Tune in, Freak out

One of my bigger fears—losing my mind. I mean, have I not lost enough? C’mon man!

Dementia is not a specific disease but is rather a general term for the impaired ability to remember, think, or make decisions that interferes with doing everyday activities. Alzheimer's disease is the most common type of dementia. Though dementia mostly affects older adults, it is not a part of normal aging. (source)

That last sentence puts my mind and heart somewhat at ease—that dementia is NOT standard operating procedure for aging.

In the first nationally representative study of cognitive impairment prevalence in more than 20 years, Columbia University researchers have found almost 10% of U.S. adults ages 65 and older have dementia, while another 22% have mild cognitive impairment.  (source)

In my current read, The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman, the husband of one of the main characters is falling deeper and deeper into dementia. Osman paints Stephen’s decline so clearly and empathetically. It’s easy to understand and feel the fear, panic and chasm deep wrenching sadness.

Life is a crisis (a phrase from the book).

It is. There's nothing new and scary happening here—knock on wood. I’m not expecting anything fresh and horrorshow to go down anytime soon. Maybe I’m bummed in advance about this coming summer’s potential brain slice up? Perhaps I’m just feeling the weight of my collective, jam packed vida Loca.

Over the past few days I’ve felt as though I've been experiencing each and every loss, every significant wound as though they were brand-y damn new. It’s as though grief just jumped out of a dark alley, ran me down and stole all my exuberance and vigor. (FYI, grief's a sneaky-ass motherfucker)

Mind, I’m not in any way forgetting or failing to appreciate all my good fortune.

The fact that I had music in my life for 46 years. I completely enjoyed the fuck outta my audio system while I had it. Still…

I had 30 beautiful years with The Amazing Bob. I miss him—I always will.

Kevin Alexander Scott—now gone for longer than he was alive.  How in Winsor & Newton's oil soaked name did that happen?!

So, there have been monumental losses but isn’t that just how life rolls?

Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.
~ Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Words to live by.

And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

And they were singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
And Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Don McLean—American Pie

Apparently, the heavy metal band Disturbed covered Sounds of Silence and it, according to reliable sources, kills. I absolutely loved Paul Simon’s reggae inflected version. A heavy metal one? Goddamn I WANT to hear that. Always disliked the original version—the sappy, overwrought strings were just TOO damn much.

N'est-ce pas?

I need a cookie, dammit!

I feel overwhelmed by all the insane horseshit, insurrection and death flying through the air right now. Of course I do – I'm a sentient being aren't I?

I’m just happy the National Guard (troops from Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York and Virginia joined those from D.C.) are already in D.C.

This quote by R.A.Wilson is perhaps the best summary of Republican "Christianity." It seems ridiculously apt this morning:

“The Bible tells us to be like God, and then on page after page it describes God as a mass murderer. This may be the single most important key to the political behavior of Western Civilization.”

I’m resoundingly sad over other shit too – not just the attacks on democracy and civilization. Yesterday would’ve been The Amazing Bob’s 79th birthday. The 27th of this month would’ve been our 35th anniversary. He’s been gone four and a half years now and some days it feels like he left this good Earth just yesterday.

Also, apparently my bean likes to be all organized and shit (at least as far as mourning is concerned). I’m also grieving the loss of Kevin Scott.

The intense heartache when a precious loved one dies feels, at first and for a long while, unsurvivable. The pain became less searing as time rolled by. I no longer felt like I was constantly being stabbed by flaming, sharp sticks. That evolved into days, weeks and months of peace. Grief always rises again though. It ain’t toothless on these revivals but the anguish is less screamingly intense.
~~~~

"For in grief nothing "stays put." One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often -- will it be for always? -- how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, "I never realized my loss till this moment"? The same leg is cut off time after time.”
~ C.S. Lewis

"The world is too fucking big. Sometimes, I can't even carry myself through all the love and fear."
~ Sherman Alexie

TAB and Kevin are MIA physically but not emotionally. They're both wound around my heart and always will be.

“That's your solution? Have a cookie?' Astrid asked. 'No, my solution is to run down to the beach and hide out until this is all over,' Sam said. 'But a cookie never hurts.”
~ Michael Grant

Today

It's Veterans Day and I don’t know what to say. Rather, I’m not a veteran and feel that anything I might say will come off as trite, 2-dimensional, clueless or, possibly, insulting. I'd RILLY, truly like to avoid the hell outta that.

Back when I was in high school, I’d occasionally go over to the local college’s student center to people watch, draw and escape my violently turbulent famiglia. Back then, the only people wearing olive drab were vets. Camo had yet to become a cosplay fashion statement. I’d draw and study them (surreptitiously? prolly not). This was at the tail end of the war in Viet Nam. They were so very different from all the other college students. Even when laughing, their eyes looked haunted. 

 Of fucking course they were! 

I was just a dumb kid – I knew so little of the world. These, mostly, men seemed to hold great, painful knowledge. I wanted to know more. I wanted to sit with them – absorb and observe. I wanted to hear their stories, gain enlightenment but I was afraid. Why would these world weary, seen-things-you-people-wouldn’t-believe men tolerate my presence, let alone talk to me?

The Amazing Bob did two tours of ‘Nam with the Air Force (or Air Farce as he called it). TAB had an incredibly low draft number so he signed up in order to avoid the Army and total cannon fodder status.

He came home with a big ‘ol case of PTSD that landed him in the VA Hospital for six months. After he got out, he joined Viet Nam Veterans Against the War.

Kevin Scott was in George I’s Iraq War and came back with a variant of hepatitis that killed him.

On Twitter, I follow a lot of vets. Why? The ones I follow have a dark shade of humor that I can relate to. Their wit and wisdom are knife sharp.

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.
~ José Narosky

While I’ve experienced my own share of trauma and abuse, it’s NOT the same as what a soldier, someone who’s been to war, has experienced. That’s not to say or imply that one is greater or lesser than the other. They’re just not parallel.

The phrase stay in your own lane comes to mind.  

Kevin once said that war consisted of long periods of boredom, interspersed with episodes of extreme terror. Words to that effect anyway.

War does not determine who is right – only who is left.
~ Bertrand Russell

I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
~ Albert Einstein

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower

War may sometimes be a necessary evil. But no matter how necessary, it is always an evil, never a good. We will not learn how to live together in peace by killing each other's children.
~ Jimmy Carter

Oh Look!

It's Sunday and I don't need to be anywhere today. YEA!

Being sick, just in case you missed the bulletin, is goddamned exhausting. Lemme me rephrase that – being in pain is spectacularly enervating. It wears me right, the fuck, out.

Jen and I went to MEEI for my follow up appointment with Doc Merchant. What I have, just FYI, is a corneal ulcer, a serious bit of no damn fun whatsofuckingever. The good medic says it’s getting better/healing though. BETTER be – this hurts like hell and the antibiotics are flaming that shit right up too.

Good news for Ten – he didn’t need to wake every hour on the hour last night to wake me up so’s I could put in the motherfucking drops. Ya know, I wonder if Ten’s mebbe questioning the wisdom of his decision to move 3,000+ miles away from his home to be with yurs truly – the fucking cranky-ass quasi invalid. Hell, I’d be.

JAYZUSSSSS, this was awesome.
Ten’s a Kitchen God of the highest order!

He says no. Emphatically too and then he went into the kitchen and whipped up a veggie quiche with vegan chorizo sausage for brekkie.

Honest ta Bast, I have no bloody clue how/why I ended up with two such amazing, giving, wonderful life partners WHO COOK – Tab and now Ten. I'm so astoundingly lucky!

Which reminds me of a certain other molto significant person in my life. I had a dream about Kevin Scott last night. He was alive, reasonably well and moving from D.C. to Philadelphia. I was MEGA psyched. I could zip down there via Amtrak on the regular. We’d have SO much fun!

And then, still in Dream World, I stumbled over reality. But, but, I said to me sleeping self, Kevin’s dead. He’s been gone for 28 years now. So much for that happy dream.

Also too, SONG CUE!

Holly Sears Tea Bowl

Meanwhile here on the home-front we’re finally having a sunny day. Thank the little baby Bast for that. Endless grey, rainy days are mondo tedious and depressing, n'est-ce pas and shit? If I had a shred of energy left in me after this MGH/MEEI intensive week, I’d hit the gym. I’ve not darkened the Y’s door since Monday and that’s NAY good. Exercise keeps the Monster of Crankitude at bay. Possibly I’ll manage a little beach walk – might keep the Grouch Demon at bay.

For all of you who are not suffering from the slings and arrows of outrageously stupid health, go to Brookline Village and check out the Feet of Clay Spring Show and Sale. As uszh, the joint’s owner Holly Sears has some brill work up. So does Jane Simon.

It’s a good day to look at fun, cool art (isn’t every day though?) so check ‘em out.

Holly Sears Platter

Jane Simon Vase

Time Passes

Self portrait with the crown I SO deserve!

Woke from a weird-ass dream. Kevin was back from the dead. As it turns out, he hadn’t died all those years ago, back in our rabidly youthful early thirties. Nope. He’d recovered but had to go into hiding from the government – ours? there’s? //shrugs// My subconscious failed to fill in pertinent details. Dammit.

I was, naturally, thrilled to itty-bitty bits to see him again. Would we take up where we left off? Would we be inseparable besties like old times? Would we finally do the big shack up?

Emmm, let’s not be too hasty here. A lot of life has rattled way far down the pike since 33. Much has happened and it’s changed my basic molecular structure and shit. I am, simultaneously, the same person I was then and someone radically different. Him too ('cept he didn't become a Dragon Queen like yurs truly. Hey, we all gotta have a dream...ya know?!).

Kevin and I were hiking over wickedly rough, rocky, densely wooded terrain (could the symbolism be any more sparklingly transparent?), discussing how we’d both changed and evolved since we’d last seen one another. We talked about what that meant for us as a thing, a couple.

In this fantastical nocturnal landscape, Kevin and I would be very good friends but no more than that. That made sense for us both. It was OK. Sad but OK.

And now I have Al Stewart in my head.

I Remember

We try to keep Time linear
By numbering our years,
By celebrating annually
On our rickety web of biers.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.
~ The Amazing Bob

Yesterday was Jen’s mother’s birthday. She turned 76 (!!!).  Had my most Amazing Bob lived, he would’ve hit that on this past January 10.

And today is Memorial Day. Did you know?

As the Civil War neared its end, thousands of Union soldiers, held as prisoners of war, were herded into a series of hastily assembled camps in Charleston, South Carolina. Conditions at one camp, a former racetrack near the city’s Citadel, were so bad that more than 250 prisoners died from disease or exposure, and were buried in a mass grave behind the track’s grandstand. Three weeks after the Confederate surrender, an unusual procession entered the former camp: On May 1, 1865, more than 1,000 recently freed slaves, accompanied by regiments of the U.S. Colored Troops (including the Massachusetts 54th Infantry) and a handful of white Charlestonians, gathered in the camp to consecrate a new, proper burial site for the Union dead. The group sang hymns, gave readings and distributed flowers around the cemetery, which they dedicated to the “Martyrs of the Race Course.” (source)

TAB did two tours in Nam, came home and joined Viet Nam Veteran’s Against the War. Kevin Alexander Scott was in Bush I’s Iraq folly, caught some devastating desease while there, came home and died a slow, awful death.

War, huh, yeah
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
War, huh, yeah
What is it good for
Absolutely nothing
Say it again, why’all
War – Edwin Starr

and

Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothing
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins
~snip~
And I hope that you die
And your death will come soon
I will follow your casket
By the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand over your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead
Masters of War – Bob Dylan

In Flanders Fields

 In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

~John McCrae, May 1915

For Kevin Alexander Scott from his young, wild love and me.

This Blogworld joint’s a funny old place

I’ve recently met not one but TWO people who knew my beloved, departed-way-too-fucking-soon Kevin Alexander Scott. It’s been 24 years since he exited stage left.

The first person to pop up was the awesomely brill blogger/craftsman/artist Jim Wright of Stonekettle Station. Turns out they were in the Navy together (and YES this is now in my head) — Kevin as a Hebrew/Arabic Linguist (or HebLing as they’re known in the biz) and Jim as a Chief Warrant Officer. They were co-workers which came up in a brief exchange of emails about something else entirely.
(funny bit from Jim’s profile: He's been called the Tool of Satan, but he prefers the title: Satan's Designated Driver. You can see why I like the dude, can't you?)

The second person is Kevin’s high school sweetie, the young woman who was the mad love of our man's young life. They were inseparable until they went off to separate colleges. In Kevin’s tales, Linda was strong willed, preternaturally (for an adolescent girl) confident, wildly imaginative, wickedly funny, beautiful and smart. Very smart.

OF COURSE I was intimidated beyond measure — I was none of these things. Why would he want to be friends, let alone more, with me?

But he did.

In any case, Linda and I exchanged a few emails and, on top of everything else, she’s kind, warm and engaging. Wow.

She sent me his high school graduation pic. At left, Kevin in PLAID suit jacket (I can only imagine him burning the damn thing afterwards), sporting relatively long hair and, like me, big aviator specs. I'd never seen Kevin in anything other than faded 501s, tight white Ts and Adidas. A clean cut, short haired, no safety pins, punk look. Ramones-ish even.

With the memories of Kevin flying to the surface of my grey matter, I've been surfing Alternate Reality-Ville. Nice thing about this dimension double is that I don’t have to give up the present one while I cruise the other.

In this other timeline, Kevin never signed on for that 2nd, fatal tour of duty.

He came home, applied and was accepted to a Masters of Fine Art program at NYU.

Conveniently, in this chronology, I don’t have Nf2 (my alternate life/my rules), was able to leave Boston and moved down to NYC. We found a nasty yet charming little one bed in Alphabet City which we set about decorating with cast offs from other, departing students, our own childhood bedroom furniture and other random finds. We created our own sleek, interstellar universe.

What’d I do while my man was in class or at the studio? Painted! Potted and sculpted at the just beginning group studio Supermud. And yeah, I would’ve had a day gig — Kevin’s navy pension and college funds wouldn’t support us completely. I toiled in the stacks at the NYU library, meeting an odd and interesting collection of geeks, desert-dry humored scholars, hipsters, punks and fellow artists. The work was meh, the camaraderie awesome and the pay — just enough to keep me and Blondie in beer, pizza and Utrecht brand oil paint.

My beloved Aunt Mary Ann, (who, in real life, lived up in the Turtle Bay section — about 30 blocks up, near the UN) was appalled at our piecemeal, patchwork, throw-everything-different-together-and-it’ll-work design scheme BUT entertained at the same time. We’d dine up at her place or meet for drinks at McSorley’s. She, like everyone else on the planet fell in love with Kevin on first meeting. How could she not? He was beautiful, funny, warm and smart.

We’d gad about the Village and SoHo with friends Lydia and Steve — discussing new books, artists, philosophies and politics of the day (always) while sipping Guinness at The White Horse or Belgium wheat beer at Dive 75. The four of us would catch the latest, greatest bands at CBGBs and Coney Island High.

Kevin and I would hit Danceteria and pogo, conga and tango our ever lovin’ ta-tas clean off before heading back to our glitteringly hip crib.

And then they lived happily ever after.

The End

I knew Kevin the boy, and you knew Kevin as the man he became.
~ The Gracious, Magnificent Linda

Hurrah for us still sitting here!

For Dan, Kevin and Sean. For all of us

We try to keep Time linear
By numbering our years,
By celebrating annually
On our rickety web of biers.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.
~ The Amazing Bob

Why am I so damn lucky?

Yeah, yeah sure — I’ve got the nasty-ass, putz-faced, abominable and otherwise vile Nf2. I’m deaf now and have horrifically wonky balance (etc., etc.) BUT I’m alive. Kevin, Sean and Dan are not.

I’m living, breathing, practically effervescing with sparkling buoyancy...and shit.

How is it that I’m so damn lucky?

Dunno but I’ll take it.

I’ve been feeling all kvetch-y since my latest trike roll? Warum? Apart from the road rash and aches, I feel like a dimwitted moran for forgetting to brake on that hill. Sheesh! I went in for knee physical therapy yesterday and the very nice lady told me that I need to be checked by my doc and submit an “OK to rock ‘n’ roll” before I can resume rehab action.

Sigh. Yesterday I was feeling all “Ah, I shouldn’t have even mentioned the roll! I should’ve just gone through with the PT. NOW, I’ll have this stupid unnecessary delay!”

Impatience? Yeah — that’s my middle name.

This morning I’m thinking the lovely PT lady was right. While laying on the floor with Rocco (who’s now coming up INTO the kitchen for brekkie — PROGRESS!!!) I felt a pain, a twinge in my ribs and one in my left cheekbone. Christ, have I cracked a rib and more? Such annoyance.

I don’t have time for aches and pains!

What’s the lesson I need to take from Thursday’s ill fated ride? If I’m going to trike after I’ve gotten unhappy news (in this case — Dan’s death) then I best stick to straight paths. No hills. When my mind’s all preoccupied I seem to forget about that silly yet oh-so-useful invention known as brakes.

Coco

If I’m gonna trike the Hebrides (and I AM!) I NEED to be mindful or, at least, less mindless.

Got it, Donna?

Got it.

Rocco

Good.
So then, this morning I’m celebrating Rocco’s increased indoor comfort levels. He hung out up here for awhile after his morning meal AND Coco didn’t attack him either. YEA! I’m lifting my cuppa joe to Gaston who showed up for a meal. Yes, our loud boy, absent all summer, was back this morning and looked fine, fancy and just chockfull of healthfulness. And to Gus who will soon be an indoor boy at Jen and Oni’s.

By the by, Oni’s put his foot down. Gus is the second porch dweller of mine that they’ve adopted — Skitter was the first. He says “No more.” He was quite firm about that. Maybe.

Perhaps I’ll go for a wee ride later. Just an incline-free route. I promise.

“Hurrah for us still sitting here!”
And so we all partake
We give ourselves one more slice —
Paper thin! — of birthday cake.

Gun

Not unlike Tbogg, Kevin was raised in a home where hunting was a thing.

He even used one once to scare off a burglar. Teenaged Kevin was alone and asleep in bed (his mother was out) when he woke to the sound of an intruder. He managed to find his old hunting rifle, burst into the hallway with all the boom and bluster he could stir up (in an attempt to seem larger and not alone) and roared at the fellow to “get the fuck out before I shoot."

It was unloaded but Mister B&E artist didn’t know that.

What’s key here is that Kevin had the presence of mind to bark and bellow, to appear lethal and menacing but not BE lethal, unlike Theodore Wafer, George Zimmerman, Michael Dunn or any of the other murderous asswipes with big warrior hero complexes.

I too was home alone when a couple of robberies/home invasions happened. I slept through one and successfully hid during the second.

In any case, in one of those just found old letters, Kevin rants about guns. He was a Hebrew/Arabic Linguist — why should he have to carry one, dammit!? Being in the military though, they were kinda inevitable.

Back to guns—do you realize that I have to carry one sometimes?! All the people I work with are thrilled about guns (ick). They were not amused when I “accidentally” dropped mine in the new cement sidewalk. My luck though, they issued me a new one.

You should have seen me at “gun class”. Actually, we’re supposed to call these weapons. You know the line — they tell you to grab your crotch with one hand and hold your bang-bang in the other and repeat “this is my gun, this is my weapon, etc.” I, of course, being ever decorous, refused to fondle myself in public (or pubic). Hence, I still don’t remember what you call the little nasties (guns — not cocks!). The women in the class were not thrilled with that bit either.

Geez, just give me a gun and I’ll ward off the hordes of godless commies. Actually, the world is safe from me. I caused so much trouble in “gun class” that I was kicked out on the last day. I can still shoot better than any of them — old competitive habits die hard — but since I was kicked out, I’m not allowed to have bullets.

Aw, I’m heartbroken! *sob* hack!

I still have to carry it sometimes — just for show. Anybody tries anything funny and I’m supposed to pretend it’s loaded and fake them out (he’s got good experience with this ruse). All well and good as long as they don’t notice the bubble gum I got caught in the cylinder (it jumped out of my mouth — honest! Actually, if I’d ever oiled the thing like I’m supposed to, the gum wouldn’t have welded itself to the metal. Oh well.)

I’m still trying to get them to take it away from me altogether. Yesterday I tied a string to it and drug it around the office as my “pet.” I figure that, by tomorrow, they’ll have decided to take it away. Yea! Then they’ll probably send me to “knife class.”

From the Mother Jones article 10 Pro-Gun Myths, Shot Down:

Myth #2: Guns don't kill people—people kill people.
Fact-check: People with more guns tend to kill more people—with guns. The states with the highest gun ownership rates have a gun murder rate 114% higher than those with the lowest gun ownership rates. Also, gun death rates tend to be higher in states with higher rates of gun ownership. Gun death rates are generally lower in states with restrictions such as assault-weapons bans or safe-storage requirements. Update: A recent study looking at 30 years of homicide data in all 50 states found that for every one percent increase in a state's gun ownership rate, there is a nearly one percent increase in its firearm homicide rate.

Go read all ten. Really. 

Melancholy Baby

Kevin kindly illustrated one of his neurology appointments for me

Well THIS was bound to happen. While sorting out those thousand and three boxes of my old photos and papers I found some letters from Kevin. You know — Kevin Alexander Scott , my first, bestest, jesus-I-can’t-believe-he-puts-up-with-me friend? Yeah him, the dude who exited the planet 23 years ago, leaving me with a nasty-ass,chronic case of Mega Sorrow. (There's no cure for this, it seems. I wanna know where, WHERE are the damned telethons!)

Bastard.

I thought I had all his letters buried deep, in one fat 9x12 envelope down in the studio somewhere. Apparently though they're littered throughout the house.

In one missive, written while he was stationed in Greece, he spoke of when the tune Time Warp from Rocky Horror Picture Show began playing on the office radio. Now, back in college we’d go see that on far too many Saturday nights to count. When we bothered to dress up (beyond the obligatory raincoats) he’d be Riff-Raff and I’d be Magenta (Jesus Clairoled Christ, I loved her hair).

It was a thing, even in our small, conservative Western Pennsylvanian college town. The theater was always full or close to it.

Meanwhile, back at Kevin's letter from Greece:

Time Warp from RHPS came on the radio. I’m singing along and everyone in the office is looking at me like I’m the definitive herpes carrier, when we notice this Navy captain also singing along. I asked him if he’d seen it. His reply? “Once or twice or 63 times...so far.”

What a shock — this guy is 50, at least, and has kids my age and he’s seen it 63 times? What a pervert! (Kevin meant that as a compliment)

My god — what will we feel like at 50? Will we age gracefully (so far NO) or become odd crackpots that don’t fit in? The latter does sound like more fun, doesn’t it? 1983 (oh no!!) the year we mark (drum roll, voice of god booming) A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD — antiques!!! Oh no!! I’m having an age crisis at 24 — I’ll never make it.

And he didn’t. Verdammt nochmal. At least.

Aging gracefully — I suppose back then we thought that meant being like Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart. Effortlessly calm, composed, uncontroversial, mature and...ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Here I am, 23 years after Kevin had the supreme audacity to croak on me and, have to say, I believe I’ve continued on in our “Lucy and Viv on LSD” (as Kevin dubbed us) fashion — sans the acid that is.

A coupla little known Rocky Horror facts (more at the link):

Steve Martin auditioned to play Brad, but was passed over for Barry Bostwick, who had received a Tony nomination in 1972 for creating the role of Danny Zuko in Grease.

Rolling Stones frontman Mick Jagger asked to play Frank-N-Furter in the film. The creative team turned him down in favor of the musical’s original star, Tim Curry.

Jumping Frenchman Disorder, Black Plague et Moi

My partner in gruesome and ghastly research, Kevin

Way back in college, Kevin and I would occasionally indulge our morbid streaks by perusing diseases in medical textbooks and encyclopedias.

Why?
Did I mention that we both had an overdeveloped schmear of the macabre running through our beings? We were 20 and healthy as could possibly be. I was swimming a mile’s worth of laps every other day, walking everywhere and benching 150. Kevin was in similar shape.

Death and debilitating disease couldn’t have been farther away from our realities. We gazed and puzzled over things like Necrotizing Fasciitis and POEMS Syndrome as though they were very odd creatures in a zoo. Things that had no relation to who we were. Oddities.

Maybe a lot healthy kids are like that. Does this explain the Goths?

Doctor Plotkin

When you read enough of this stuff though, scanning down the list of symptoms, you can convince yourself that you have typhoid, cholera, rickets, Jumping frenchman disorder, Progeria  and Schizophrenia. All at the same time. With a side of Black Plague. Naturally.

Who could predict that Kevin would be dead within 13 years from Hepatitis B or that, a year and a half post college -- at 22, I’d be diagnosed with Neurofibromatosis type 2.

Yesterday I had my annual general physical as well as my annual what-IS-up-with-that-brain-of-yours visit with my neurologist, Doctor Scott Plotkin. In advance of this, I did my usual research (Google, the 21st century equivalent of encyclopedia persualing). I like to be prepared for the worst so that I can, well ahead of time, arm myself with whatever I need in order to survive all possible upcoming battles.

You see, I’m pro-life in the real and true sense. I’m alive and I bloody well intend to:

A) STAY that way
and
B) Live every one of my minutes to their fullest

Doctor P is helping me be there, stay there and get even MORE there. I can do this. I will do this because that’s how I’m wired (or ‘how I roll’ -- whatever the cliché du jour is).

Still, I need to go in with facts, fears and concerns written down. Plotkin’s a big horking deal and I want to make every moment of my annual appointment productive and informative. I can’t win if he doesn’t have all the facts or I don’t have all my points of disquietude addressed.

So yeah, I come off as a real worrywart BUT I’m a spectacularly well informed worrywart!

The Love You Take Is Equal to the Love You Make

Back all those multiple millennium ago, back when Kevin was dying, his buddy Perry moved in to take care of him.

Perry was a German linguist with the Air Force (or Air Farce as my Air Force and Viet Nam vet husband, The Amazing Bob calls it) to Kevin’s Hebrew/Arabic gig with the Navy. They met while both were stationed in San Angelo, Texas. San Angelo—home to the monster awesome Mongolian BBQ, San Angelo Museum of Fine Arts AND it’s the town where I began my brief carnie career.

I just can’t possibly say enough good things about Perry. He was (and still is, I imagine) smart, funny, mega intelligent, handsome as all hell and utterly devoted to Kevin. Thank the gods for Perry.

When it became clear that Kevin would not be able to live on his own any longer, Perry moved in. They were both stationed in DC at the time. He gave up his apartment, made arrangements with his boss/senior officer and did what needed to be done. Naturally and OF COURSE I felt utterly rotten and miserable that I didn’t do the same thing. After all, Kevin and I were BFFs and had been kinda/sorta/more or less engaged right? And yeah, I STILL feel the guilt despite understanding my own logistics and limitations. I can be wretchedly tiny brained at times.

In 1990 Neurofibromatosis Type II, what I got, wasn’t widely understood. Nor was it successfully treated apart from two places in the country. My neurosurgeons and neurologists were/are all at Mass General Hospital here in Boston . The only other place with a decent rep for handling us NF2 folk was in L.A.

So yeah, I didn’t give up my much needed health insurance providing job, my surgeons or the team of docs I, now, see yearly (down from three and more times a year) to care for Kevin in his last couple of years and I STILL feel guilty about it. Or maybe I’m just jealous of the time Perry had with Kevin. Yeah, that could well be it.

One memory that I keep in a deep indigo velvet lined lock box is from one of our phone calls during those last years. It was before his mind went but well after his body wasn’t much more than a collection of pus leaking, boil ridden bones. Horror show material. The stares he received, on his rare ventures out of the apartment, wounded him terribly.

In any case, I honestly don’t recall our precise topic of conversation but I DO remember that I was flirting with him con brio, making with the steamy boudoir dialogue, talking with him like I always did. There was silence on his end of the phone and I fell into worry (I’m in the Pro Worry leagues -- at my level we don’t even need the beads). I was afraid that my thoughtless, over the top coquetry had caused him pain.

Nope, when he finally spoke there were tears in his voice as he said ‘I love you. You still make me feel like a man.’
The End—The Beatles

Kevin Alexander Scott

Who was your first best pal? Seriously — I wanna know!
Mine was Kevin Alexander Scott (R.I.P.). We met at the beginning of our sophomore year, in the art department of our small western Pennsylvania state college.

Sure, sure, I’d had friends prior to Kevin just not anyone with whom I felt utterly comfortable. There’d been no one I could really let my hair down/ bare the old soul/be utterly ME with. I was too monstrously afraid (a fear that went WAY back) — so sure was I that NO one could possibly like me if I showed my true form. (Manticora on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Ljubljana Dragon on Tuesdays and Thursdays — I take the weekends off ‘natch).

Somehow Kevin got in past my premium, Superman proof, tungsten wrapped spirit. Sneaky bastard did it with charm, love and a Star Wars G2 type tractor beam of a personality and beauty. He was 6 feet tall, blond, broad shouldered, slightly barrel chested with a tiny adorable butt. The glorious fucker.

This pic, below, is the only one of him that I have. It was taken on the sly. He was massively averse to having his image captured. In high school and college he’d earned dough through modeling — primarily catalogue work though there was some runway action too. Because of this, he said, he just could NOT abide being photographed. On the whole, except for this one sneaky moment, I respected that.

I was dating someone (a dairy farmer from Amish country — yeah, that was destined to work out splendidly, eh?) and he was linked to his high school girlfriend — someone he was mad for. So, we didn’t hook up (aside from all platonic and marvelous and shit).  Cool by me as he, for the longest time, intimidated the fuck outta me. NOT his intention but, given my scared poopless background, unsurprising.

As time went on, with its' inevitable youth romance shedding habit, Kevin and I were single. We’d been BFFs for so long that changing it, at that very moment, felt too awkward for either of us to deal with. Instead we pledged to marry but not until after we got our wild 20s under our belt. That was an honest and true, real soulful feeling for us both. I was no longer afraid of my own shadow so I wanted to play, joy, LIVE.

In our post college graduation-ness, I went off for my third and final season with the carnival. He was in Harrisburg, PA (his hometown) looking for work in that post Nixon, post Ford nasty ass economic environment...and having the luck of the Oglala in his quest.

I called him weekly from the road. In one minuscule, rural, southern Illinois town I received the shock of my life. Kevin announced that he had joined the Navy. ‘the hell???!

We grew up during the Viet Nam years when the martyrdom. gloriousness and hero fixation/glorification of WWII had been turned on its head. Soldiers were in NO way the enemy but, to our minds, they were tools of a shallow business/profit modeled government. A government more interested in gaining power over resources than anything else.

Kevin was going off to be an Arabic and Hebrew linguist and he was psyched. This was major league double plus wild levels of exciting for him AND he’d get the great benefit of college buckos too. Once out, he could go to grad school without going bankrupt.

Yea, but still...

Over the next few years, as I struggled in Boston -- working a few jobs at a time, he kept trying to get me to join up. “But we could be together then and the work would be interesting and challenging for you.” Yup, all true BUT
A) I knew I’d never make it through boot camp with my total NON-acquiescent ‘tude. I’d worked wicked hard to get on the path of being my own self. No way would I have been able to become an automaton for the team
B) I’d lived so many goddamn places in my youth. I wanted to live where I chose,  NOT where the Navy, or any one else, decided on.

We kept in touch and continued to plan on living together after his hitch was up. And then he signed on for another go ‘round.

George Bush I’s Gulf War began and Kevin was based in Greece — flying missions over the Mid East weekly. We called each other regularly (OOF, those phone bills!) and then he came home. Came home with some nasty ass Hepatitis variant which, within a few years, killed him. Slowly and mega horribly.

When he knew that death was around the corner, and wouldn’t be stopping for a quick smoke first, he told me to go ahead and get serious about The Amazing Bob. He let me go and I understood.

Kevin died in the summer of 1991 at the age of 32.  I miss him still.