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.

More Old Stuff, From October, 2006!

The DNA Vibrator has completed the first chapter of a long story. It is now archived on this website. The DNA Vibrator would ask for you to take a few minutes and read it if you want some of that backstory. Go ahead, read. When you are done, navigate your way back here. The DNA Vibrator will wait. It has existed since the beginning of time, a few more moments won't matter. As the DNA Vibrator has indicated before, this blog page removes what others may consider certain expected blog features, but removing those extraneous bits makes the blog more conducive to reading through from start to end, like a book. It is stripped down to the essentials. The DNA Vibrator may provide links to other sites or information it references ONLY if it suits the purpose of The DNA Vibrator.

Best quote from the archive: "611 Pizza was like the bar, Cheers, except with a lot more tattoos, leather, black make-up, puking, pot smoking, and hardcore music."

Permanent Historical Record: 10/03/2006

The first bass The DNA Vibrator ever owned was a Fender Jazz bass. It was beautiful, a yellow ash, maple neck, played like a dream. It looked something like this. The Fender Jazz was refinished by The DNA Vibrator in the basement of a dorm hall at Southern Illinois University. The tool of The DNA Vibrator spray painted it gold! This is akin to taking a statue of the Virgin Mary and spray painting a thong bikini on it. However, it still played beautifully. Along with the Fender Jazz, the tool also owned an Ampeg 410 all-in-one cabinet. Great tone, and it had wheels, which meant that in the dorm room it was easy to turn it into a TV tray, book shelf, subwoofer, or wheelbarrow.

The tool of The DNA Vibrator sold the bass and amp to Steve, the bass player for a band called Three Alarm Mustard, when the tool lost his academic scholarship to SIU. He was too embarrassed to tell his parents that the thousands of dollars that they had spent and the thousands of dollars his scholarship was worth had been wasted on booze and comic books. This shows you the true geek from within which The DNA Vibrator emerged. For a time, the tool considered never playing again. There was never a time, however, that The DNA Vibrator had considered leaving this vessel. The tool still had his function to perform. The tool met Tony, later to be known as AfroDJYak, in those dorms. Was this just chance? The DNA Vibrator knows there is no such thing as coincidence. For every door that opens, a new series of infinite doors open in front of it. Looking forward, the myriad of choices are of equivalent value, but looking back, it is obvious that only one choice for each door was inevitable. This means that the tool was destined to lose his Fender Jazz, destined to consider quitting music forever, and destined to spend an additional year in the dorms even though his friends did not, because that was the only way that his partnership with the entity AfroDJYak would have ever begun. Is The DNA Vibrator prescient? Were greater forces at work? Is there an Earth spirit which needed to coax The DNA Vibrator into existence? Leave those questions for the philosophers. Or if you are a philosopher, leave those questions to DEVO, and The DNA Vibrator, who have said, "Lay a million eggs, or give birth to one, avoid display, or wear bright colors, IT DOESN'T MATTER! The fittest shall survive, but the unfit my live."

You want to hear this message? Why else would you be here? The DNA Vibrator gives away what other whores charge many dollars for. Do not be afraid of the infection, it is part of the experience.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/04/2006

In the September 2006 archive, The DNA Vibrator mentions a comic book called "Flamin' Guitars." It was the product of one winter break in Carbondale, from about the second week of December to the second week of January. The tool sat in a recliner for several hours a day, and drew, and penciled, and scripted, and refined what little talent he possessed, until this comic was created. The first run was photocopied and folded by hand, distributed locally, and sold out. The second run did not perform so well. Now seems as good a time as any to resurrect it for a larger audience. It has been 15 years, and The DNA Vibrator has been waxing nostalgic since the additional purchase of space and bandwidth means that just about any piece of crap can be put on the website. Besides the obvious grisly murders, talking rabbits, and cameo by the Hulk, just about everything in the comic actually happened to the Coolies as they travelled around the country.

Here's a look at the first page. DNA will post the rest later.



Permanent Historical Record: 10/05/2006

In the comic book,The DNA Vibrator reports that in the "Shittiest Bar on Earth" the guys had to load their equipment up 20 flights of steps, only to be told that they could have used the service elevator, and that after hours of playing to a wall to wall crowd, they made $18.00. Well, the club wasn't in Tulsa, as the comic says,nor was it actually 20 flights of steps, but the meat of the story did happen. The DNA Vibrator will not let facts stand in the way of truth.

First, early on in their career, they began playing at Mabel's in Champaign, Illinois, a famous, but long gone, midwestern club (do a search on the internet for Mabel's Champaign, and you will be surprised at how many of the best musicians passed through its doors). As they prepared to load in for their first show at Mabel's, one of the bouncers approached the guys and said, "You in the band? Take your shit up the stairs." Nice. However, future stops in the club were met with more civility by other folks than the no-necked dickhead who greeted the Coolies the first time. That accounts for the "band takes the stairs" bit in the comic.

Later, in the dead of winter, the Coolies braved a horrible snow and ice storm to play a show at the Cubby Bear at Wrigleyville in Chicago, Illinois. At that time, there were no other locations, so they just knew it as the Cubby Bear. The club has ties to SIU. Apparently, the owner/manager was an SIU alumni. So, he was pretty liberal about giving SIU bands a chance to play in the Windy City.

By that time, the Coolies had played out enough that when they could, they attempted to get contracts with clubs in advance, with specific riders spelled out, and negotiated guarantees, etc. This bar contact person [hereafter referred to as slimy cocksucker] promised a guarantee over the phone and explained the ticket system they used. The bar would issue the Coolies tickets to deliver to a variety of outlets, to their friends, etc., and the Coolies would receive something like $4.00 for every ticket turned in. Remember, this was 15 years ago, and the Coolies figured that if they could round up 100 friends, strangers and people wanting to see a free show, then they would have made the trip worthwhile. Besides, slimy cocksucker guaranteed that the band would not make less than $300.00. The DNA Vibrator does not know if the archaic fucked up system of tickets is still what is in use at some clubs, but if so, it feels sorry for all of you youngsters currently getting buttfucked by slimy cocksuckers for the chance to grace their shitholes with your art. But, The DNA Vibrator digresses.

The tickets were supposed to arrive in Carbondale two weeks before the show. They did not. They arrived on the day the band was getting ready to drive up to Chicago. Slimy cocksucker told The DNA Vibrator that the band did not need to worry. They would get a guarantee. This ticket mix-up was all the club's fault. The tickets were given out to every band, and it was just a way for the club to gauge how many people came just for that band. The boys hesitantly bought the explanation, but not without experiencing the first sympathy pains of a royal assfucking to come later on.

The Coolies left early enough to be able to deliver tickets to a variety of music outlets, but on the road up, a terrible snow and ice storm set upon them. Their progress slowed to a crawl. They made it in town in enough time to get some food across the street from the club, and drop off a few tickets at some of the local establishments. The roads were so bad that even the busses weren't running for part of the night. As some of their friends braved the weather and came into the bar, the Cooolies handed them tickets. When slimy cocksucker saw this, he said that wasn't allowed, that the patrons had to get the tickets ahead of time. So, in shifts, different members of the band would stand in the freezing cold and hand tickets out to passers by. When slimy cocksucker realized this, he sent one of his steroid shooting bouncers, referred to from this point on as raisin nuts number 1, out to stop that from happening. So, the band resigned itself to a night of hard drinking. Slimy cocksucker brought the band anything they wanted to drink, which he said, "was the least he could do for SIU alums on such a shitty night." The Coolies were ambivalent. So far, they had been treated like shit, and although they weren't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, they didn't feel particularly comforted by slimy cocksucker's sudden attack of generosity.

They played a kick ass set, and ripped up the place for the few dozen hard core fans who actually came out to see the Coolies play. At the end of the night, The DNA Vibrator went to find slimy cocksucker. However, he was nowhere to be found. Raisin nuts number 1 and his pal, raisin nuts number 2, had the enjoyable duty to settle up with The DNA Vibrator. "Here you go," raisin nuts number 1 said with a smile. It was likely all he could do not to laugh. He handed The DNA Vibrator $18.00. In as polite a tone as the tool could muster, he said, "You have got to be fucking kidding me. I know there were 30 to 40 people here with tickets for the Nightsoil Coolies." "That may be true, said raisin-nuts number 2, "but then you got to subtract all the booze you guys drank from the total." "Hold the fuck on," said the tool, getting a little hot, feeling more than beer flush his cheeks, "[slimy cocksucker] said that was on the house. Where is he?" "Gone home, a long time ago, and he's the one who told me what to give you." "This is a bunch of fucking bullshit! We have a contract. [slimy cocksucker] said that we would get a $300.00 guarantee!" At this point, the raisin nuts boys had heard enough of a guy 1/2 their size getting indignant with them. "Whatever. Time to get the fuck out. Now."

The DNA Vibrator is by nature non-violent, because nature in the end is always violent enough to those less able to survive. The DNA Vibrator knew that time would take its toll on the raisin nuts boys. Over many years, The DNA Vibrator has wondered what sad lives or tragic ends the raisin nuts boys endured, or what horrors they inflicted on their punching bag girlfriends/wives, and what vengeance might be being pursued right now against them by their dysfunctional teenage children for the abuse that they, the pathetic soulless fucks that they are, inflicted on their progeny because of their complete inability to feel the way real human beings do...not that The DNA Vibrator dwells on it or anything.

The tool went back to the rest of the band, and told them about the situation. "$18 damn bucks!! Fuck!" said AfroDJYak. "What was the cover tonight, 2 cents? Fuck!"

The band loaded their stuff out, and sat, morally beaten,in the freezing, still night air. They were each realizing that not only did they not have enough money to split between them to get some decent food, but they did not have enough money to buy gas to get back home. Gone Brian Vaughan, as was his habit, hence his nickname, wandered off down the street, and in a few minutes, was barely visible in the distance talking to some guy he had met hanging out in an alley. Remember, this was at 2 am, on a deserted, frozen Chicago street. It was clear to AfroDJYak and The DNA Vibrator that something was going down between Gone and the man. Gone came back and said, "Guys, I was talking to this dude down there, and he said he would give me $50.00 for my driver's license. So I gave it to him. We got gas money!"

Somehow, it all made sense. This was a special moment for the band. They were in the presence of a higher power, and not for the last time. The night which had before seemed lonely, cold, and uninviting, now seemed full of possibilities. The stars twinkled with an intensity rarely seen through the haze of the city, and the Coolies were right there, right then, witnessing the unfolding of the moment. $18 bucks was a badge. They wore it like a Maori tattoo. They were indivisible. From that moment on, they were ready for whatever would come next.

Their resolve would be tested the very next day as they drove home. But, that is another story.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/09/2006

Fuck. Fuck, fuck and ratFUCK. The DNA Vibrator just learned another valuable internet lesson. Machinery is beautiful, because it absolutely does not care if The DNA Vibrator had just written the most intense, personal, and revealing, the most earth-shattering, philosophically affirming, immediately accessible and understandable blog post ever. It doesn't care if it would have changed the world, or at least you, RIGHT NOW, if you had read it. It only cares if The DNA Vibrator saved the motherfucker, which The DNA Vibrator didn't. In a seemingly random blink of the computer monitor, an inspirational message, which you needed, is forever gone. Could The DNA Vibrator recreate it? Possibly, but why? The spontaneity is lost. The power came from its unpredictability. The DNA Vibrator does not care. It tosses revolutions of human thought away everyday like so much leftover salad.

The DNA Vibrator is excited to see that many, many people have visited this website. Many hundreds of megs of songs have been downloaded. The message of The DNA Vibrator has and is seeping into the consciousness of the world, imperceptibly, and soon will influence everyone from power brokers to pot smokers, and before anyone will even be able to understand what has happened, everyone will be different. This is already happening. This is not The DNA Vibrator being megalomaniacal. This is the sound of quantum probability fields collapsing simultaneously across the universe, as one set of highly improbable events has occurred, leading to the next set of events. Once enacted, the events have always been, and always will be. Don't believe The DNA Vibrator? Pick up the book, The Fabric of the Cosmos. Then, lost sheep, come back and bask in The glow of The DNA Vibrator.

Because so many of you have come unbidden to look at The DNA Vibrator, The DNA Vibrator has come to realize that some of you may need The DNA Vibrator, the way punk needs bitch. This has led to two other basic realizations:

ONE: If many people visit, and many people download, then many people have lurked around here without making your presence known. The DNA Vibrator has felt you lurkers lurking. Do not be afraid to touch The DNA Vibrator. The DNA Vibrator proves by it existence that nothing is sacred (so everything is), that nothing matters (you get the concept), and that time is an illusion. Don't buy it? That is okay. The DNA Vibrator has forever. But, if you do not email, or post a comment, then this blog will not be a conversation, it will be a manifesto. Both functions, however, suit the purpose of The DNA Vibrator; it has all the time in the world to indoctrinate the masses; until then, come out and play.

TWO: As more people have learned of The DNA Vibrator, one can now find The DNA Vibrator through the ubiquitous search engines. Not only will typing "The DNA Vibrator" net you the opportunity to view sites on genetic mutation with specialized vibrator genes, and also wonderful adult novelties, it nets you a front row seat to the arena in which the universe will be changed. You're welcome.

Many people are downloading the music of The DNA Vibrator; in the course of trying to determine, if/which songs were being dowloaded the most, The DNA Vibrator discovered an unnerving problem: The song title, "DEVO Was Right," returned many hits. Too many. This phrase has already become part of the colloquial lexicon of the cool, well before The DNA Vibrator had posted this song on the website for download. Could it be that the message of The DNA Vibrator was corrupt, a rehash of someone else's better idea?

No.

The DNA Vibrator was flattered that others had adopted its phrase, but it politely and respectfully claims full ownership of the phrase and all it stands for. All of you geek squad-tragically-hip-subbaculture motherfuckers can back the fuck up off it NOW. Before you get too pissed off because you assume you somehow came up with that phrase all by yourself, know this: The DNA Vibrator wrote the song and the words "DEVO Was Right" back in 1994. Published it in 1995, after which the song found its way onto a nationally syndicated radio show. Before then, the exact phrase "DEVO Was Right" had NEVER BEEN UTTERED BEFORE. EVER. So, the tables have turned, because if you are one of those too-detached-to-be-touched-by-the-mundane, you have already been co-opted by The DNA Vibrator without even knowing it. This is how The DNA Vibrator operates: Creating the impression that its uninspired idea was really your own. The DNA Vibrator is a termite eating away at the floor joists of the house of your consciousness. Collapse may come at any time. Like the Blob, The DNA Vibrator grows with each 60 hertz cycle of power consumption in your home. Only this time, Steve McQueen is dead, baby.

The DNA Vibrator does not seek recognition nor dominion. In fact, now that the world knows the true subversion it is capable of, The DNA Vibrator gives the phrase "DEVO Was Right," to all of the world to use. It is now yours. Use it or not: The function of The DNA Vibrator has already been served by this phrase. It was just another lettuce leaf, scraped off of the plate of The DNA Vibrator's discontent.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/10/2006

It was the summer of 1993. The tool of The DNA Vibrator was on his way to Chicago to watch his friend AfroDJYak get married. He and Annie had a beautiful ceremony in the back yard of Annie's parent's house in Oak Park. He wore shorts, Annie wore a pretty dress, and everybody got to take pictures of the happy couple. We spent the night eating lasagna and pizza, and getting shit-faced drunk. Sometimes weddings are fun.

However, The DNA Vibrator had another, more pragmatic purpose for coming along. It was in the process of creating its new musical vehicle, and it needed a name. The search for a name had been fruitless up to that point, but as The DNA Vibrator quietly polled the wedding guests, one word, which seemed to have it all, sprang forth: "Crank." It had a sexual reference, a mechanical reference, a musical/loudness reference, and a drug reference. Very few words meet the criteria of the perfect rock and roll band name. This was awfully close. The DNA Vibrator developed a list of about a dozen potential names. Crank didn't impress anyone, but it felt right. Think about it. If you saw the band CRANK on a marquis, you would know these boys were not easy listening. So despite other good suggestions, like the Eyelobes, Brainmilk, and the Komodo Drag Queens, Crank became it. After a weekend of mayhem, the tool drove back home, and sprang the name on the other unsuspecting band mates. The guys actually thought it was probably too "rock and roll" to have not been taken already. But, they searched the trade magazines, talked with as many industry people as they knew, and realized that at least in the midwest, no one was named Crank.

A summer later, as they braved the elements to roadtrip across the country to record with indie rock producer Kramer, (yes, THE Kramer, who has worked with the likes of GWAR, Bongwater, White Zombie, Urge Overkill, etc., etc.,)at the infamous Noise New Jersey studios, they nearly crossed paths with an East coast Crank. Later still, a West coast Crank was heard from. Three things each band shared: a good name; great recordings; somewhat less than national appeal.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/11/2006

The Energy and Entropy of an Underground Music Scene: One Simple Rule.

Warning: This blog post is supposed to mean something. If you prefer not to have meaning with your blog reading, skip this entry. You'll be glad you did.

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy is neither created nor destroyed; it merely changes form. The second law of thermodynamics states that the potential energy in a system is always less then the initial energy in a system. According to The DNA Vibrator's friends at Physical Geography dot net "Heat does not spontaneously move from a colder body to a hotter body. Natural processes that involve energy transfer must have one direction, and all natural processes are irreversible. This law also predicts that the entropy of an isolated system always increases with time. Entropy is the measure of the disorder or randomness of energy and matter in a system."

Understanding entropy is important when understanding any system, whether it is a planetary system, an environmental system, or a cultural system. All of the systems mentioned require a constant supply of energy from an outside source to continue to function at the artificially high level of order which is maintained by complex systems. Some systems are self-organizing, and maintain many complex features over time, but even these require regular infusions of energy. The ultimate outside source of energy is the sun. This is why earth has a complex biosphere. The sun supplies the fuel to all systems which organize in seeming contradiction to the second law of thermodynamics.

A music scene is one of these complex, organized systems; a social structure which can only exist in a culture once all of the basic energy needs of a people are met. You will never hear how an ancient culture didn't figure out how to provide food for its people, but man, they sure developed kick-ass tribal music, didn't they? Interestingly, as cultures rise and fall, and a music scene does arise as enough excess energy is available during the culture's heyday for those creative types to express themselves, sometimes it is the music created then which will be preserved long after the culture fails. In this respect, music is like an entropy sink, a way for the creative potential of a culture to be stored even as the usable energy of that culture diminishes. Today is no different. An underground music scene is so far down on the cultural needs list, that it only happens when enough people with enough excess creative energy are willing to spend their energy capital on the scene. And if you wanted to break it down, the ability and freedom to pursue subversive music, the framework within a society which allows members of that society to express anti-establishment sentiment to the point where the expression itself unifies those expressing those views as an organized community, all of that excess energy, sound and fury signifying nothing, has as its source, the sun. We all do. Even The DNA Vibrator depends on an outside source of energy, though, over time, as the second law states, the level of entropy has grown and continues to grow within it. Its system is as old as the universe, and no longer functions as well as it once did.

The best part of this little philosophy lesson is that it should make you laugh the next time you see some goth chick pretending to be a vampire. She couldn't do what she does without that little blob of hydrogen and helium 93 million miles away. "I hate this world!" the disenfranchised punk wench shouts, middle finger thrust defiantly at authority. "This world" of course does not include the cool microphone she is singing through, the amp her daddy bought for her through which her Les Paul shrieks, and well, the electricity that allows her tin-thin voice to be heard above the sound of the droning air conditioning, which of course, if that wasn't working, means you wouldn't catch her out in this fucking heat. In other words, most "underground" artists, audiences, and people in any "scene," really, are only afforded the luxury of being able to participate because the juggernaut of this culture continues to mow down every motherfucker which gets in its path. We have excess energy. If we didn't, do you think The DNA Vibrator would have the leisure to philosophize on the computer? Fuck no. The DNA Vibrator would be watching mutely as he was grabbing a shotgun from the wall, keeping another band of marauding bastards from stealing what little food the tool and his family were able to eke out of the forest by which they live. The DNA Vibrator believes that this culture is one bad weekend away from wholesale cannibalism. Don't believe it? Read Jared Diamond's books, "Guns, Germs, And Steel," and "Collapse." We exist on borrowed energy resources. Not that The DNA Vibrator is the Lorax, for fuck's sake. At the most basic level, The DNA Vibrator is very interested in seeing the chaos which will ensue as the end result of the world's current state of affairs. It's just that The DNA Vibrator has grown attached to this particular vehicle for it, and doesn't want the tool to have to eat his neighbors or be eaten, as The DNA Vibrator's friends Cypress Hill once said, "when the shit goes down."

"When I was 20, hardcore music meant something. It wasn't this corporate gutless crap that you dumbasses think is cool and subversive today." Next time you hear some old farts looking back through the prism of entropy and waxing philosophic about the good old days, do both you and them a favor, and punch them right in their mouths. After all, they wasted all of your fucking energy. No wonder your music sucks. You have had to recycle all of their old crap. Who cares if you wouldn't be here without them? That was yesterday's problem.

Sometimes, a band, or a music scene, will take off, and will exist off of a seemingly endless supply of energy given to it by devoted fans. How else can you explain how Dylan or The Rolling Stones, once cultural compasses, now corporate shills, still pack stadiums? Sometimes, through exponential feedback, a band will rise meteorically. The spectacle of it is worth watching as a cultural phenomenon. It has happened before, with the Beatles, for example. Also, with bands like Metallica. These bands, at one time, were humming with so much extra energy, that catastrophic chain reactions occurred, in which they were consumed from within. Their collapses were fascinating, and governed by the same forces which described the fall of the Roman Empire and the fall of a drop of water from a blade of grass. The point The DNA Vibrator is making, it hopes, is that cultural phenomenons, like bands, music scenes, etc., follow the same laws of thermodynamics that any environmental system follows. If this is the case, then the simplest rule can be derived from which you can predict whether your band or music scene will thrive or fail. The DNA Vibrator knows what this simple rule is. Perhaps you can guess it. If you can, post a comment about it to The DNA Vibrator.

If you didn't skip this blog, well, here we are, at the end, together. Don't you wish you would have listened to The DNA Vibrator? It won't steer you wrong.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/15/2006

What The DNA Vibrator Likes About fundamentalists�

Recently, tool of The DNA Vibrator had to take a trip to the east coast for his real job. He had to fly a major airline. The tool must have a nice face, or he looks like he knows what he is doing, because people always come up to him and ask him for the time, where the snack bar is, or if he saw that story on the news.

As the tool sat down at the gate in the terminal, he read the latest Scientific American, (always good for a laugh) and ate some snacks in the terminal. A few seats away, an older woman, obviously not a seasoned flyer, was chatting to a young man with a phone jacked into his ear. The gist of the conversation, one which we have all heard in these situations, was about how if it was your time to go, it was your time to go, but if you were committed to the Lord and saved by Jesus Christ, then your place was assured in heaven. The man agreed in a noncommittal way. She proceeded to ask if he was saved, and was overjoyed when he said that he was. Praise God! However, he found a way to distance himself quickly from the conversation.

The DNA Vibrator was impressed by her strength. She was able convince that man to testify in front of strangers to the "fact" that he was saved in Christ, when his actions convinced The DNA Vibrator he was not. She wielded a power over him. No disrespect to her, but the power she wielded didn't seem very holy; she knew how to prey upon the unassigned guilt we accumulate by tapping into our shared cultural heritage. We're supposed to believe in God; we're supposed to go to church. We are one JC Penny suit away from the bear skins and cave-dwelling days, because deep down, we are afraid of offending a personal deity with which we have never really had any direct personal contact. Why else do we still put stock in phrases like "In God We Trust," "May God strike me dead" or "It's in God's hands now?"

It takes strength, courage, faith, and HUGE brass balls to simply walk up to a stranger and bet that you can tap their unassigned guilt, or to find a someone who will respond to your suggestions. The DNA Vibrator's hat was off to her. Until The DNA Vibrator was seated right next to her on the plane.

What The DNA Vibrator dislikes about fundamentalists�

As the tool was making his way to his seat, he found her already seated IN HIS SEAT. The DNA Vibrator always flies window seat, just in case the plane goes down (so it has the best view of the spectacle). As the tool looked at his ticket, seat 34 A, and looked at her, she said, "Oh I'm sorry. Do you want the window seat? I can get up if you like." To which the tool responded, "No, that's fine. I'll sit here (in her seat, 34 B)." Everything The DNA Vibrator dislikes about fundamentalists is encapsulated in this exchange. Of course, from there it got worse, but not without provocation from The DNA Vibrator.

You see, some people have a way of making you feel like you are imposing on them, or are somehow at fault for some mistake, when you insist on asking for what you deserve, what you worked for, or what you paid for. This is the case with almost every fundamentalist The DNA Vibrator has ever met. They have mastered the deceptive and cruel trick of making you feel bad for their imposition. She was in The DNA Vibrator's seat. It was the seat The DNA Vibrator chose specifically. The DNA Vibrator was able to do this because The DNA Vibrator planned ahead and bought the ticket enough in advance to choose the seat it wanted. She manipulated the situation so if The DNA Vibrator would have insisted on sitting in the assigned seat, and made her move to the seat she paid for, anyone listening would have thought, "Wow. What a complete dick." Fundamentalists are so good at doing this, it worked on the tool, too. He thought that it would be easier to simply acquiesce to her demand, than to himself demand what was RIGHT. This is what The DNA Vibrator dislikes about fundamentalists. They have the power to use Guilt, but rarely choose to use it for Good. They use it selfishly. They have the ability to expose our own moral failings; but not in the way you might think.

You see, if The DNA Vibrator had been true to itself, it would have said, "Convenience be damned. If this person wants to discuss theology, then let's discuss theology," but instead, and this causes The DNA Vibrator shame even now, The DNA Vibrator failed morally, and knuckled under to preserve the fallacy that we all share a common God, and it would be improper, or even sacrilegious, to be rude to someone trying to talk about God. Isn't what The DNA Vibrator believes just as valid, or more valid? But, we are seduced, and this is the evil that fundamentalists propagate, we are seduced by the easy social path. In the end, we say to ourselves, "Does it really matter that we didn't stand up for what we thought was right on that plane to that person attempting to exert her will over our little sphere?" And because it is a small battle, an hour at best of our time, we rationalize the event to ourselves and say, "No, it doesn't really matter." But it does. Each time we do not rail against this moral superiority complex, especially in the presence of others, it gives strength to the concept that the fundamentalist's way is THE way, and tells others simply to shut up and if you don't cause waves, you won't be picked next. The DNA Vibrator implores YOU, the next time someone puts you in that uncomfortable position, YOU be the fundamentalist, and make them feel like they need to follow your path to salvation. Or, tell them to fucking mind their own business, at least.

What The DNA Vibrator hoped to learn from the fundamentalist�

When she asked the tool if he knew that Jesus was his personal Lord and Savior, and He had died for his sins, the tool said, "Yup." When she asked if he'd been baptized in the blood of the lamb and had been saved, the tool did say, "Yup." So, The DNA Vibrator is not without fault in their interaction. You can see how obviously The DNA Vibrator encouraged her. In truth, The DNA Vibrator did actually want to see what she would say, knowing what he believed likely would not reconcile well with what she believed. If nothing else, The DNA Vibrator understands scientific method. How could The DNA Vibrator test its hypothesis regarding fundamentalists, if The DNA Vibrator didn't test fundamentalists? For example, to end the conversation, The DNA Vibrator could have said, "Jesus told me not to talk to you." At which point, she might have said something like, "The Lord does not bear you taking his name is vain," or "I will pray for your blasphemous soul," to which The DNA Vibrator would have said, "He told me you'd say that. He said that I should pray for you." Although fun, this would not have allowed The DNA Vibrator to see if all of the classic moves of the fundamentalist would be attempted in this experiment. They were. Here's the first.

Fundamentalists protect themselves from rationality by proclaiming that the Holy Spirit has moved them, or God commanded such and such, but really, all they are doing is passing the responsibility buck up the existential ladder.

Second, if The DNA Vibrator were to question the fundamentalist seat stealer next to it about the authenticity of her Bible, she would say that the Lord protects His Holy Word, and does not allow the will of Satan or of men to be worked into it. In other words, we can not deviate from the path she has been chosen to reveal, nor can we question the authenticity to the manual she is using to spread her message. Any deviation leads to eternal destruction. Even questioning its applicability, or her authority (although she would say that she is merely a vessel for the Lord) leads to unending torment. Hmmm. Perhaps The DNA Vibrator is jealous. Surely you have noticed that The DNA Vibrator refers to itself in the godlike third person as well.

Here's the third. Fundamentalists want to pray for you. She sure wanted to pray for the tool, to be a stronger father, leader, etc., which of course sounds pretty good, and on the off chance that she out of billions of people has got it right, then what the hell, right?

And, the fourth. She wasn't very tolerant. The DNA Vibrator has often thought that the fact that so many Christians don't act very much like the Christ did as described in the Bible should be the first indicator that maybe they have things fucked up a bit. It just so happened that the folks seated in front and behind us were either going to attend or had recently attended a seminar on Taoism. There was contempt on her face as they briefly mentioned if so and so had the literature from the conference. Jesus was pretty clear on the "let you who are without sin cast the first stone," but most fundamentalists do not hesitate to condemn people to hell for their behaviors and beliefs.

So, as far as experiments go, it was a success. The DNA Vibrator's hypothesis, that fundamentalists really should just be called mentalists, was supported by the data. Looking at the copy of the Scientific American in the tool's hands, she told him that, "the holy spirit is telling me that you are a good man, but you have put your faith in the concrete things, the provable things of this world." Is that the same Holy Spirit telling John Edwards what "the other side" is like? Isn't it much more likely that from the magazine the tool was holding, she inferred that the tool must be one of those "rational people," who like to "think" and "understand" the processes which define the universe?

The DNA Vibrator prefers to think that she used her powers of observation, her understanding of psychology, and her mastery of exerting cultural guilt to her own benefit. Frankly, this thought is much more frightening than if she were actually having direct access to the holy spirit of God. In this respect, there is no greater threat to the forces of democracy which shaped this country than her. If The DNA Vibrator were an overtly religious entity, it would say that its will was tested by Satan on that flight.

To make matters worse, she was confident that the Holy Spirit commanded her to buy a nice Bible in the gift shop of the airport, because the Holy Spirit wanted her to give it to the tool. The tool told her that no, he didn't need a Bible, he had a wonderful Bible at home, a gift which had been given to him by his mother from her mother. She went on to say, that the holy spirit was telling her that the tool needed this Bible, because the Bible is a living word, and that the tool thinks of the family Bible as only an heirloom, not as a guide for his life today. What were the tool's choices? Be a total dick, and refuse the Bible (which for the record, he did, and she wouldn't accept)? Or take the Bible? How many levels of hell do you go to if you insist on refusing a Bible? What more evidence would she need that the tool was possessed by a demon (close) and needed to be healed? What would have happened had she laid hands on the vessel of The DNA Vibrator? Would The DNA Vibrator have rebuked her? Would whatever god she invested her faith in have come and removed The DNA Vibrator from the tool? The DNA Vibrator didn't think so.

The tool took the Bible. He wondered, since she was so convinced that the Holy Spirit commanded her to give the tool the Bible, did she know that The DNA Vibrator left it in the hotel he next stayed in? Does this make The DNA Vibrator a bad guy? If indeed her faith was well-placed, it was destined that her gift of the Bible was supposed to be left in the hotel. The DNA Vibrator felt compelled to leave it. The DNA Vibrator did share one belief with the fundamentalist. One of the first things she said was that she did not believe in chance, that God always brings people together for a reason. The DNA Vibrator certainly believes that each moment unfolds with infinite possibility but there is only one path which will ultimately and obviously be the only path the future can take. Call it what you will. Einstein said that "God does not play dice." This has left The DNA Vibrator to allow for the possibility that some fundamentalists (note that throughout this post, The DNA Vibrator has never lumped all of the fundamentalists together) might actually be speaking to God, or with the Holy Spirit. With all of her failings, perhaps the fundamentalist the tool sat next to really was a tool of the Holy Spirit. From one tool to another, The DNA Vibrator wonders what events were put in motion as it left that Bible on the table next to the fridge in the hotel. Did she know? The DNA Vibrator doubts it.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/27/2006

MUSIC=MAGIC

First, The DNA Vibrator has been gone for some time. It doesn't feel the necessity to explain its whereabouts, and certainly judging by web traffic, nobody really cared anyway. Does this deter the course of The DNA Vibrator? No more than recycling deters the eventual depletion of earth's natural resources, and the eventual Malthusian destruction of mankind. But, when you recycle, like when The DNA Vibrator speaks, it makes you feel better, at least for today. And isn't the current NOW all we really have, anyway?

On one the long flights The DNA Vibrator had to take recently The DNA Vibrator came to understand why primitive cultures (this one, for example) feel that Music is Magic. Not magical, in a Lawrence Welk, gay way, but in a matter of fact, as people understand magic, way. Don't buy it? Let's determine how people understand magic, then. Define magic: According to Wikipedia, "Magic refers to the influencing of events, objects, people and physical phenomena by mystical or paranormal means. The terms can also refer to the practices employed by a person to wield this influence, and to beliefs that explain various events and phenomena in such terms." If magic is an ability of a person to wield a force which can affect another person, physically and mentally, through no apparent medium, then one can see how music, or more generally, sound, qualifies as magic. What other force immediately available to those with skill to create it stirs emotion in others, or causes others to feel sad, angry, even sick (there are said to be certain tones which affect the mental health and stability of a listener, as well as those tones which can have negative physical effects on a person, too). It affects things at a distance, and in focused, powerful wavelengths, can blow holes through steel and concrete. With enough volume, it can destroy human hearing, and in the right pitch, can break fine crystal through resonance waves. It can be used to image hidden objects (ultrasound and sonar) and in powerful bursts, it can destroy kidney stones in a person's body without harming the surrounding tissue. Again, it seems easy to understand how less civilized societies might consider sound magic. But, as The DNA Vibrator has said many times, we are only separated from our superstitious forebearers by polyester and Walmart. We view music the same way.

As a culture, we are only a couple of hundred years out from understanding that air is comprised of a mixture of gases, so it is no surprise that sound still contains a mystical quality for us. It will take many, many generations to bury 10,000 years of cultural training. Science, as a whole, has really only ever been an attempt to try to understand how actions happen at distances. Every major advancement in the physical sciences has grown from an attempt of some scientist to prove that action A was the result of force B acting through medium C. Sound seems to produce action at a distance through no medium. Action happens here, and a person hears it over there. The DNA Vibrator postulates that this is the underlying reason that satanic shit, magic and witchcraft have long been associated with rock and roll. The music contains power, literally, delivered at previous-to-the-rock-and-roll-era unapproachable sound pressure levels. The really sick sounding shit incorporates tri-tones, described in classical times as the "devil's interval" in music, because it sounds so creepy. So, people into magic feel that music contains a similar force. Many people not into magic believe it too, or we wouldn't have so many people blaming musicians for their uncontrollable urges. Music has always been part of rituals, again, not just because God digs music, but because people who wield power recognize the force music exerts over people, and of course, they are attracted to that---any force they can use to manipulate people....

The DNA Vibrator is no fan of the band U2, at least not their newer stuff. But to test its theory, listen to "In the Name of Love," forgive Bono his ultra gay half whispered lines, and you will FEEL the power he wields as he belts out the chorus. You are right there with him when he says, "Early morning, April 4. Shot rings out, in the Memphis sky."

The witchcraft of music is also why pop music stars are our culture's sexual icons, anti-establishment figures, teachers, prophets, and entertainers. They wield magic, and we are all still awed by their power.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/29/2006

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 belligerent 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 supposed 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, would he have been forced somehow 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 need 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.

Permanent Historical Record: 10/31/2006

Halloween in Carbondale

Scroll down the page...and leave the serious shit behind. If you know anything about universities, you may know that at one time, SIU earned its reputation as a party school, and at one time, arguably the best street party outside of Mardi Gras was Carbondale's Halloween Weekend. Tens of thousands of people would jam onto the small streets of this otherwise unremarkable southern Illinois town, from all corners of the USA, to wear garish costumes, revel in the street from dusk until the sun rose, stay up drinking all day, and then do it again the next night. There were great bands that played all day and night long in dozens of venues, some the size of bus station lockers, others seating thousands, including the arena and the Old Main mall on campus, an open air venue, at which bands played on the steps of Shryock Auditorium. The DNA Vibrator remembers fondly when Fishbone played in the Old Main mall, and Fish body surfed out to the middle of the lawn and climbed up to the top of the statue of Delyte Morris, one of the past university presidents who really built SIU into the modern university it had become,and sang "Everyday Sunshine."

The first Carbondale Halloween that The DNA Vibrator experienced was in 1984. At the time, The DNA Vibrator had yet to emerge, and it didn't mind if the tool simply sat in his dorm room, read The Lord of the Rings for the seventh time, and dreamed about gathering up enough courage to talk to a girl. Awkward with women would be an understatement; bordering on the "I'm uncomfortable hanging around you for any length of time" if you were female would more accurately describe it. However, not to worry, gentle reader. The DNA Vibrator cured the tool of his problems. If you are like the tool was, then believe it or not, the answer to solve your worries with women is easy and simple. To understand the thing you want the most, to remove the pressure of any preconceptions of what should occur, remove the desire for the thing from you. Treat the thing you value the most like something you do not value at all. This is the old "treat a queen like a whore and a whore like a queen" school of thought, and to an extent, it works. The tool learned that a woman does not want to be placed on a pedestal, because that makes her a static object, and makes you a slave to keeping her on her perch. Women want many things, almost any thing, but that. Now grasshopper, lesson is over. Stick dick in hot coals and walk over here without tearing rice paper on floor, and you will have passed test.

Content as the tool was to let life slide on by, that evening, a Friday night, there was a noise that bothered him, even over the hum of the heating unit in his dormitory. Most everybody had already left to go to the Strip, the stretch of road in the center of town lined with nightclubs, bars, and food joints, and Winston, the Bagel Man. So, the dorm was pretty much deserted. The noise sounded like a TV which had been turned up too loud to a sporting event. Then the tool realized, the noise was coming from outside. It was coming from the Strip (between 1 to 2 miles away). The tool came from a small midwestern town, and didn't really understand how people could make that kind of noise. The largest assembly of people he had seen up to that time would have been at the state fair.

Down the hall, Rich, the tool's friend, popped out of his room. "Dude, you still here?" "Yeah." "C'mon, man it's time to go. I was waiting for Lisa from Bowyer Hall, but she either forgot or ditched me. Bitch," he said with a smile, so smoothly that if she were here, she wouldn't have minded hearing a bit. Rich talked the tool into going out. On the way, they met up with a couple of girls Rich knew, and without even realizing it, the tool was heading down to the Strip, with a chick, and was sharing a hip flask of Jack Daniels with them.

What can one say, but the Noise, the glorious Noise! Deafening, maddening, liberating, it coursed through you like a drug, emboldened and disguised you, condoned your bad behavior and looked the other way when you pissed on the bushes. Police officers 2o feet away watched as revelers drank themselves silly, and helped those who exceeded their limits. However, things weren't out of control. In fact, everything felt right. Many people were in costume, there were families out and about, and there were many local vendors selling everything from tie dyed shirts to pizza by the slice. Grand Avenue held the family festivities, but the Strip, the Strip was something else again. It was a writhing snake of people, as far up the road as you could see, pulsing with the movements of thousands either up or down the avenue. It reminded the tool of an ant colony, with thousands of ants in motion, all with apparently some part in the grand ball, but no individual knowing more than the next few steps ahead of it. There was some random destruction, but in all, being there was like being one of 30,000 corks all bobbing on the same sea of booze: not necessarily life changing, but worth seeing, at least once. Strangest costume: A kung-foo fighting duo of Jesus and Moses. Strangest thing that happened to the tool: After getting a slice of pizza from Pagliai's walk up window, some random, cute girl walked up to him, and while he was taking a bite of pizza, she took a bite right next to his. For a moment, he could feel her breath on his lips, and smell her candy perfume. Certainly a look passed between them. Had he only already learned his life lesson with women, that would not have been the strangest thing to have happened to him that night. But, as it was, there was a bite, a smile, and then a surge of people as they each continued to move in opposite directions.

From that night on, the tool loosened up quite a bit, drank a lot more, would hit TJ's and Airwaves for nickle beer nights as often as possible. "Hey it's Tuesday," someone in the dorm would say. "Let's get shitfaced!" Good enough reason for most.

Skip to the next Halloween, and the next, and so on. Slowly, the climate around the street party changed. There were fewer families, fewer costumes, fewer vendors, less university support, and more and more people there to get as fucked up as possible and to fuck up as many things as possible. These events became more pronounced as the university withdrew official support and refused to let alcohol vendors participate in the event. Police were there in greater numbers, and more and more often, were busting people randomly, arresting and handcuffing them right on the spot, securing them with plastic ties to the nearest lamppost, to be picked up later by large police vans. The last year the tool went up the Strip on Halloween was marked by a trip to the hospital when one of his friends was hit in the face by a Miller King Can which had been flung up in the air as high and hard as possible by a random fuckhead hanging from the retaining wall of one of the beer gardens on the Strip. It sliced open a vicious cut above his right eye, which bled profusely. They retired to more controlled and frankly, much more fun, house parties from that night on. Once The DNA Vibrator emerged, however,its music would be the soundtrack to this violence.

For the next few years, The Nightsoil Coolies, and then later, Monster Truck, and still later, Crank, played Halloween shows at the Hangar. As mayhem ruled the streets, and thousands of people paraded by, people crowded inside the club and the different iterations of The DNA Vibrator sang to all of those poor lost little fuckers. In the front row, there was someone just like the tool, overwhelmed by the sound, with a grin plastered to his face.

If memory serves, 1994 or so was the last official Halloween Weekend in Carbondale. After that, SIU took aggressive measures to dismantle the party. It took approximately six years and a variety of strategies before people were no longer arriving by the thousands to "take back the Strip" on Halloween. What a ridiculous fucking mantra that became. Take back the Strip. From whom? The CIA? Mexico? Dumbfucks. The Strip was never theirs to begin with. Like the girl who shared the tool's pizza, what the Strip had to offer was freely given, never taken. Now, the holiday passes with no more or less fanfare than what passes for Halloween in your town.

Old folks lament how only the fuckwads at SIU could have taken a nationally recognized street celebration like Carbnodale Halloween and mismanaged it into a liability and then a lodestone around the city's neck. There were several points at which the history, tradition and fun could have been restored, without compromising the integrity of the community or the institution, but instead of taking the bold, and frankly, tough steps to bring back the "glory days," the festival was abolished. The DNA Vibrator doesn't really mind. Giving up several blocks of a town one weekend each year for "controlled anarchy" is a lot like jerking off to an accounting lecture. Sure, you come, but eventually you train yourself to only get hard-ons at tax time. If the powers that be could not or would not make the event a positive part of the experience of Carbondale and SIU, then it should have been removed. Now, real anarchy, lawlessness, blood flowing in the streets, naked chicks and graven images in twister-esque poses printed on lunch boxes with the words "wish you were here---Carbondale Halloween" issuing forth from the G-stringed hips of the girls, now that kind of anarchy would be worth it. But the watered down, roided up, testosterone circle jerk that the street party had become was proof to The DNA Vibrator that as an institution, the Halloween party had become a parody of itself.

Speaking of parody, as a gentle reminder to any adults getting ready to go to an adult Halloween party: Don't. You're not a fucking kid anymore, you won't recapture some part of your youth, and you won't bang any hot chicks in sexy costumes. You'll see the same overweight and underappreciated chicks who work in the cubicle next to you that you always see. So stop dreaming. Dreaming is for children. Let them have their dreams. You just drink your martini and wonder where your dreams went. They sure aren't in a fucking costume party.

Happy Halloween!