event.

I swear, on a stack of Bibles before a Federal Judge… that I was informed of Greg Giraldo's death — had read its obit online days later, and proceeded with life fully aware of Giraldo's demise… in 2002. But if one looks it up today, it doesn't officially happen until 2010. And everyone connected to him and it now corroborates the 2010 — not the 2002 — event. But my own life still doesn't reflect any such altered state!

The phrase "WTF" isn't even big enough for Big Gary.

All "logical explanations" fail. What happened in my life in 2002 was NOT a figment of my imagination. I was there. It had all really happened. Exactly the way I just recounted it.

That is my personal Twilight Zone. That was my Glitch in the Matrix — my 'Mandela Phenomenon.' If you think you have it figured out, good for you, but nothing that can be said (and a lot has been said) can erase from my memory the knowledge of it being real. Again, I am not trying to fool you, to drop a hoax or a joke.

I am currently working on a novel in which I fictionalize the account as an episode in the story — the promotion of that book is not a part of this blogpost, nor vice-a-versa. This is not a plug. I'm trying to map out my thoughts, only. And finally, getting it all said, using the actual facts of the case, as they currently exist in my head, twenty fuzzy years later. It's something the book will NOT do, but just clear my slate of brooding over it in secret. And I know, I should have written this all out years ago, when it was fresh, and I could document all the names involved, for some online posterity.

With that, in closing I can only say, thank you for listening… even if you find it unbelievable yourself. Thanks, really.

Mulling Over Mabel

Thousands of writers, artists, creators and auteurs of one sort or another spend lifetimes trying to answer one stubborn inner question: “Why do I?”

The quest itself is rarely made public, for fear of appearing completely self-serving and therefor ego-driven and nothing more. You never give your patrons the notion that all of their adoration, admiration, praise – and in some cases money – has merely been to facilitate one’s narcissistic masturbation. Some artists realize the answer lies across too wide a gulf to navigate, and simply ride the wave to its measure.

One man realized much too late, exactly what – or rather who – was his muse. When he finally did, it was also realized that an entire industry and a generation who followed, had been empowered by that same muse.

The man was Mack Sennett. The elusive, eternally youthful butterfly that fate had allowed his meager net to snare, was the embodiment of muses, a girl whose nymph-like spirit was akin to those that had lured the mighty and infamous to their destinies: Mabel Normand.

Though forgotten by most of movie-going civilization today, Mabel was arguably the catalyst for the entire age of silent cinema comedy.

Mabel appeared in one film with cinema comedy’s first name-star, John Bunny, in the 1911 film Troublesome Secretaries. Just barely one reel, it was made near the twilight of Bunny’s career, and the beginning of Mabel’s. It’s an ultra-rare moment of collaboration and transition between the dawn generation of screen comedy and its still-silent golden age generation. The only person whose screen presence Mabel’s own does not upstage, is Bunny’s. But even in the final minutes, when Mabel and her onscreen paramour pull a fast one on Boss Bunny, she lingers ever so fleetingly in the background – near the very back of the set – and is magnetic.

One wonders if this is the film Mabel’s mother learned about and scolded her to return to the more reliably income-generating pursuit of modeling. Whichever the case, Mabel rebelled and generations of comedy fans must thank her young judgment for it.

She hooked her wagon to Sennett’s, and the couple embarked on what, in the beginning, must have been a journey marked by every emotion and obstacle to avail itself upon adventurous young lovers throughout history.

Mack’s vision was given spark by a petite, inexhaustible little bolt of lightning whose life’s very joy translated through the lens and read onscreen. Is it possible that Mabel was unaware of her own power? That what, to her, was merely ‘having fun’ acting on camera, was a jolt of addictive energy, not just to the man behind the camera, but ultimately to a throng of movie goers?

Did Mabel have any idea what she would become, to her fellow actors, and audiences years after her passing? Not just a movie star, but an aesthetic? A narcotic?

Did Mack Sennett himself ever ponder this, beyond the notion of love lost? Did he turn to God and give thanks for being the luckiest man in Hollywood? Both in terms of being the beneficiary of her destiny, and most probably her one genuine love?

Did Roscoe Arbuckle ever fully understand the origin of his star-power, having been effectively ‘branded’ by Mabel Normand’s natural, fun and innocently flirtatious attention and devotion in films like Wash Day, and Fatty & Mabel Adrift, and over a dozen more?

Did Charlie Chaplin ever knowingly thank her for triggering him into genius-mode, with her initial mentoring on the Keystone set, and then denial of his amorous advances outside of them?

Her 17-year career output was feverish but light – she made just over a hundred films, and many of them one- and even half-reelers. She made only a handful of ‘feature-length’ movies, and wasn’t even present for the talkies. She died the year sound-pictures arrived, in their Jazz Singer infancy. Most of her screen legacy is scratched, spliced and washed white by the passing of time – saved from the abyss only by the digital era.

Her public image was tarnished by her association with Roscoe Arbuckle and William Desmond Taylor – neither of whom could have second-guessed their own infamy. When Arbuckle’s films were banned in the wake of his scandal, the most memorable were those in which she had costarred. So Mabel was in affect banned along with him. Her initial implication in Taylor’s murder case cemented her fate as a ‘bad girl.’ Then her own ill-fortunes brought on by her personal downward spiral, combined with her fixed position in the public eye, only served to throw dirt on her career’s gravestone. Her ex-con chauffeur shot millionaire Courtland S. Dines in a party-fueled misunderstanding, with her own pistol, which she could not recognize later on the witness stand. She was duped by disingenuous stage producers regarding The Little Mouse, which she’d been assured was a new play worthy of her, and a new chapter to her career, but was in fact a tired little flop merely re-titled, and pushed on her for her name on the marquee. And let us not overlook the restless, relentless co-opting of her unhealthy lifestyle by her ‘friends.’ Even her marriage to Lew Cody was at first a drunken frolic. The constant merry-go-round of living to its lustiest resulted in pneumonia – which activated the lingering childhood tuberculosis in her system at last into a full-blown killer.

She was thirty years in her grave by the time the King of Comedy finally admitted in print that she had been the reason he’d done everything. Everything.

The pie fights – of which she’d made the first shot, the Kops, the chases and mad dashes, the pratfalls, the doubletakes... everything sprung from his need to earn what he’d been inexplicably gifted – The Girl – a woman self-pledged to him like none after, with every atom of Catholic daughter devotion, despite the ‘wild child’ atmosphere that enveloped the rest of her existence. He’d thrown it away, in an impulsive burst of foolish horniness, on the very eve of what would have otherwise been his heart’s triumph.

Placing his crown and legacy so completely at Mabel’s altar at the end, was his only option. Thirty years is a long time for credit due.

Diabetes – The Relentless Attack You Can't Ignore Forever

"Diabeedus? Oh yeah, that’s the disease that elderly folks who don’t watch their sugar and people who don’t take care of themselves get. I’m not like that."

Oh yeah? I said that too.

I was diagnosed in 2007. 10 years of denial followed. Even as my body began falling apart.

It began a year or two earlier. I had, on average, eight to ten different health issues going on at once. I considered each a minor concern, that I’d eventually drop in at the doctor’s office and have him/her look at. When I had the time.

Finally I conceded to myself that these annoying little troubles were collectively making day-to-day life more and more difficult. Tingling in my feet, night sweats, occasional extreme thirst, bouts of frequent urination, blurry vision, headaches, loss of concentration, lack of drive, lack of sexual desire – lack of desire, period; I wanted to spend entire weekends asleep. I chalked it all up to the signs of aging, exhaustion and possibly a mild depression.

I reasoned I needed to snap out of this “funk.” Did I think I needed emergency medical attention? Hardly.

Then they all started getting worse. One night my feet were cold, and I couldn’t warm them up, even bundling them in bed covers. They got so cold that I couldn’t feel my own toes by wiggling them against one another. The next day after work I brought home a foot tub. I filled it with warm water, to sit in a chair and let them soak. I’d been on them too much. I needed to get my circulation back.

That’s what I thought, anyway.

I put my right foot in, and after a few minutes I realized that the water had gotten cold. So soon? I thrashed my foot around, gently, trying to test the temperature… I raked my hand through what I thought was a tub of lukewarm water, and scalded my fingers!

The water was as hot as if from a cauldron! I lifted my foot out, to discover I’d scalded my foot! It was purple, and already beginning to blister!

Holy shit!

That’s when I realized I needed to call a doctor, immediately… Yet, I still didn’t make the most crucial connection. I thought – oh gawd, there’s something wrong with my nervous system… or with my circulation!

What the doctor told me was a revelation. I’ve rarely felt so stupid in my entire life. All of these minor issues were actually symptoms of ONE BIG ISSUE. He made it so simple that even I understood right away what the problem (singular) really was.

“You’re diabetic.”

Still, even then, after being informed in blunt terms what was wrong with me, I denied how serious it was. I still seemed to think that a simple prescription would make it all better. Problem solved.

I began with Glucophage® (metformin hydrochloride), used for blood sugar management, and lisinopril, an inhibitor drug used to control blood pressure and fight kidney abuse. My doctor told me that I needed to start considering those risks too.

Then he sent me to a podiatrist – to have my feet checked. Checked for what? I got my first needle test. The nurse merely had me lay back in my bare feet on the exam table, with my eyes focused elsewhere, and poked each foot, gently, with a needle. I was supposed to tell her when she had poked me, based just on what I could feel.

I thought this would be a piece of cake. I knew I could tell every time I felt a needle, and when she’d held back. Like it was a game... “How about now? … And now? … And now?” Etc., etc. When she told me I’d missed four out of ten pokes, my jaw hung open. I thought she was playing me.

“What does your diet consist of?” What did ‘diet’ have to do with my feet?

I was embarrassingly honest, and described my average food intake, which in retrospect likely set off alarm bells galore in her head.

Now here’s where it gets tricky. I was NOT a candy freak, by any stretch of the imagination. I had stayed reasonably clear of sweets and refined sugar. My diet, to my mentality, was not that of a future diabetes patient.

What was I ‘addicted’ to? Artisan breads. Savory baked goods. Stuff associated – to non-diabetic folks – with reasonably healthy lifestyles. I didn’t get out much to exercise, save for long walks, and my involvement in local theatre kept me active enough, or so I thought.

I still connected diabetes to sugar. My grandmother was a diabetic, who referred to it as ‘Sugar Diabeedus,’ and my father was also diabetic. I remember them both retiring to their bedrooms once or twice a day to stick their thighs with hypodermic needles, for their “inslun” shots.

They both had Type 1 Diabetes, which today we might call “Diabetes Classic,” like Coke Classic. Their pancreases had stopped producing insulin, a natural hormone that keeps the glucose you consume from eating you alive from the inside-out (sort of like how Coca-Cola eats rust off a bumper?). Your body uses glucose to produce energy – your body’s fuel. But an overabundance of glucose is injurious to your machine, in some cases it shuts the machine down. It opens the door wide for kidney failure, liver failure, heart failure and stroke risk. It wreaks hell on your nerve ends as well – causing a condition known as peripheral neuropathy (the cold, numb feet and lower legs).

But I was different; I had the ‘new’ diabetes. Type 2. Also known as “Adult Onset Diabetes,” it’s Type 1’s man-made counterpart – a genetic, molecular Frankenstein’s Monster. It is brought on by – surprise – the common pop-culture diet; carbohydrate-heavy, chemically refined foods that fill our supermarkets, convenience stores and even – ironically – our mass market pharmacies like those of Rite-Aid, CVS, Walgreens, etc. That bag of chips displayed at the cash register line. The quick-fix foods that pep you up on a slow drowsy workday. Fast-food lunches on the fly. Prepackaged snacks and smart-drinks that are handy and placed to be quick, easy and grabbable on-the-go.

Type 2 is not so much a failure of the pancreas, but of your body’s ability to process glucose. You still produce insulin, but your body has lost the organic “app” that sorts it between usable fuel and overflow. Your car has had so much cheap gas pumped through it, it can no longer recognize Premium.

The nerve endings starve. The kidneys dry up. Your pancreas, liver and stomach can’t cooperate. Your Corvette is turning into an old Model T with only one gear. And no ‘reverse.’

All of it created by conditioning – by a frantic, ignorant lifestyle seemingly mandated by an insane world, stretched to breaking between workaholism, feverish non-relaxed downtime, and squirmy partying. Smoking, drinking and recreational drug use may serve as a balm to your frayed soul temporarily, but they are Diabetes’s allies more than yours; the 1,000-round ammo clips to the inwardly turned assault rifle that is Type 2 Diabetes.

Myth #1: Diabetes is what happens if you don’t take care of yourself.

Only partially true. If anyone in your family’s genetic history suffered from Diabetes, you’re more likely to develop it yourself. Despite being a gym-freak, despite sucking down nothing but health shakes and protein bars. You can control it, sure. You can slow its progress to a crawl. But you’re still on its hit list.

Myth #2: Only fat people get Diabetes. And all diabetics are fat.

Oh, wrong-o! There are diabetic patients who are as thin as a rail. Conversely, if a fat person has no family history of Type 1, there’s little chance they’ll develop it themselves. They’ll just be fat, and subject only to obesity. Type 2, on the other hand, is not so inhibited. If no one in your family has ever had Diabetes, you can still get Type 2.

Why? Because Type 2 is not a genetically-transferred disorder, but a product of flawed modern living and eating. In the past – say 65-70 years ago – all Diabetic patients were Type 1. The processed foodstuffs that saturate our world today, didn’t back then. It was assumed that Diabetes was somehow an addiction to sugary foods. The basic treatment: insulin injections. Increased insulin was thought to ‘force’ your body into processing it – an overabundance of insulin to deal with an equal overabundance of glucose.

Most foods that are today processed and laden with chemicals to extend their shelf lives, were back then made using more natural methods – bread, pie crust, jams, jellies, juices, etc. – without chemicals or unnatural preserving additives.

Back then, more people ate fresh vegetables, fruits and meats, not processed crap. Baked goods were handcrafted from basic ingredients, not prepackaged and loaded with chemicals to insure ‘freshness’ after a cross-state truck ride. Even no-no's like bacon, eggs and butter were healthier! Plus, those past lifestyles were not as sedentary – most involved physical labor. There were no mouses to click all day, or screens to sit and stare at.

Myth #3: Diabetes is strictly a dietary issue – control what and how much you eat, and Diabetes will go away.

Well… no. Once you have it, it will always be there, lurking in your system. You can only control it with diet, for a time. As your body ages, it progressively loses its ability to fight as effectively, without the aid of Diabetic drugs. Glucophage, Metformin, and dozens of other designer drugs that, though effective, sometimes even the most comprehensive insurance plans do not cover. Fighting Diabetes becomes a strain to your wallet, along with your body. Eventually, it boils down to insulin injections – at least we’ve done away with old-fashioned hypos.

I remember my Dad’s scary box of hypo needles.

One such designer drug I encountered, Januvia®, though effective, was later found to contribute to kidney failure. For a brief time, Januvia was taken off the shelves, but resurfaced as Janumet® – a prescription drug containing both Metformin and Januvia!

Maybe somehow they think Metformin will offset Januvia’s harmful effects?

Which brings me to my personal major gripe with Diabetes treatment: Big Pharma and its addiction to money. One of the downsides of Januvia before they discovered its big flaw, was that there was NO generic counterpart for it. No cheap version. And no plans to produce one in the future. That was on-purpose. If you needed Januvia, you paid an exorbitant price. Insurance would hardly touch it, being a new experimental drug. You paid that dear price mostly out of pocket, period. Needless to say, some doctors prescribed it as a be-all, end-all in Diabetic treatment. Short version: We can treat you, just empty your bank account into our pockets.

When Januvia was found to be harmful (probably from being rushed into mass production by pharmaceutical companies seeing dollar signs) it was withdrawn, but only temporarily. Did they toss Januvia away and go back to the drawing board?

Hell no. There was still a ton of money to be made. They simply renamed it, adding another drug to it – a band-aid measure. And they were back in business!

In short, there is no real immediate motivation to find a cure. Diabetes ‘management’ is a billion-dollar business! They’ll happily supply you with all the meds you and your insurance policy can afford, stuff diet pamphlets down your pants until you forget your life’s purpose, fire up the operating table, or the dialysis couch, if you need them…

If the motivation (profit) was there, believe me, there’d be a cure tomorrow. It happened in the beef and pork industries. Cows and pigs get Diabetes too. If allowed to run rampant, Diabetes and Arthritis would make raising healthy cattle and pigs financially impossible. A pound of Ground-Chuck would cost $100. How did they maximize profit in the meat industry? By finding a CURE for bovine and porcine Diabetes and Arthritis. We’ve DONE it! (It involves heavy saturation of minerals into their diets.)

So what’s so impossible about finding a similar cure for humans? There’s no money in it.

And people are still eyeball deep in denial when diagnosed.

Myth #4: “The doctor thinks I may be pre-diabetic…”

Oh gawd. Bullshit.

I said that one, too. I’ve heard many people say exactly that while stuffing another bite of bagel & creamcheese in their mouths. It’s like being pre-pregnant. That’s the voice of denial talking – unacknowledged personal terror and shame. If you have the major symptoms, you have IT. Your doctor doesn’t ‘think’ you ‘may’ be anything – you either have it or you don’t, and he/she knows it. We’ve been treating Diabetes medically for a hundred years – its symptoms are not vague. Only our layman understanding of it still is.

I know first-hand the mistake of denying it.

It comes with a stigma that you haven’t cared enough about your own health, that you’ve been consuming all the wrong stuff like an ignorant glutton – that you’ve been a pig! And deserve to be treated like one!

We now realize, that's rarely the case. It’s a disease you can contract merely by coping with life’s hardships the wrong way – like an addict. It’s poor judgments based on a lack of understanding, perpetuated by an ignorance shared by an entire society. It’s a mistake that everyone has made, just not all as vulnerable to its effects. It’s one more type of victimhood that has no cautionary limits for non-sufferers. Something that can be lauded over us. Used against us.

We’re pigs, obviously. We lack common willpower, self-control. We’re getting exactly what people like us deserve: Sugar Diabeedus. We need drugs just to pretend to be ‘normal.’ The scarlet letter.

So… don’t take your ‘Diabeedus’ seriously… tell everyone the doctor only ‘thinks’ you ‘may’ be PRE-diabeddick. Not really a diabetic.

Wait until you can’t feel your own feet past your ankles.

Men, wait until you can’t get your junk hard anymore and start wasting even more money on shit like Viagra, Vitamin E supplements, penis-pumps and whatever other quick & worthless ‘man-cures’ they’ll happily rob you blind for.

Wait until the doctor ‘thinks’ they ‘may’ have to start chopping toes off.

I currently have 9 toes. That’s how far I went before I became man enough to bend your ear like this. I hope you’ve stuck with me this far.

I’m far from perfect. I still mess up. The never-ending battle to balance my glucose is a daily affair. Some days are ‘holy shit, I’m fucked’ days. Some are ’Thank you, God’ days.

But my head is out of my ass, at last. The goal is to maximize whatever time I have left. Diabetes is a ball and chain we carry to the grave. But at least I’ve put the grave into a different zip code for now.

End of sermon is nearing. If you, or someone you know and love, has anything I’ve described going on in their lives… come from that love and get in their face. Don’t shame them – that’s why they’re in denial to begin with; the shame associated with Diabetes. Don’t “bust” them. Urge them to seek legitimate medical help, not a quack who merely placates them.

Buy a glucose monitor and test strips. They aren’t expensive, and available at most pharmacies. If you are intimidated by checking your glucose, get the pharmacist or the counter person to walk you through it. It’s not nearly as scary as the box of hypo needles that diabetics had to contend with 20 years ago. Readings between 70 and 100 are considered optimum.

Being 6’4” and over 200 lbs., for my size, my doctor said 140-150 was fine. Even that number can get difficult. I’ll take all the 90s and 100s I can get.

If your numbers are consistently high, get to your doctor NOW and don’t mince words. Tell him/her everything. The sooner you jump on Diabetes, the cheaper your bills, and the slower your descent.

The night I had my toe amputated, I rushed with a swollen foot to the ER, where they discovered my glucose was 505 – through the roof and launching for the moon. They were surprised I was still conscious!

The swelling? My peripheral neuropathy had numbed me; I had fractured my foot without knowing it, and had walked around on it for several days. My bones were deteriorated to the point of infection. There was NO pain. No reason to notice anything wrong until the swelling began.

They physically dug the infection out with a medieval ice-cream scooper, after removing my right pinky toe.

Don’t go there, is my only advice.

There is no wonder cure, no magic pill, to zap Diabetes in its tracks. That's all click bait and snake oil. Stick around and you'll see their tap dance out of town. Educate yourself, as much as your brain can retain, about Diabetes. It's a gateway disease to a whole litany of medical nightmares. Fortunately we now have treatments that are leagues ahead of what my grandmother and father were limited to. You can still lead a joyful life, even with a sucky condition that doesn't look to go away.

Bud, Lou & Me

Comedy is dead in America. It has been replaced by mean-spirited bitchiness with a punchline. Today’s comedian is not what I wanted to be, back when I was young and green and itching to be funny, and to be making my living in show business.

The other thing I never wanted to be, was ‘washed up.’ Especially if it was before actually accomplishing much. I’ve managed to hit both unwanted milestones – perhaps just philosophically so, but it still stings.

None of us will ever really know the totality of how we’ve affected the world, if at all. Just the other week I learned that a poem I’d written – and placed online free – was used in a documentary project. I hope it made someone happy, or helped the film’s impact. I expect no compensation; I’d placed it out there long ago with no request of a royalty – nor even a byline. I get merely the satisfaction that someone found it, and liked it enough to use it, and gave it a degree more exposure.

I hope it isn’t used to propagate something or someone I would disagree with, but I have no control over that. Again, I had no forewarning fine print; it was just an idea that I had tossed onto the big table, and made rhyme.

Do I feel cheated? Not at all.

It was my contribution to someone’s joy, whomever, where ever and whenever. Take it and run. Good luck to you. My joy was in writing it. It was a win-win. I’ve borrowed from others before me, too, in the same way. We keep each other alive that way.

I imagine I’ve pissed off just as many people, with my ideas, as I’ve delighted. Maybe more. Maybe that’s how I never ‘made it.’ But again – I’ll never know.

George Bailey never realized just how many people his life had touched, for the good – yet was out in the dead of a winter’s night, contemplating suicide, due to what he perceived as – and what the world seemed to tell him were – his failures. As a business man, as a father, as a human being with too many dreams unfulfilled.

I was watching some old variety TV shows the other night. Mostly the Steve Allen Show, upon which Abbott & Costello trotted out their standard routines for the last time, all widely known to a disparaging point of overexposure. Their shine was long gone, their material tired and outdated even to a 1950s audience. Who’s On First got courtesy giggles and applause for its place in comedy history. Bud and Lou themselves looked like you could smell them; two exhausted old men. Lou Costello was only 53 when he passed away in 1959 – he looked 73.

They had not worn out their welcome, just their relevance. Their comedy was dead. They had gone from being the hottest box office draw in show business, just fifteen years prior, to being a nostalgia act, fit more for a museum than a comedy club. They all but hated each other, despite their practiced rapport on stage. They hated their act; they'd done it too many times. They were beyond caring whether it was performed correctly anymore. They were done.

As the titular character in the film Shane told the ruthless ranchers before gunning them down, "you've been living too long."

They had worked their entire careers, for this, to become who they were, and there was no escape.

They’d seen the top. It had exacted a hell of a cost from them. They skipped the Draft because they were worth more as comedians (the job they had anyway) than soldiers; they garnered over $85 million for the government in War Bond sales. Surely that was an adequate amount worthy of some slack – yet the same government sued them out of their houses and fortunes for back taxes. Lou Costello had to work, right up to the end, despite his tools being edge-worn and outdated. Bud died near-penniless. They’d been screwed by the best. I wonder, at that point in their lives, if they felt cheated?

Being loved by unknown generations of strangers is a reward unto itself. Having rent is nice too.

Standing There

This post is part of the Fourth Annual Buster Keaton Blogathon hosted by Silent-ology.

It was a Monday, the 11th of November, 2002 to be exact, and I was alone, in southern California, wandering a cemetery.

I was name-hunting at Forest Lawn Memorial, Hollywood Hills; there were a few people I needed to meet one more time, before moving on. My dwindling finances had forced my hand, and – temporarily, I hoped – hit the ‘pause’ button on my pursuit of employment in the movie industry. All the ‘meetings’ today would be posthumous, but I would, in affect, be within feet of legends.

Many rest here, with pedigrees and careers once every bit as glamorous and wild as the current crop of famous and infamous. Most here are like those in any given graveyard, the you’s and me’s of generations past, forgotten; yesterday’s throngs. Because this happens to be Hollywood, some of them today still exist as the laughter and applause on old grainy kinescopes. Not only is the entire cast of I Love Lucy dead, but everyone heard in the audience is too.

My trek was not in search of Lucy, though her original final resting place is here at Forest Lawn, behind the marker named ‘Morton,’ that of her last husband, comedian Gary Morton.

No, I was here to visit my heroes; other godlings of comedy – one in particular. Ernie Kovacs rests with most of his family, in the front scape of the Court of Remembrance. Freddie Prinze, Sr. waits for the final trumpet between Charles Laughton and George Raft inside the same said Court's mausoleum enclosure.

In the short distance ahead, there is a tiny red building with a steeple, named the Old North Church, even though it’s technically at the south end of most of the rest of the cemetery. Any other day, I'd walk, but the afternoon sun was brutal, despite late Fall. I drove, and parked the car on Memory Lane, before the Court of Liberty.

I often think of this as the military section, because here centrally brood the immortals of the Revolutionary War, in larger than life stone and metal. Generals Lafayette, Green, Knox… their brows exquisitely chiseled and almost possessed of a pulse, sit and ponder the grave markers below their feet. Above them stands the father of our country, President George Washington, in full military uniform, lording over the land, in quiet contemplation.

It being Veteran’s Day was an interesting coincidence.

Washington’s left hand casually points an index finger at something. I don't believe it's merely due to his random placement atop the mighty pedestal. He was erected there in 1964, after being on display for over fifty years in a Massachusetts township. The object he points at today, was not yet in place, then.

Two years later, it was. I want to believe there was providence at work.

The Court of Liberty is gorgeous, green and blessed by a view of adjoining Mount Sinai Memorial Park’s mural of Jewish-American history. If you start at the mural, and walk toward Washington, you will cross paths with Stan Laurel and his wife Ida. Pause there, of course, then keep walking. Look up at President Washington, and follow his stern direction – the pointing finger. You will end up just beyond the courtyard wall, still with Washington in view, at the Center of the Comedy Universe.

The General, pointing directly at Buster, is what tips off your subconscious awareness that you are in the presence of a divine working.

I was here once before, about two weeks earlier, just to chart my way around and sightsee. That day there had been a General® golfball with “The” scribbled on it, sitting on Buster’s headstone – a strange memento from a fan. There were also two pennies – Lincoln added to Washington’s presence – placed each in the loops of the sixes; Buster’s death year of 1966. Like coins over the eyes of the dead – payment to Charon, to ferry the River Styx.

Today – Veteran’s Day – there was a clay pot of yellowish daisies at Buster’s grave. I read the attached card to see that The Sons of the Desert, the Laurel & Hardy group, is who had placed them.

I wondered, why daisies? Did they have some symbolic importance, regarding Buster? My knowledge of Keatondom is not quite an absolute scholar’s, but that of a well-oiled aficionado. I am not a slouch or newbie by any stretch of thinking. I could determine no 'Busterism,' offhand, regarding the daisies. Maybe they were just pretty. Just odd enough to stand apart from all the other floral arrangements out today – and therefor wonderful.

Unlike the visit previous, today I was on more than a sightseeing tour. I had a similar, yet deeper mission than just leaving flowers. I was here at Buster’s final address, with a large plastic bottle of all-purpose cleaner, and a metal scrub brush, purchased with a small portion of my last $300 at a convenience store, in town.

I was going to make Buster Keaton’s headstone look brand new again. It was my humble yet direct way of thanking The Giant of Laughter, for his talent, timing, otherworldly brilliance, athleticism, showmanship, sacrifice, storied injuries – everything ever said, written or recorded, regarding his legend – a thanks for being born!

Having peered up at Heaven for over 35 years, his stone was layered with a tinge, darkly discolored – just dirty and awful. Beneath the grime, it seemed to be akin to a bronze military plaque, like that of my own father’s gravestone. Down on all fours I went, and let the cleaning fluid pour.

I kept an eye over my back, in case cemetery personnel spotted me doing this – probably looking exactly like a vandal. I don’t imagine I’m the first person ever seen here by staff, doing volunteer fan maintenance on an old beloved star’s gravestone. Today, however, I was the only one in sight.

The crust was tenacious. Another coating of cleaning fluid and I was now working my shoulder into cramps, against the terrible patina. The new brush was getting its entire life’s workout on this one job! Finally I had ‘Buster’ glowing, catching the sunlight with a brilliant bronze sparkle. I paused for a breather, and sat there beside Mr. Keaton. I could imagine him watching, like a spectator, an owner inspecting a worker’s thoroughness.

“Yes, I’ve still got ‘Keaton’ to do, and the date… I’ll get there, don’t rush me. Just a minute longer.” I was winded just polishing his grave – unlike say, tumbling down a foothill in somersaults for Seven Chances, or standing there for a two-ton building-front to topple and – hopefully – spare my life with a calculatedly random open window, for Steamboat Bill, Jr.

I could hear Buster say, smilingly, “Pussy.”

I wished I’d bought some bottled water as well, about then. The cemetery furnishes drinking stations, with stacks of plastic cups aside the water spouts at various points on the property – but the nearest one was just a tad too far to walk. Besides, I was halfway home.

In about forty minutes more, the entire headstone was successfully polished, and shimmering. My arm felt about to fall off. The new brush looked ten years old. The cleaning fluid was half gone. But I did it – what I’d come here to make happen.

The sun was sinking. Another night approached where the stars slept.

I had nowhere to sleep that night, except my car. I had handed over to my landlord that morning, the key to my Hollywood apartment. There’d not been enough money left for another month’s rent. He’d accepted my tendering without the 30-day notice required by my rental agreement. Veteran’s Day, 2002; a day I’d never forget, on many, many levels.

I did not say goodbye to Hollywood as I got back in my car. I hoped I’d be back, in some capacity. I waved so-long to Buster Keaton, my hero, telling him how wonderful it was to finally meet him… and to do something for him.

I checked my camera, hoping to record an image of the freshly renewed headstone, but found no battery in it. I’d forgotten to buy a fresh one. It figured.

My next destination was a long, long way back up the freeway. I drove out the front gate of Forest Lawn, and in a few minutes was on my way north. And not into the sunset, even though it was indeed setting.