October, 2007

October marks the wife's birthday. She is really good about letting DNA spend hours in front of the computer instead of raising our kids. Thanks, Lala.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/01/07

Free Suresh!

Last month DNA introduced you to Tanya and Rick, who are in the middle of a stalled adoption. You remember them, right? Young doctors in love.

DNA asked you all for a favor: to take a letter, copy it, and send it to your state senators and representative. Simple. Some of you did that, for which DNA is glad. DNA promised to give a copy of the new DNA Vibrators CD to anyone who CC'd their emails to DNA at pugh@shawneelink.net.

Below is the letter DNA asked you to cut and paste into your email browser. If you already have done this, great, thanks, your CD is on the way, and you can skip down past the letter (it's in red). The easiest way to get the email addresses of your congressmen is to go to here for your senator's webpage or to go here for your representative.



Your address

Today's Date

Your representative or important person’s address

Dear ,

I am writing this letter with the hope that you can assist with the stalled adoption of a Nepalese child named Suresh to caring parents that are in need of help.

Over two years ago, our close friends, Rick Navitsky and Tanya Leinicke, began a long journey towards adopting a Nepali child. Tanya had just completed a decorated tour of duty in Iraq with the United States Air Force. She was awarded a Meritorious Service Medal upon her separation from the military. It was time for them to start a family. Rick had served in the Peace Corps in remote Nepal from 1990-1993. He not only speaks and writes Nepali but has a profound appreciation for their customs and culture. They both felt it was their calling to adopt a child and it was only natural that they chose Nepal for their adoption.

In January they received a referral from their adoption agency, Adopt International. They immediately traveled to Nepal to meet their son, Suresh. Suresh is a happy, healthy, wonderful child who has melted all of our hearts. We are all anxious for him to join not only the family of Rick and Tanya but also our wider community of family and friends.

In May, Nepal released an official statement that all international adoptions had been placed on hold. The Ministry of Women and Children’s Welfare had plans to reform the adoption process. Unfortunately four hundred families from across the world, many from the United States, had already met their children and were caught in the middle. They are not only unable to bring their children home, but also find that obtaining information on the process is nearly impossible. They have no where to turn for help.

As you may know, Nepal is in a state of political turmoil. The Maoist uprising and the decay of their monarchy has led to a great deal of economic distress and violence. Orphans are by no means immune to their country’s distress. Every new day brings more children for the orphanages to feed. The orphanages desperately need adoptions to start again. The influx of parents from Europe and the United States brings hope of a new life for these orphans who would otherwise be left without families, education, or hope for a future.

Tanya and Rick will provide a wonderful, loving home for Suresh if they can only get him home. In the meantime, they are traveling to Nepal frequently to visit him. They are both practicing physicians in Alaska. Their forced absence for these travels is not only causing them a great deal of strife but must also be affecting the healthcare of their community at large.

I am hoping that through your knowledge and influence you can forward my concerns to the appropriate person. Perhaps your efforts and concern will help to bring not only Suresh home to Rick and Tanya but may also bring children home to the over four hundred families that are waiting. Please feel free to contact myself or Rick and Tanya with any questions. Your attention and assistance is greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

(Put Your Name Here)

Rick Navitsky, MD, FACEP Medical Director, Emergency Dept. Alaska Emergency Medicine Associates Providence Alaska Medical Center rnavitsky@provak.org (907)301-7223

Tanya Leinicke, MD, FACEP Alaska Emergency Medicine Associates Providence Alaska Medical Center; Adjunct Assistant Professor WWAMI Biomedical Program, UAA; Clinical Assistant Professor Department of Medicine, University of Washington School of Medicine tleinicke@salud.unm.edu (907)301-7222

Rick Navitsky and Tanya Leinicke 3970 Defiance Street. Anchorage, AK 99504 (907)222-6235

Help them out if you can. Suresh is a great little kid.

Now, what does this have to do with music, you might ask? Plenty. Probably the best part about playing out was every once in awhile, DNA would play a benefit to raise money and awareness for a cause---The Arthritis Foundation, the Women's Center, 611 Pizza, The American Cancer Society, Breast Cancer Awareness, for the Lion's Club, for the Knights of Columbus, for several school districts, for D.A.R.E., for individuals with illnesses, and many, many other worthwhile causes. DNA can't think of any other way he could have been involved in so many positive community events. More than just a soundtrack for booze-fueled road trips, music is also a vehicle for change, which is really what this website has until now, facetiously claimed as its purpose. Do you think the monks in Burma are getting gunned down and beaten in silence? Hell no. Whether it is in their minds, hearts, or on their lips, their music keeps them sane, gives them strength, and allows them to survive the regime under which they live.

The ancient Greeks (read Pythogoras)believed that there was a harmony in the heavens, which related mathematics, "perfect" shapes, the proportions of the movements of heavenly bodies and the repeating geometry of the octave in what was called "the music of the spheres." More poetically, theologians might have called this "music" the voice of God. This is figurative stuff, but literally, as DNA has argued before, music inspires. From the simple "Happy Birthday" sung to DNA's wife today, to Lennon singing "give peace a chance," sometimes one song can make a difference in someone's life. Write your congressman. Sing "Freedom!" (by Rare Earth). Look it up. You might like it. Free Suresh!

Permanent Historical Record: 10/03/07

So What!

A couple of days ago, DNA wrote, "Sing "Freedom!" (by Rare Earth). Look it up. You might like it." Some of you looked it up. Some of you said DNA was full of shit. Rare Earth did lots of cool songs, stood out from the crowd by being one of the only white bands on Motown, and did more than just "covers" of songs written by black artists...they reinvented them, and if possible, made them funkier, groovier, and more hard rock all at the same time. But nowhere could you find them doing a song called "Freedom."

See, DNA has this memory. It comes from way, way, back, when the tool was maybe 6 years old, when his brother and sister wasn't around, and he would play their records on the old console record player. One of his brothers was into what DNA guesses you would call "acid" rock, and had stuff like Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Neil Young and Crazy Horse, shit like that. He kept his records from grubby little hands. But his sister, she had some soul, and lots of accessible 45's, like Rare Earth's "Hey, Big Brother." In fact, "Hey Big Brother" was listened to by the up-and-coming lil DNA several hundred times. And, when DNA looked back upon that memory, two days ago, he remembered listening to another song right after "Hey Big Brother." That song was...well, it went like, aw shit, it had to be the B-side of the Rare Earth song...or was it another record? Well, it had the word "Freedom" in the title, DNA remembers that for damn sure. DNA stared at that record countless times. But DNA also remembered the Rare Earth logo, (very cool, like the 'keep on truckin' tee shirt graphic from the 70's)

and thought for sure the Rare Earth logo was on the record with the word "Freedom" in the title. Armed with that information, it should be easy to find the song DNA was thinking of. Right?

So, without the actual facts, DNA just spouted off that the song was by Rare Earth.

It's not. DNA knows because he talked to the guys in the band. Hold up, let that sink in for a second. The internet is that awesome. Between two days ago and now, to fill the gap that was DNA's faulty memory, DNA looked through hundreds of web pages of information, and eventually talked to different members of the band through different web sites , and found that Rare Earth did not do a song called "Freedom." That conversation went something like this:

DNA: Are you sure you didn't do a song called "Freedom?"

Dude from Rare Earth: Yeah, I'm pretty sure.

DNA: It was a long time ago. You may have been, I don't know...(trying to be delicate about the state of mind the band might have been in)

Dude from Rare Earth: No.

DNA: You see, I remember this song, I remember flipping to the B-side of "Big Brother" and, do you want me to sing it, it goes like this...

{click}

DNA: duh--nuh. Dun nuh na nuh, duh nanuhna nuh na nuh na nuh nuh nuh

Instead of looking all over the internet, the facts DNA needed....were right where he should have looked to begin with.

Do you know how many songs there are with the word "Freedom" in the title? DNA does. 4991. DNA listened to a lot of them. DNA computed how long he would have to listen to randomly hit the song he was looking for. A couple of birthdays would come and go.

When DNA got home from work today, he did the right thing. He called his sister, and gave her the story, and then before he said anything about the lyrics or song title, he sung the melody of the song. After about 10 seconds, Sis said, "Oh, that's 'Mother Freedom'" in the way DNA should have been able to remember the song, had it not been gnawing away at his brain like a flesh-eating amoeba gnawing away at his brain.

So, the song is "Mother Freedom," by BREAD. Yes, BREAD. It rocks. And has a cool message, and was the coolest thing BREAD did next to getting sliced. Don't wrinkle your nose up like somebody just made you listen to
Christopher Cross. BREAD was actually good. In fact, if you check out BREAD , you will be surprised how many of their songs are part of your subconscious music culture. BREAD is insidious, and in that respect, very much a model for DNA. Seem innocuous, be virulent. Hey, that's DNA's new catchphrase. Seem innocuous. Be virulent. DNA has officially copywritten that phrase. But if you're DNA's friend, you can use it for free. Just credit the source.

Lastly, about the title of this post: So What! So DNA was wrong about his memory. DNA likes to think he was wrong on purpose so that he could embark on this odyssey of musical rediscovery with all of you. You're welcome.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/10/07

A New Book, A New Chapter...

October is the month DNA travels for his real job, flies all over the country and prepares potential college students and parents for what they might face in their futures. It's not as depressing as it sounds. In blogs past, DNA has delved into such topics as bad seat assignments on flights, if you're the one stuck next to the fundamentalist on the plane, guys with cell phones stuck in their ears (and their heads up their asses), delays, and in general, the idiocy you must endure to travel in glorified busses with wings. In fact, the bus industry needs to learn a thing or two from airlines and rail-lines...bus-lines need to serve alcohol to their patrons, too.

One very positive aspect of flying, though, is that DNA gets to catch up on any reading that has been waiting, or to "take a chance" on a new or interesting looking book. It so happened that DNA found a book that addressed the memory creation problem DNA had from last post, and described "Why People Believe Weird Things." This is an old book, been around about 10 years, but is newly revised and expanded. Michael Shermer is the author and professional skeptic who guides the reader through a series of pseudo-scientific and pseudo-historical "theories." Best of all, he tries to follow two basic premises: Hume's Maxim and Spinoza's Dictum. To quote, they are, respectively:

"The plain consequence is (and it is a general maxim worthy of our attention), 'that no testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous than the fact which it endeavors to establish.'"

and

"I have made a ceaseless effort not to ridicule, not be bewail, not to scorn human actions, but to understand them."

Okay, DNA has fallen a little short on the second rule to live by. Ridiculing, bewailing, scorning without understanding has been the cornerstone of this blog from day 1, (and about 99% of all internet writing). That's one of the reasons people write on the internet, so they can spout off about shit in as virulent a way as they possibly can, anonymously, and therefore, without fear of retribution, from not just a smarter reader, but an angrier or more unstable reader who was offended. On the internet, it is easy to say, "joke 'em if they can't take a fuck."

If you object to something DNA writes, good for you. You may write DNA back. DNA has balls, so if it was worthy, he would print what you say. But unless you point out something worth talking about, you'll either be ignored or fucked with. And since this is DNA's house, in the end, even if you are smarter, funnier, meaner, tougher, or anything-er, you don't pay the bill to run this website, and DNA can shut you down. Sucks, yes it does, buy this is why so many people write pointless shit like this on the internet. Because they can.

It reminds DNA of Alexander Pope, the dwarven poet laureate of England. He bewailed the introduction of the printing press, because it meant that the uneducated (to his standard) masses would have the means at their disposal to print books, low, base, immoral books, written by common folk with less of a grip on the language than they normally have on their own genitals (DNA is paraphrasing Pope here; Pope actually wrote something more like this: "like cattle, herded by a mad dictator, their words flow like the seed of a chronic masurbator.") Okay, Pope didn't write that, but Pope did write heroic couplet, probably better than anybody else ever has---read "The Rape Of The Lock" and you will be convinced. Oh, and he did this little thing, a translation of the Iliad, and is famous for quotes like "To err is human, to forgive Divine" and shit like that. Yeah, DNA thinks most pop song writers owe Pope a debt for making people amenable to the AA BB CC DD rhyme scheme. Of course, in the wrong hands, (think Nickleback, or Ratt, or almost all of pop radio) it can become some pretty bad sing-songy shit.

Back to the book, "Why People Believe Weird Things." The first maxim is so self-evident to most people, we would feel confident that we don't make mistakes in believing in weird or pretty fucked up shit. Unfortunately, we all harbor some beliefs that simply are not supported by facts or are even contradicted by verifiable facts. The other night, DNA was watching the Bill Maher show on HBO (at the hotel room DNA was staying at. DNA can't afford actual HBO in his house---remember he is one of you, the little people). Mos Def was on it, and making good sense about a particular topic, when he said, "I don't believe in the Al Quaida boogeyman, but then again, I don't believe in the moon landing, either." At which point, Bill Maher, and DNA, and almost everybody in the audience, tuned him out. Smart, relevant people believe in fucked up things. This was the most interesting part of the book. Smart people, people who have the capacity to understand that hillbilly shit is bogus, still believe hillbilly shit. In fact, the smarter you are, the more likely you will be to keep your opinion and belief, even if it is wrong, and the less likely you will be moved to change your opinion, even in the face of mounting evidence, and the better you can argue your position so that even if someone else can refute you, you still might win the battle if you can make them look stupid.

What DNA has experienced recently is the fallibility of memory, and our ability to "recreate" events that fit what we remember or think we remember. This is why DNA would have sworn the song "Mother Freedom" was by Rare Earth when it was actually by Bread.

On a more serious note, this is also why dickfors like Iran's president can hold well-attended conferences on Holocaust revision, why some state school boards still will agree to teach creationism, or its seemingly less malevolent skin, intelligent design, why some believe in alien abduction, in psychics, etc. DNA is as guilty of believing in crackpot conspiracies as the next anonymous internet presence.

So, DNA's 11 year old son got a hold of the book, and started reading it. He's a pretty smart kid. Pretty soon, he asked about certain psychics, like Uri Gellar. "Wasn't he tested?" "Didn't he do stuff like bend spoons and make stuff under glass move?" At which point, the newly schooled skeptic in DNA employed Hume's maxim: "Son, if indeed he had powers like that, don't you think he would have developed them to do some real good in the world, like maybe psychically "lead" medicines directly to cancer in a person's body, or mentally guide metal stints to exactly the right place in a heart attack victim's body? If he was truly gifted, and wanted to show the world, wouldn't that be the way to do it? And, since he is not doing anything except parlor tricks with his "ability," then we should doubt his ability is anything more than a trick. The burden of proof is on him, not me, to prove his ability."

Now, to the second rule to live by, the one about not ridiculing, and all that shit. That is actually worth living by as well. Every flame war on the internet, every piece of bad criticism out here, every bit of rancorous diatribe which passes for spirited debate, would go away if we followed that rule. There's a place for fun and games, but if you are really trying to understand something, personally attacking an author or an opinion actually gives strength and ammunition back to the originator. Also, the more you hammer on someone, the more shrill, amateurish, and frankly, stupid, you sound, particularly if the person you attack can keep their cool, and continue to point out any flaws in logic you make. But that would be like throwing the pearls before the swine. Pigs like DNA root in shit. It is our natural habitat. It is why some folks don't "dig on swine." Other folks don't mind getting dirty.

DNA will try to follow a new book and chapter in its life: Be more skeptical of the inane shit he sometimes believes, and try not to be mean when DNA points out how fucked up bulk emailers are.

What book have you read from Oprah's Book Club? Tell DNA here.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/17/07

100 Looks...

In record time, there were over 100 hits on the CD Baby page for "The Result Of Continuous Exposure To Radiation" for which I can only say, "Thanks. Now go buy the fucker." Also, DNA has had the pleasure of giving several copies of the new record away as people joined in the "Free Suresh" campaign.

It received a very favorable review from the locals, and will soon be a major motion picture, starring Bruce Willis.

DNA is pleased to be able to use this bully pulpit to announce that his boys in the band Nonagon are close to finishing their studio debut. It rocks. Reminiscent of Fugazi and Jawbox, it's chock full sterling musicianship, powerful vocals, interesting and driving bass, and drums. Okay, just fucking with you, Mr. Kamikaze, drums that lead, drums that drive, drums that beat you into submission, all done with natural ease which belies the intrinsic difficulty of making a three piece sound so much larger than a three piece without being too busy. How about that for a (p)review. As soon as it is available, DNA will let you know.

DNA, the family, Mr. Kamikaze, his family, Mike, Susan, and Molly, we all went camping this last weekend. Besides making inappropriate dick jokes when the kids were off playing, we validated our utter geekiness by recalling our fondest Dungeons and Dragons moments from when we were in college. At least we were recalling these fond moments over a roaring fire while drinking. While we were camping, DNA was able to coerce a promise from Mr. Kamikaze that indeed the DNA Vibrators will play again. We will probably not be able to get it in gear until this Spring. DNA will keep you posted.

DNA registered for classes for the first time since 1995. He is officially enrolled for the Spring. Does anyone out there know how to do inferential statistics?

Permanent Historical Record: 10/27/07

October Parties...

Carbondale is known for October parties. From the 1970’s through the early ‘90’s, Carbondale was infamous for its Halloween Celebration. At its height, about 20,000 of our closest friends would descend on Carbondale (a town of about 25,000), Along with about 20,000 students, on every Halloween, there occurred a convergence of humanity in Carbondale which felt like Mardi Gras (in fact, it was sometimes referred to as “little Mardi Gras”) but without all of the social responsibility normally found at Mardi Gras.

Through bad management, a deteriorating city-university relationship, and generally unrestrained idiocy on the part of the party-people, the event was shut down. Over the years, there were mass arrests, thousands in property damage, burned and overturned cars, unrestrained violence---y’know, fun. People attempted to “take the Strip,” (a stretch of downtown near the university filled with shops and bars) for many years after the celebration was officially “over,” some years more successfully than others, but eventually, only a ghost of this Halloween celebration remained.

Long before the event was shut down, getting drunk in a throng of anonymous bodies had lost its appeal to DNA. For most of his time in Carbondale, DNA either played shows on Halloween, stayed home, or attended house parties. As the fervor over Halloween died down, DNA was reminded what was great about this town: Not its notorious claim to fame, but the regular atmosphere every weekend. If you wanted to go to a party, you could, but more importantly, if you wanted to see a band or play out, you could.

Some of the best shows DNA can remember happened in October. DNA thinks this is because, in Carbondale, it is still warm enough in October to run around in shorts during the day, but cool enough that a few shots of hard liquor are needed to warm you up at night.

DNA will set the stage for one of the better parties he can remember. It was late in October, 1994, at a house on Oakland (for those of you current or former Salukis who know where that is). The house was a Henry house. Henry Fisher owned home Rentals Corp., and was a fairly despicable slum lord. He was convicted and jailed not long ago for a sex crime against a minor. Everyone who lived in rental housing (and in a college town, that’s a lot of people) knew that being in a Henry house meant something. It meant years later, you would look back on your experience in one, and be proud you simply survived. You felt like you cheated death, or tempted fate, and only by the brass content of your balls did you pass through the gauntlet unscathed.

So, it was a Henry house: two stories, four bedroom, eight people living there, full basement, (excavated after the house was built). The basement was exactly tall enough that if you were taller than DNA, you would hit your head on the floor joists of the first floor. DNA is about 5’8” of awesome, if you didn’t know.

It was raining most of the evening, a light mist which you could ignore for a few minutes, but would result in a soaking down to your skin before you realized it. People were mulling about, spending as much time outside as in, despite the cold and messy weather. CRANK, DNA’s band at that time, was scheduled to play. We were the only entertainment for the night, so we had better fucking rock. DNA heard several folks say things to that effect, coupled with vague acknowledgements that we were a loud band, which was as close to a compliment as we normally got. DNA felt that often, that he was not “hip,” or “cool,” like it looked like the other guys in the band were, or how other bands in town were. DNA had no other purpose than to rock, and gave two shits whether he pleased anybody else, so DNA supposes, the feeling of mutual disdain, if it existed anywhere outside of his own head, was mutual. This is the paradox of a working band, however. DNA played like he was the only bassist in town, and all the people there were pissing all over his personal playing time, but he really did want everybody to dig what we were doing.

Enough of DNA’s insecurities. We packed our stuff in, and set up on the short wall of a rectangular basement. Drop cords hung like spider webs, and a nasty hum, probably from the neon on the same circuit as us buzzed through every instrument. At the time, DNA packed a home-built 18” cabinet, and two 2-10” cabinets, through a 2400 watt bi-amped rig. H.O.G. played through a 200 watt Ampeg head and a Marshall half-stack, while the Reverend played through Peavey’s rendition of a Fender Twin. As usual for a basement party, the drums weren't miked, and as usual for Ralph, they didn't need to be. The house supplied the P.A. which actually was pretty loud. Loud was the word for the show. Brutal. Everything in that basement bounced around and pummeled anyone without earplugs into tapioca. As we started the show, everything clicked. That doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, even during a good show, the special moment, whatever it might be, doesn’t occur. But that night, right away, it did. The basement was packed, shoulder to shoulder, the cool air countered by body heat. Literally, steam hung in the air from from the rain and from the people. The bodies close to the speakers soaked up the sound pressure like worms in tequila, while the folks in the back of the room undulated like the tail end of that worm right before it was pickled.

The Reverend had his rock and roll ON, and was doing everything a guitar slinging front man should do: boring holes of lust with his eyes through anyone who would look at him; exuding confidence and sexuality that came with overt symbolism of his powerful guitar; spooging right in the eyes of all the girls in the room while they asked him for his autograph (okay, that last part was a slight exaggeration---there were no autographs); in other words, he was every bit the rock deity he had the right to be. As we began the song, “Motivation,” DNA knew things were good, because as two notes a half-step off are held at the beginning of the song, if the bass is good, meaning, it would make your stomach upset, then the distortion caused by those two notes (an “e” and an “e-flat”) would cause his pant legs to flap against his legs, and cause window glass to visibly shake. The pants were flapping, and the glass was shaking, “my mind was ache-ing, and we were faking it YOU---SHOOK ME ALL NIGHT LONG!” That’s what ACDC was talking about in that song, not fucking.

Several songs into the set, we started a song called “Staring.” “Staring” has a certain cadence to which it is easy to bounce up and down to, or to stomp your feet to. About a minute into it, right in the middle of the basement floor, as DNA watched in surprise, a large section of the crowd dropped out of sight. Yes, dropped out of sight.The concrete floor gave way beneath them and opened up into a sinkhole about 15 feet in diameter. The people who fell only dropped about a foot down or so, but, the issue isn’t how far they fell. The issue is THAT THEY FELL THROUGH A FUCKING CONCRETE FLOOR!!! Here is the best part---we didn’t stop playing, and nobody left the basement. People just kind acknowledged the fact, reasoned that the rest of the house would have caved in already if it were going to, and kept on dancing.

This incident led to a small amount of notoriety and our own inflated opinion of what we were capable of. “Yeah,” DNA would say later, “So many people were there, the floor caved in,” or “We were so loud we broke the foundation of the house.” For anyone who ever saw CRANK play, though, this was as good a description of our music as any.

We finished the show, and it was clear as people left, it was the lack of adequate drainage close to the foundation of this old house which had, over the course of years, allowed water to leach out soil from underneath a too thin layer of concrete on the floor. The hole itself was a few feet deep in places. For a long time, folks had probably been walking on this shell, not realizing how thin the ice was beneath their feet. It was nice that CRANK broke the ice.

October in Carbondale, and music loud enough to break floors: those things go together like Cap’n Crunch and beer, and remind DNA what is so fun about this town.

Happy Halloween! What Carbondale parties do you remember?

Permanent Historical Record: 10/28/07

Anniversaries...

As is my custom, on this day, on the blog, there is no DNA Vibrator, no Tool, no bullshit. Just me.

On this day, in 2001, my Dad died. My son, Carl, named after my Dad, experienced his first real loss in life, and as gifted as he is, understood the concept of death better than most 5 year-olds should. What tore my heart more than my Dad dying was seeing on my son's face the realization that his grandpa was gone, and nothing, no magic, or faith, or super being, or spell, would change that. Because Dad died right before Halloween, we, the adults, were trying to make our own peace with the dead, while we made a point of celebrating the holiday for the kids. I don't think the irony was lost on any of the them, that we were celebrating a holiday in which the dead come back as we were preparing for the ceremony in which we buried Dad.

I was hit right in the gut by very real and pertinent questions from Carl about heaven and hell, about a person's soul, about what happens when you die. The kind of questions we insulate ourselves from purposely for most of our lives, and the kind of questions which, because we don't want real answers to, we run from quickly when asked. We run behind conventions, we run behind pat phrases, we run behind rituals, we run away from doubt, and in an attempt to wring meaning from a person's death, we run away from fear and into a surreal state which I can't well describe, but which we all have been in. People say things like, "He's in a better place," or "He's enjoying perfect peace, and is whole again in mind and spirit," or "Today is a day to celebrate the love you have for him," among many, many, things, and we accept them as reasonable things to say. They are not.

I believe in God, in much the same way I believe in the universe. I don't think there is a city with streets paved with gold waiting for me somewhere, though. I think it is possible that the idea of spiritual peace is a metaphor that is imperfectly described by earthly wonders, like a golden city, but what is that spiritual peace, really? I don't know. I do know I had to tell my son something, something that would make sense, but not insult his beliefs. I couldn't say things like, "He's in a better place." In fact, saying things like that always reminds me of this one Twilight Zone episode (or one of those shows like the Twilight Zone) in which gramps died and little Timmy decides that since gramps was in a better place, that the best thing he could do was kill everybody else so they could be in a better place, too. Most people choose to stay in this suck-ass hell-hole, given that choice. Makes you wonder, don't it?

I raised Carl to question everything. Why wouldn't he question an unknowable 'fact' about a place called heaven, and if it wasn't like he thought it was, then (I already knew he was thinking this) what would happen to him when he died? There is nothing like the thought of dying and having the event mean nothing more to the universe than just another candle burning out. Before it burned out, there was a little light and heat. Afterwards, nothing but smoke. And if it warmed somebody or lit somebody's path, what did that matter 10,000 years from now? I wish I could tell you that I said something to him which reassured him and made him feel connected in a deeply spiritual way to his grandpa, but I didn't, or couldn't. I told him what I believed. I told him that there is more to the universe than we will ever know, and that what made Dad 'Dad' had passed on, but to where, or in what form, I knew not. I knew that never again in this universe will the same forces align to produce another person like him, and in that way, his place in the book of this universe was written and will always be. Will we ever see that book (my own metaphor for heaven)? I knew not. But that's what I told him.

I think for most people, heaven is like Santa Claus, something you believed in when you were little, when you were willing to believe in things you couldn't see, or things that violated the laws you learn which govern the world. As you get older, you no longer believe in the actuality of Santa Claus, because facts contradict it, but are still willing to believe in the idea of Santa Claus. At some point, you may no longer believe in the idea. Belief powers the thing. If a person believes it, it exists. If a person doesn't, it doesn't. Any objective "reality" is further removed from us than heaven ever will be. That in itself is a comfort that I hope Carl will understand one day. He probably already does.

I didn't intentionally plan it, (or at least I didn't consciously plan it) but tonight I watched the opener of Season Six of Buffy The Vampire Slayer, in which the Scooby Gang performs a spell to bring Buffy back from the dead. Today, while I did yard work all day long, I thought to myself, "I wonder if Dad felt like I'm feeling, today, thinking about his own Dad while he slogged through the mundane events of his life?" When I sat down outside and rested, enjoying the smell of the grill, and dinner cooking, I wondered if Dad felt like this those times when I would watch him relax on the old wooden bench swing we had installed in the front yard many years ago, just feeling the air, with a tinge of the North in it. My daughter Maggie, who is six, seven this December, came up to me, and asked me what I was doing, and in that moment, I knew she was looking at me the way I looked at my Dad when I was a kid---like he was invincible, like he was the best, like he was there just for me, and that I was happy just to be there looking at him. If I have ever done anything right in this world, I have to say it was evident in her smile to me, while I sat, thinking about what I hoped my Dad thought about me when I looked at him with six year-old eyes. Perhaps I learned enough from him while he was here to get some things right.

Six years is a long time. Six years is an instant. All it has taken for me to erase six years is a few paragraphs. But not quite six years. Five years and 364 days. No matter how often I recall the 36 years previous to his death, he is still dead. And that was six years ago today.

Tonight it is late, and I have a very important story to tell about what happened to me immediately after my Dad died, which will have to wait when I have some time to tell it right. So, tonight, dear reader, if you are still with me, instead of clicking back through a link, I am going to present what I wrote last year on the fifth anniversary of my Dad's passing.

On the Anniversary of the Death of My Father

No tool...no DNA Vibrator...just me. Five years ago, on October 28th, my Dad died. He was strong, and really, my siblings and I had convinced ourselves that nothing could kill Him. He would go when he was damn good and ready, on his own terms. At 76, he still had a strong heart, and a sound mind. We thought that Dad was going to be like one of those old Indian chiefs you romanticize about as a kid, who lives and leads his people well into his old age, and in the time and place of his own choosing, is allowed to die gracefully, becoming one with nature. Or, like Beowulf, he completes one last great task, and lives forever in song because of his deeds.

But, this was not the case with my Dad. Early in the last year of his life, he began to act erratically. He was taken by fits of anger, and found that little bits of memory were slipping away from him. At times, he appeared to have small seizures. After these symptoms became more noticeable, he finally went to the doctor. It was early June when he was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor. A biopsy revealed that it was malignant. It was also large and spreading. Given his age, doctors recommended against surgery as an option. So, specialized chemotherapy and radiation were used. Although the treatments succeeded in shrinking the tumor, too much damage had already been done to the brain, and in the end, they didn't stop the tumor. It is possible the therapies had some positive effects, but it was difficult to tell, because the person who was there at the end was certainly not the same as the one who was there in June.

I could go into all kinds of detail about how hard it was to watch my Dad disintegrate before me, and I mean "dis-integrate," as in "no longer integrated," but that wouldn't really get you to feel what I am talking about. There are a couple of stories I could tell, however, from one of the last times that I saw him alive.

It was September 11th, 2001. I had taken several days off from work so that I could help my brother and sister take care of my Dad, who had grown irrational and more belligerant than ever. As I watched the replay of the World Trade Center towers falling all day, I couldn't help but think that a terrorist attack, or even an all out war against the United States, would be a welcome distraction; I could wrap my mind around an external threat so much better than I could the one that sat inside his head. I found myself thinking that if the world were ending now, that at least Dad wasn't going to be here to see it. Or if he were still here in the weeks and months to come, he wouldn't know or care what was going on, anyway.

What else happened that day? Well, the local gas station immediately tripled the price of the gas it was selling, the bastards, exemplifying all that is wrong with a culture that puts individual "liberty" above everything else. When things go bad in our country, individual freedom equals a fuck everyone else free-for-all mentality. What was the gas station owner actually thinking? If the world were going to hell, so much so that people would pay any price to get gas for their cars, just what would money be good for? To spend by the thousands to buy an equally price-inflated head of lettuce or can of fucking dog food? When people do not share a sense of civic responsibility, nobody cares if the gouging they do today hurts your grandmother tomorrow. Fuck her, she should have planned ahead.

So, I was glad Dad didn't have to deal with that. In that respect, cancer was a reprieve for him from all of the external stress that was exerted on us as a nation starting on that day. So while the towers repeatedly collapsed, Dad and I took a walk outside. It was a beautiful day. A warm, Indian summer breeze gently shook free the colors of fall, and because all flights were grounded, and few people were doing anything except watching TV, it was preternaturally quiet, a fitting stage for the unreal events which would occur.

We walked slowly around the house, my arm in his arm. As the tumor progressed, it affected his gait somewhat, and he needed an extra hand sometimes for balance. We talked, about nothing in particular, when he stopped short, and became upset. We had just turned the corner and were walking behind the house, when he pointed to the rose of sharon bushes which were in a long row, the dividing line between his property and his neighbor's. "Those shouldn't be blooming." He pointed an accusatory finger at the nearest bush. "It's not spring. It's the fall." He clearly was in this moment, now, and was afraid that an element of what he considered reality was shaken. I imagine it would be similar to waking up tomorrow and seeing two moons in the sky, and wondering why no one else seemed upset by the obvious incongruity with what you know should exist. He turned to me, insistent, almost pleading, "This can't be happening. These don't bloom in the fall. Why are they blooming?" I had no answer, and I actually knew so little about rose of sharon bushes that I couldn't dispute his observation. What if we had some bizarre mutant variety? What if the weird warm spell had confused the plant so that it bloomed a second time? Weirder shit had happened. It was only later that I took the time to read that, of course, the rose of sharon is a late summer, early fall bloomer. It was doing everything it was supposed to, in its own time. However, at the time, I still desperately wanted to believe that it was the world, and not my Dad, that was falling apart.

"I don't know, Dad. Are you sure they are not suppsoed to bloom now?" "What is wrong with you," he snapped. "Of course I know when the hell they are supposed to bloom. Here," he motioned to something to his right, "Call them up and ask what is wrong."

"Excuse me," I said to Dad. "Call them up? Call who...with....what?" We were in our backyard. The nearest phone was in the house. Again, he looked crossly at me. "With the god-damned phone!" He gestured to the same spot, the point at which for him, a phone existed. It was at this moment, that I fully realized that my Dad was going or was already gone, even though his semblance was still walking among us. I can only imagine that from his point of view, the world must have stopped making sense a long time ago, and that little warps in reality were part of his everyday existence. How frightening that must have been, when he could remember it. Sometimes the warps were very disturbing, such as a plant blooming out of season, but sometimes they fit perfectly into his world, such as when a phone would appear out of nowhere when he need to call the powers that be to confirm a question.

Although I understood this, it was still hard to "play" along. At any time, any word I may say, or any thing he might think he has seen or heard, could trigger any kind of response. That really made me uncomfortable. What if facilitating his delusion made his perception spiral into an even more disturbing reality for him? So, I confirmed what he wanted me to do. "You want me to call them and ask them why the plant is blooming?" "Yes," he said confidently, "Call them up." So, I pretended, the way I would have pretended with my toddler-aged son, Carl (named after my Dad) to pick up and dial the phone. I waited for what seemed to be the appropriate time for them to pick up. "Hello, I am calling for Carl XXXX. He was wondering why the bushes in his back yard were blooming. They shouldn't be blooming now." Then, I nodded my head a few times, said, "Oh," or "I see," and finally, "Well, thank you very much. Good bye." Then, I hung the phone up and put it back down. He looked expectantly at me. "Well, what did they say?" he demanded. "Dad, they don't know either. But they said not to worry about it. It probably has to do with the weather."

That solved the problem. At least for Dad. I was unsettled for the rest of the day. It was easy to think about Dad being a changed person, when I was far away, but it was another thing entirely to have to play a part in the delusion of a man whose grip on reality was being loosened by a brain tumor. Did I do right when I "humored" his misperception, or if I would have insisted that there was no phone, woud he have been forced somwhow to "see" there was indeed no phone there? Did either stance matter, because it was unlikely that he would remember what we said or did later that hour, anyway? I think what I did was easier,but I don't know if emotional expediency is the best course of action in times like that.

I stayed and helped the family for several days. As I was leaving, Dad was sitting comfortably in his easy chair, generally in a much calmer state of mind. I had seen him through some good and some bad spells. Frankly, the good spells were the hardest to take, because it was during those brief moments of lucidity that Dad knew there was something fundamentally wrong with him, and he knew he did not have the capacities, mentally and physically, that he once had. In these moments, that strong man would weep, not for what he had become, but for what he could no longer be for his family. Of course, he still was everything and even more than he could have ever imagined for us in those moments, but in those moments of clarity, he only judged himself as a shadow of his former being. How could he see that the courage, and fear, and sadness, and purity, and beauty and frailty that he displayed during those times made us love him even more than we ever had before, so much so that even as his consciousness faded just a few short weeks later, even then, he knew he was loved. He may not have known by whom, but he knew he was loved. Well, that day, as I said good bye to him, for the last time in my life when he could still understand what I was saying to him, he gripped my arm after I hugged him, and as tears were streaming down his face, he said, "You will take care of her, won't you?" 'Her' was my Mom, his wife of 45 years. "Of course," I whispered back to him, because a whisper was all that would come out of my constricted throat. "You don't have to worry about Mom, Dad. Everything is okay. We planned everything out ahead of time. You have taken care of her already." Here was a moment of clarity, punching me right in the gut. And it would have brought me down to my knees, if Dad hadn't then added, "You get the plans. They are in the garage. You promise me you will get the plans, and everything will be alright." The knot in my throat subsided. His tumor induced paranoia altered reality again. I nodded my head to appease that demon, smiled and told him that the plans were safe, and that he didn't neet to worry about them. Again, at that time, I so wanted to believe that Dad wasn't being psychotic, that I later asked Mom to confirm for me that there weren't some plans for some car engine or carbeurator (Dad was very mechanically inclined) that Dad had drawn up. Mom almost looked at me with derision, as if I had to be joking, but then her look softened simply to sadness. "Of course there are no plans, Roger. Of course not."

But there were. At least for a moment, there were. When Dad asked me, somewhere, in the world he lived in, he had the plans, and he needed me to make sure they were used to help his wife and family live well. Whatever it was that he created and drew up in those plans, it was enough to save us all. Maybe I helped save him a little, for that moment, when he looked at me, looked in my eyes, and saw that I was still willing to believe every word he had just said to me, like I was his son, and he was my Dad.

I love you, Dad, and miss you every day.

Remember those who mean something to you. Do something nice for your family today.