Gone.

He was the family dog.

Five years old, and now, like all other pets, he lived to make you smile and died to make you cry.

For the first three years, his health was perfect. A model bulldog, the vet said. Full of charm, mellow, he defended the pack he was now a part of. We'd never had a purebred before, and his hefty price was soon outweighed by his enormous personality. He became a fixture in the neighborhood. Neighbors stopped by to see him, and strangers would knock on our door and sheepishly proclaim:

"We live in Michigan, but we saw your dog while we were driving by and had to see him up close."

They did that for the next three summers, for each vacation.

But eighteen months ago, he had a seizure. Carolina temperatures that rest in the 80's can do that to bulldogs we were told, so we thought it was a matter of course. The fits increased, they strengthened. He was a mess. Confused, whimpering, helpless. So were we.

The vet put him on meds, after trying to CSI-out every possible cause. We were left with the most powerful and most humbling answer:

That's the way he is.

The anti-seizure medicine turned him into Elvis, 1976. Wandering around the house, losing control of his functions and picking up a habit that eventually killed him.

The phenobarbital made him "chewy". For a dog that never put his powerful jaws on anything except his meals, everything in reach was destroyed by the bone crushing PSI crouching in his mouth. Once that medication entered his system, his judgment disappeared. Chewed, crushed. And then swallowed. Wood, plastics, electrical cords.

That dangerous side effect didn't become apparent until he got hold of Xmas decorations last December, after he'd cleared off the bottom ring of ornaments. He ate three or four Styrofoam apples and oranges, all life size. He shocked his system, it shut down, and he needed a gut clearing operation. Or euthanasia.

He got the reprieve, but we caught him chewing on things 24 hours after he got home. Once, he was behind the tree, having gotten over a sizable barrier we built to keep him away from the cords on the light strands. We fished him out, only to find the end of the cord gone. Did he have a death wish - an "I can't take this anymore" mentality?

He got his wish. Three weeks ago, he started showing signs of ingesting something foreign. Seizures increased, as his body attempted to rid itself of the offending element.

Operation Number Two ensued, and he cleared the fence. I arrived home in time to greet his return from the hospital. But when I knocked, he didn't bark back at me. He always woofed from his perch and then came to the door. I hadn't been home in a awhile, so his change of habit was odd. And noted.

My daughter said, wistfully, "He's like that now, Daddy. The seizures have changed him. He's not the same dog anymore".

Once inside, he greeted me in his usual fashion, albeit a bit sedate. Which I understood - he was just out of triage. Our evening progressed, and he and I went out for his last walk of the night. I urged him along, he did his business. When we went back in the house, he did his u-turn inside the kennel, and looked for his treat.

I gave him his reward (two, in fact), as was our agreement, and I dropped one on the floor. He saw it, couldn't get to it. I picked it up, put it into his mouth, and he licked my hand.

We said goodnight for the last time.

He was gone the next morning.

Farley (Celtic for "from the bull meadow") got to the vet for a follow-up and just faded away. His breathing slowed, his pupils dilated, almost as if he was opening his eyes as wide as they could go - preparing to view and understand for whatever was next; even if it was simple hope: rescue from the seizures.

Gone.

Those of us who are animal owners, or those who pay attention to the fact that communication isn't always verbal or relegated to only one species at a time, know that their pet understands the role they play in their house. And you both understand it.

While I was away, he was the pack leader. He ruled the house, and protected his brood. When I came into the house, he went back to Second Lieutenant. Reluctantly, I might add.

In his last hours, he decided the pack leader had returned, and he could relax.

He could let go.

His watch was over.

Must You?

Ever see “The Sunshine Boys” with George Burns and Walter Matthau?

There’s a scene where Burns is looking through a box of memoirs, visiting his past. Then, he looks down and has realized he’s wet himself.

“Now the circle is complete” he says (I may be paraphrasing here).

Meaning: “I am a baby, again.”

Well, I saw a parallel today at the gym. Actually, it’s one I've seen too many days.

Old men, and flagrant nudity.

It’s like watching a five year old, joyously nude, unencumbered by his social surroundings or any scrap of self conscious behavior. This “elderly gentleman” was sitting on the bench in the locker room, like a stripped Humpty Dumpty, trimming his nails. As if that wasn’t “wreck at the side of the road” alluring enough, his tongue was sliding out of his mouth like an overheated bulldog’s. How do I know this? The noise was so loud I had to look in his direction, prepared to dial 911.

“Yes sir? Your emergency?”

What would I say? “Cardiac arrest? MI? Afib?”

No, Starker Pedicure.

Yikes.

This habit is hopefully one I am not heading for as I age. Other old men seem to do this as well, most oddly with a foot raised on the bench.

Ghastly.

Comparing notes with other male friends, they’ve seen this as well. But, as vets who refuse to talk about the horrors of combat, no one dares speak of it until it’s brought up. Then, we nod our heads in resigned trauma, recalling our shared walk with the Dangle of Death.

There’s no good reason for gym-nudia: to gad about in your biggest organ, scrotal damage imminent as your twig and berry swing like wrinkled twin Tarzans. Total disregard for humanity defined!

Remember in gym class when a pair of kids would both go for a jumper at the same time? And both shots would land in the basket together? And it’d all get stuck, hanging there, defying space and time? And everyone would laugh and the girls would blush?

Sorry. Some of you may be eating.

I’ll stop. Or I can call on the gym coach to come over, whack it with a broom and end the horror.

Would that help? Because that circle needs complete closure.

Now.

Stingspreen?

What the? Message in a Clairol Bottle?

NAMM

Twenty years ago, I went to my first NAMM show. It’s where all the music vendors and rock stars gather in Anaheim, CA to show their wares.

And wear and tear.

Jesus, the people I saw. My advantage was that I look different these days, and old cronies have an image of me from a passed era – elbow length hair, black clothing. It’s different now. I told my pal Eric (who had tried to connect with me a few times) that I was easy to find:

“Gray shirt, gray hair, blue jeans.”

He laughed. But we have been friends for the last few years and he knows who I am now. Not many others do. In fact, when I grabbed Rachel Bolan, he had no idea who I was. I had a firm grasp of his left shoulder, while I shook his right hand. Poor Rach was trying to get away from me like Jim Leavelle.

I wouldn’t let go. He kept repeating the polite exit lines that celebs use to break free from a fan that has just Velcro’d themselves to you.

I kept talking and shaking.

Then, he recognized me, and swore at me to illustrate his surprise. We caught up. It was a meeting I didn’t avoid. The most intriguing ones were the eye to eye passes in the aisles, where I knew them, but they didn’t know me anymore.

The most entertaining encounter came from Zloz, who called me “Fred”. That was a new one. “Fred? Zloz, it’s me, Chris!”

“Jesus! Sorry, dude…I’ve been here all day and I'm fried. Hey, at least I confused you with an actor friend, right?”

He had a point. Neil could have thought I looked familiar because he thought he’d seen me cleaning the stalls at Santa Anita.

I digress.

The whole weekend was a strange, almost melancholy passing of the torch. The metal/hard rock bands still sell the most gear, by my observation. The metalists were out in force, whether it was for strings, amps or cases – they signed away and took the pictures with the smiling ESP dealer from Kenosha.

And with fully stocked bars and partial nudity thrown in to the mix, who could ask for a better sales pitch?

Clearly not the oglers I kept tripping over.

The night was sewn up in the Hilton bar, where 16 years before, I stood with two pals, chatting with Gene Simmons. Now, the guard changed while talking with Eric and Casey.

Then I saw Mickey Dolenz walk by. And it sank in - if you play the music biz game, you gotta play by the music biz rules.

Rule #1 – You’re lucky.

Rule #2 – You’re on your way out; sooner than you think.

Rule #3 - Repeat the first two rules, in any order, for the rest of your career. Rinse.

Be A Doctor, 'Cause The Drugs Are Legal

It’s a strange thing in America. We’re expected, and driven, to be a sports fan for a lifetime.

A Packers fan myself, I can root for Brett Favre as a cybernetic organism in 2029 (and don’t think they ain’t working on exactly this over at ESPGeN) and not be thought of strangely.

But if I mention my love for Thin Lizzy when I’m 75, this will come my way:

“Why don’t you grow up?”

It’s normal “job” in Europe. A musician is an artist. Music is a vocation. A skill. Highly valued, especially in the live element. So, for a Euro-someone to mention that he or she is a fan of any given band at an advanced age is not a developmental detriment. They’re also allowed to cheer for West Ham United.

In Iron Maiden’s case, you can root for Eddie and the Hammers. Cheers! Aces High! Up the Irons!

But here, a musician is a miscreant. A loser that got lucky, even if he or she sold any of their craft. It’s the only job in the USA where being an addict is expected! And in some cases, encouraged. Can’t think of another one like it. If you poll psychologists about their own chemical joyriders, you’ll find a consistent ratio of them is addictive.

Bricklayers, pilots, sheriffs, etc…

But, their addictions would not be seen as immature. Or showy. Or a matter of course. Or fuel for career disdain. Those employees seek help, get offered help, forced to receive help. Help. Then, back on your horse as a recovering addict.

Musicians are expected to be on the horse, and that’s the wrong kind of horse. Drugs and their lure are tragic enough, but it’s tough trap to avoid. Touring is an environment where alcohol is currency (I cannot count the amount of times I got paid in beer - whether I wanted it or not.).

Addiction is as commonplace as yelling “1-2-3-4” before a song. Look what happened to Dee Dee, fer crying out loud.

Quick example - Was the late Amy Winehouse known for her talent or for the substance sideshow she became? Was her addictive behavior the show, or her music? And what if she was an athlete who was on your fave team? Would you think the same way about her?

Americans are expected to outgrow music and the musicians they love by age 30-ish. It’s seen as a pimply rite of passage. The “Love of Music” is something that is to be endured by elders as a phase, and fed by young ones as a cause. Then it’s over, like squeaky voices and bad manners. After all that immature riffing, real adulthood can begin.

And GOD FORBID a child wants to be one! “Good Lord, I’d rather have him on a rooftop with a loaded rifle than be in a band”, I heard one parent say. I gave her a quizzical look, and said “Yeah? A musician? Like me?”

Insert awkward stuttering here…

Part of the employment perception problem, I think (thanks for asking) is that musicians, whether they’re hobbyists or pros, begin the same way – in the garage or basement, hammering out a three chord song. Then they get two songs down; four, eight, 16, etc…

They play a party, they play a club, they get signed and they move up the performance ladder. Other musicians (famous or obscure) can all compare notes – they have the same job transit system. And there are no diplomas or sexy suffix letters after your name to enforce respect for your efforts.

Dentists don’t have that particular albatross. I've been at parties with DDS’s and they don’t all get psyched about a root canal, run out into the garage, fire up a chair and some nitrous, then drill away on a guest.

And if they do, I wanna go to that party. I’ll bet Slash will be there.

But, musicians can do that (with the nitrous, too). Bono can walk into a rehearsal studio in any city, and find something in common with the band that’s rehearsing there. They all look at each other; agree on a tune and the creative stripes all match.

It’s a valuable skill.

It’s communication at the most human level.

And it ought to be more valued here - at least as much as the Cyber Favre we have coming out of the stem cell huddle.

Maybe by 2029…

A Start

This is a piece from a book I was supposed to be writing. Still doing it, I suppose. Just online now.

Hello, Cleveland!


Cleveland, the Lizard tour, fall 1992. Lotsa friends visiting this gig, as was a pair of my sisters, and some future and ex-brothers in law. I was hoping that we would have a good gig, and the mood was high. Saigon Kick was about four months into this tour, and we were really hitting our live stride. I heard some tapes from this leg of the tour not too long ago and we were on fire.

Now my family could see the results of that for themselves.

The day went well, and we dined in a very cool restaurant down on by water. Showtime arrived and the band got ready in the backstage area. As in Spinal Tap, it was a convoluted system of twists and turns, all around concrete abutments. But we had nobody to tell us where we had to go to reach the stage.

And we didn't have time for a jog.

Evil, my tech, and I head towards the noise of the intro tape. I am leading the way, bass in hand, and Evil is behind me with a Mag-lite poised over my shoulder like a miner’s helmet. As we approach the sound at the end of the tunnel, I hear a voice behind us:

EVIL! WHERE’S MY TEA?

It’s Matt Kramer and he’s dry apparently. Evil now swings his beam of light off of me, and before I know it, I walk right into a five foot high chunk of concrete. Which is a bit of a problem, since I am six feet high. Like two drunken mountain goats, my large head meets it's Quik-crete head squarely and I am instantly woozy.

I stagger through the rest of the Cleveland Labyrinth, and make it to the stage a little late. Jason Bieler looks at me funny, as if to say “where the hell have you been?” and I shoot him a dazed look.

He shoots me a wide eyed one back.

During my backstage spelunking adventure, I have acquired a three inch red crease on my forehead where the edge of the obstacle met my head. It’s bleeding, but not a whole lot. I am instantly remained of Tommy Thayer colliding with a door mechanism in San Diego earlier that year. His variation was that he was wearing Ace Frehley make-up. But that's another story.

The best part is that I have a picture of the incident. I don’t know who was sharp enough to grab the shot, but SK's erstwhile bassist looks like a drunken Fred Gwynn, wearing Yvonne De Carlo’s wig during a Munster’s cast party.

With a gash in his head.

Inaugural Blog-arul

Yes, I know. Bad pun. But, they'll be plenty more of THAT as this wears on.

Eyes peeled, ears perked. All that good stuff.

See you soon.