Passings

I received word this morning that my favorite aunt, who has been sick for quite some time, has decided to have no more treatment and has been moved to a hospice. She isn’t expected to live very long.

My Aunt Doris is my father’s younger sister. Born in Montana, she lived most of her life in a series of small towns in Idaho. I remember her as an energetic younger woman rather that the older lady she’s become. I prefer it that way. She was a female working when such things were fairly rare. She worked for years as a draftsperson for J.R. Simplot and earlier as a draftsperson at Boeing in Seattle during WWII. She worked on the B-29 bomber I’m told.

It reminds me of how I’m getting older, not in a sad way so much as in a resigned way. The trials and tribulations of people facing life and death sorts of struggles mean more as you get older. At least they do for me.

I just want to say thanks to Doris, even if she can’t hear me, for all the nice e-mails and visits when I was younger. You’re a pretty tough old girl…and I mean that in only the best way.

Sometimes You Just Shouldn’t Get Up

When I awoke this morning I had to fight to keep my eyes open. While this may be normal for most people, for me it is most certainly not. I’m usually wide awake. But not this morning. Oh no. Not this morning.

I did the bleary-eyed shuffle to the back door and threw open the drapes. The Bay Area has slipped back into its usual summer marine layer phase so the sky hung low…very low. In fact, so low that I think I bumped my head on it. I’ve had a headache all day.

I brewed up a pot and read the paper, though I kept having to reread the same paragraph because I couldn’t concentrate. I thought a shower might help – but I struck out. I stood in the shower for several minutes wondering why my vision seemed so poor. I noticed that I was still wearing my glasses.

After the shower, it was off to work on the job hunt. I went to all the usual sources and even some unusual sources to look for leads. Nothing. Bupkiss. Certainly not worth the tedious effort I put into it. Suddenly, I remembered it was a holiday week and likely to be that way for the rest of it.

I drank some more coffee and felt the jitters work their way up my body. The caffeine high took over, but none of the positive side effects showed up. I was a quaking, jittery man in a permanently vegetative state. I kept waiting for Jeb Bush to show up at my door and pull the plug on me.

When good daughter Claire woke up I took her for a ride she’d been asking for. Perhaps a nice drive in the country would be nice I thought.

On the way out, I stopped by the Post Office only to remember that I’d not brought the letter I meant to mail. I stopped by the bank to deposit some checks. When I reached the ATM I realized I hadn’t written the amount on the envelope and couldn’t remember how much it was. I bagged the deposit until later. We did manage to drop off some DVDs at Blockbuster. It was my day’s only success.

We headed for the other side of the hills under the theory that the fog would have burned off over there as it usually does. I dived off the freeway onto what I thought was a back road that I had driven before. Some new condos led to more condos, which led to a traffic jam. I turned and tried another road. It was a little better, but not by much. After several attempts we headed home. On the way we were almost squashed by a huge truck.

Claire, bless the child, was patient about all of it. She made the best of the traffic and didn’t even object when we had to close the sunroof to avoid the dust storm roused by the construction.

I could tell you more, but I won’t. It only went downhill from there.

You know? Some days it just doesn’t pay to get up.

An Open Letter to Rev. Billy Graham

Among my many writing assignments over the years was a weekly music column I wrote for the student newspaper, the Kentucky Kernel, during the early 1970s. Called His Master’s Voice, it was supposed to be an insider’s guide to the national music scene, providing band trivia and gossip with a personal touch to the collegiate masses.

Now the smarter among you might reasonably ask, “How did a 19 year old kid – living in a small Kentucky town a million miles away from the nearest industry insider – manage to pull off a weekly column about the ins, outs and minutiae of the music biz?” Well, it’s been 30 years, so now I can admit something – I cheated.

Each week I’d comb through every music magazine and newspaper I could find, even using the largess of the Kernel to snag a few unauthorized subscriptions. Once my clips started wending their way through the system to music promoters, I began to get freebies galore (free records, promotional items and even the subscriptions I needed to keep the ruse alive) and was well on my way. It paid off. A one hit wonder band that even I don’t remember used one of my review quotes in their advertising – probably explaining why they were one-hit wonders.

Don’t get me wrong, I was no Jayson Blair. I didn’t make the articles up, I just borrowed liberally from other sources and used my considerable skills as a rewrite man to make them sound fresh and new. To keep it believable, I used small, out-of-the-way items that most people weren’t reading. One example was a series of short blurbs I gathered from Rolling Stone and several other west coast music mags that discussed rock impresario Bill Graham of San Francisco. The gist of it was that he was squeezing the life out of rock & roll by treating his famous acts rather ham-handedly. Today, the guy, although dead for several years now, is a sort of local hero. Go figure.

I wrote my little attack article. It went to press. And I – and I’m sure everyone who read it – promptly forgot about it. Well, not exactly everybody.

Several months later, as a poured over my stack of music company freebies, I came across an important looking letter with a finely embossed return address for a law firm in Charlotte, NC. Puzzled, I opened the envelope, took out the letter and began to read, “Dear Sir. Our client, the Reverend Billy Graham, was quite offended by the article that appeared in your newspaper on blah…blah…blah.” My jaw dropped as I skipped to the end of the letter where it said, “therefore, we demand that you immediately print an apology in the referenced publication within 30 days and further demand that you cease and desist writing any articles about the Rev. Graham.”

To this day I wonder how that particular clip made its way to Reverend Billy and how anyone – even someone as brain-addled as I believed him to be at the time – could possibly mistake the rock & roll promoter Bill Graham for the famous evangelist Billy Graham. In the midst of the Watergate era it gave me more than a little shock to think I might be on someone’s famous Enemies List. After all, the Rev and Tricky Dick were very good friends at the time.

End the end, I quietly laid the letter aside and decided to wait to see what happened. Nothing did. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, I nearly forgot about the incident and lost the letter. Pity, I’m sure I could get a good price on eBay with it today. However, I still have some hate mail I got from the American Nazi party (NOTE: this is actually the link to these loons’ site, so don’t go there if you are squeamish.) about another article, but that’s a story for another day.

Since the Reverend is doing his final revival this week, I hope that he’s forgotten about this little incident too. He may be old, but he’s still friends with an impressive list of presidents, prime ministers and other potentates. I always figure it’s not a good idea to cross a guy like that. But still, it sure would be nice if I had a copy of that letter.

So Mr. Graham, if you still have a carbon copy, could you shoot one to me. I swear I won’t say anything bad about you.