Thursday, July 2, 2015

Max, Me, and I don't know

It turns out that Max, my gigantic canine pal, has an aggressive form of cancer which affects bones, then all else.  He'll be with us for only a short time now.  Probably a matter of a few months at most.  A few weeks is also a possibility.  He is a very gentle kind creature.  When I was house sitting, he knew when I was having a tough time.  He knew when I came down with weird disease over a year ago.  I swear, he treated me differently and was quite nice and supportive.

His people are quite sad and spoiling him like crazy.  We all are.

I've never been an over the top dog or cat person.  I absolutely disagree with those who claim there are no bad dogs, only bad people who own them, etc.  And I do not agree that all breeds are wonderful.  If one or two breeds supply the majority of the aberrant individuals who eat babies and maim pedestrians, I tend to think that maybe something is up.  If you have one of those hell dogs and it is just marvy, good for you.  

If you are one who owns a hell dog and tells unsuspecting guests, as the rude animal is baring teeth and growling, "Oh, he just needs to get used to you--just don't make any quick movements", then I would posit that we will all benefit by putting down your pooch, and you.

That said, Max is not even in that league.  He's one of those creatures who almost cries if you seem displeased with him.  And he can take No for an answer, though he may test you a few times just to be sure you really mean no, and not yes or maybe.

He's limping because the disease is first working on his lower left leg.  But he still gets excited at the thought of a walk.  He just can't go all that far.  If it was a slowly progressing condition, I'd build him some sort of rig with wheels so he could keep trucking.

Not sure how I am doing.  OK, I guess.  We played House of Blues on Tues night.  A few groups played--an hour each.  We were on at 8.  I'd say we made a favorable impression.  It looked to me like we were the highlight of the evening. 

I can't whine about my mistakes or the sound or any of the usual frustrations.  I played how I play--maybe better than some times, and the sound guy gave me excellent sound, and the mic was plenty hot, meaning I could work it by backing away and such, which is what I like.

The cute girl bass player from the group Daddy Issues, gave me a fist bump afterwards, and complimented my playing.  She's about 23, and one of the best players around.  She also teaches violin and such to kids.  Love the name of her band, but even though their front person is a looker, I think the bass girl outclasses that group.  That's neither here nor there.  I just get a kick out of the girl.  Her guitar strap broke the last time I saw her group. So she finished the song lying on her back.  She's like the daughter or girlfriend anyone would want--depending upon your age, and/or grip upon reality.

So I was sitting here resting, reading, planning the next week's work and music schedule, and the sadness swept over like dense cloud enveloping me.  Overwhelming sadness with no focus.  I'm a mess I guess.  No idea where I'm going or why.  Playing the music keeps me healthier than I would otherwise be, I think.  The hydrea must be doing something to various blood cell levels because itch attacks are only mild now, and not debilitating.  My lungs are great but I still seem to lack O2.  Probably the faulty cells not holding enough.  But I can still feel the much expanded lung capacity compared to when I used to smoke. 

Sometimes I go up to this place when I am lost, alone and want to hide for a few hours away from everyone and everything.   I may be the miracle boy, but I do not always think I am really going to pull this off for that much longer.  It doesn't matter.  I just wish no sadness was involved in being me. Free floating, f'ing sadness.  I hate it.  Loneliest stuff there is. It is some nasty junk. 

It is weird, the whole playing music deal.  I am now playing with two classically trained people.  The new bass player is allegedly a woman, but I suspect that has not always been so.  OK. Fine,  I don't think she cares for me at all. Weird scene.  However, she is good and pretty much makes her living that way or has.  She's a nice guy, overall, though, just not so much toward me.  I live a weird life.

Anyway, the playing is the main thread that prevents total isolation and waiting to die.  

I think I can do better than this.  At least I am not one who succumbs to dumbass peer pressure of the sort that pushes self styled intellectuals to jump on the "I hate my people and my country" bandwagon.  Listening to white apologists constantly dream up new modes of self flaggelation, while somehow trying to distance themselves from their own genetic make-up, is nauseating. 

They appear to be seeking to endear themselves to ethnic groups who they assume are in great need of their protection and benevolence.  "Hi, I am your great white leader who will not only dream up grievances for you, but I will also wreak havoc upon the white devils who owe you so much!".

So, I guess I would rather be sad, lonely, and a mutant rather than be that.  

Come to Crest, right there on the ridge above Harbison Canyon, just east of El Cajon, on Saturday for a fine time. Fun for the whole family.  
where we will go, no one knows

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Ballistic Mountain, CA, United States
Like spring on a summer's day


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