Guitars

Nosferatu con Tortoise

Some ideas are just brilliant. When I became aware that the band Tortoise was playing the score for the silent film Nosferatu at Orchestra Hall on Michigan Avenue I knew this was a must see. Macy's sponsored "A Day of Music" at Orchestra Hall, which earlier in the day had performances by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and a klezmer ensemble.

It all seemed amazing to me. How had Macy's come up with Tortoise as the band? Though fairly popular among those "in the know" on the music scene, Tortoise has an audience, but we are way under ground. To me, their music is spacey and psychedelic in an experimental sort of way. It's amazing what the music itself says, or at times, how much the sparseness of the music speaks to you, especially when you're in that 420 zone.

So in anticipation of the show, I hurried downtown to make sure I was at least an hour early. Underground parking came out about two blocks from Orchestra Hall. Coming up the stairs from underground loud music could be heard blaring through the streets. As I emerged from the underground, my body engulfed in the sounds and presence of a rag tag marching band. The people were all dressed in their own way, but all had that hipster sort of chic. As it turned out they were marching to Orchestra Hall not stopping for traffic or stoplights as more and more people joined the march. They were playing music that Tortoise would later use in an odd sort of Benny Hillesque chase scene. Upon entering the theater, the marching band did a full lap around the hall playing that same odd tune. Fans in the hall showed their enthusiasm with rousing applause

A little while later, the movie started with Tortoise playing the score. Since I'd heard about this show, the thought that it could be amazing stood out in my head. I was not disappointed. Tortoise was dead on illuminating the story of the movie for you, with there mastery of creating mood with their instrumentation, rhythm, tone changes, and variations in volume. The were amazing linking their sound with what was happening in the movie. For instance, as carriage was racing down a path the music was frantic in its speed using percussion instruments to create the sound and feeling that horses were galloping along. These subtle nuances Tortoise worked in made it one of the most amazing cinematic experiences that I've ever seen. (For Tortoise's offical site)

From Bad News Comes Good News

In an overall world perspective, I may seem like an ass, but I have to tell the story of how someone else's misery has brought me much joy. My oldest female friend in the world (and I mean just friend for you When Harry Met Sally Fans), lets call her Ms. Xamando, was dumped by the guy she lived with. Now the entire story of them dating is kind of weird. Ms. Xamando and I have been friends since I was about 12 and she 11. We've taught at three alternative schools together. After I moved away from the area, Ms. Xamando started dating and eventually living with an old student of ours. Now she never fooled around with him when she taught, he was 23 when the first went on a date.

Basically, a girl that her boyfriend had fooled around with showed up at their door and spilled the beans. Now I should be sad for her when this happens, but I'm not since she'd been cheating on this guy all along, I actually think she drove him to it. However, being the good friend, I help her through her move and suffering. At one point she asks me to drop off some items that her old boyfriend gave her at their old place. As I'm giving these useless gifts back, he tells me to hold on a minute and disappears into a back bedroom. When he appears, he's holding a 68' Harmony Archtop guitar. It's a beautiful old guitar that looks beautiful and sounds great. These were made for jazz and the blues. Since Ms. Xamando had given her ex the blues, he asked me to bring it back to her. Of course, I agreed.

When I brought it to her a crushed look ran over her body eventually leaving her with a completely defeated look on her face. "What the fuck am I going to do with that?" Ms. Xamando said. Then she remembered that I'm an aspiring guitar player with a nice collection. "Will you take this home?" she blurted while passing the guitar, "I just don't want it around reminding me of that bastard."

Of course, being a good friend I had to remove the guitar from her house, take it home, and fall in love with yet another fretboard. So, give me your opinion. Am I an ass for actually enjoying this gift?

Our Poster Kids

Chicago's beautiful Museum of Contemporary Arts hosted a gala celebration Sunday, October 7th to kick off its new exhibit Sympathy for the Devil. The museum has made admittance free for 40 days as well as for the afternoon of Illinois alternative music. The show was outdoors, but in a giant stuff tent on a bizarre 90 degree day in October.

Despite the setting the event was a major success. The highlight for me was a rare Poster Children show. Oddly enough, the museums event coincided with it being the 20th anniversary performance for the Poster Children. Fortunately for me, my first P-kids show was 12 years ago in Austin and have seen them at every chance I get. Unfortunately, although they deserve to be getting all the riches and fame of stardom (not that they want it), true talents like the Poster Children don't receive airplay, don't get publicity, and are basically making their amazing music for the love of it and for those of us who believe.

From the start of the show to the finish, the kids blasted the crowd with driving rhythms and cutting licks. As always, Rick's singing was dead on and so was Rose's stage act. It's funny, last night I was reading some old entries from the Poster Children's web sit from 1997 after they had to follow Nashville Pussy. Roses entry stated the obvious. It's hard as fuck to follow the dual bimbos with tits everywhere act, especially with a 6 foot blond who breaths fire. Sure that crowd may have been lost on the Poster Children, but Rose has truly one of the most amazing stage presences not to mention she can play the fucking shit out of that bass.

The afternoon also featured 1900, Eternal, and Califone. Though I hadn't previously heard 1900 they featured a 7 piece group with four males and three females. They just didn't do it for me so I saw some of the Sympathy for the Devil exhibit.

Califone, the direct descendants of Red Red Meat they hypnotized the crowd with its experimental search sound. Their use of discordant noises to complement the hypnotizing rhythms always seems to build till it just feels like you're about to slip into the most perfect trip of your life, then pulls you back and leaves you feeling huh what the fuck just happened.

Anyway, it was a great way to kick off the exhibit. Thanks

Above are some pictures of the Poster Children. Look at their kids intensity. Now tell me that Rose and the kids shouldn't be superstars.

End of Season Blues

The end of September marks a special time of year, the major league baseball playoffs. For a fiercely proud Sox fan this will indeed be a sad post-season. The Cubs making the playoffs makes the fact that the Sox didn't make the playoffs hurt that much worse. However, there are some positives that came out of the entire mess.

Last Monday, Sean Olis, came up with an awesome hookup. Scout seats right behind the plate that included all you could eat and drink. Under the seating area was a great buffet that even served prime rib. Call me un-American, but fuck the ballpark frank, I'll take the prime rib.

The game was exciting with the Sox falling behind the Royals 1 to 0 in the first then getting 5 of their own runs in the bottom of the inning. The score remained this way until the 7th inning. Contreas pitched a great game up until that point, but he immediately looked tired when he took the mound. Somehow, Guillen didn't notice and let him pitch until it was too late. Even the relief pitchers couldn't help and the Sox lost 9 to 5.

On Thursday, Krikau came up with some box seats behind first base. This game was all Sox. Even a rookie named Holliday(?) through a great performance. Sox won 10 to 0. Wait until next year ya bastards.

Hamell on Trial

Friday night at Shuba's was bound to be a success because it featured Hamell on Trial. It's weird, having seen Ed Hamell for at least 10 years now, I would have always described his show primarily as a concert with some biting humor. And what a show it is. Never before have you heard such pounding acoustic guitar. How does he work that sort of energy and sound out of an acoustic? Hamell's lyrics are also amazing. Speaking of political corruption, odd characters met in seedy places, and a love for drugs that just seem to hold together this tortured soul, Hamell never fails to mesmerize.

Now don't get me wrong, Friday at Shuba's Hamell still mesmerized, but Hamell on Trial's approach had changed. Hamell focused more on his humor to stimulate the audience's mind than on his music. He not only rocked the house to the ground, but shared the true inspirations for his lyrics. It definitely was to the crowd's benefit to know why he transitioned from a song praising eatin' pussy to one about his dad killing his mom and then himself.

If his lyrics are at all true, Hamell has endured more than any of us should. We're just lucky that he's found such an amazing way to show us what he's feeling. Hamell keep preachin to us! Ani Defranco thanks for signing Ed Hamell when we could have lost his spirit forever.

It's Alive

That's right people of earth, the creature you know as Tony Pozeck has arisen from Blog death and is now trying to awake. Chicago has been great. Living in the City along the Blue Line allows access to everything the City has to offer.

This week, I've gone to the Museum of Science and Industry and the Art Institute of Chicago. The grandeur of each building (and the treasures inside) adds to Chicago's architectural beauty and provides an opportunity to expand the mind.

At the Museum of Science and industry the robot from Lost in Space captivated the crowd. In distant echoes the words, "Danger Will Ronbinson, Danger!!!" could be heard.





The Art Institute is such a monstrous building that to do it justice, several days would be needed. I just kept exploring its hallowed halls going from picture to picture, sculpture to sculpture listening to what the headset told about each artistic style and certain pieces in particular. It's amazing to think that you're standing so close to such famous images.




Perhaps the most exciting exhibit of the day appealed to me because it showed just how different I am. By standing under a spotlight, you can see a geothermal scan of your body. Look at mine closely to see the effects of all those brain surgeries. The metal plates stand out and a red spot shows where the fake skull is located. It was fun showing a group of students the differences between their heads and mine.

Boise's Bumbling Police

Today offered a perfect example of just one of the ways Boise's Police Department at times operates like they were trained in Mayberry. Approximately 10:30 a.m. I headed out of my apartment on my bike to send some packages and pay a late fee at Blockbuster. As I started pedaling on my bike, I heard a huge commotion of people yelling back and forth. Since my neighborhood is always quiet, I decided to check it out in case somebody needed a hand.

I took off on my bicycle out the side exit of my apartment complex. That was the complete opposite direction of where I originally wanted to go. Across the street from this exit, is an abandoned armory building that is just a general waste of space that you occasionally see some rather shabby people hanging around. The yelling I originally heard was still going on, and the first thing I saw was an officer behind his squad-car door with his weapon drawn yelling at a person I couldn't see. There were several other cop cars next to him with police out behind their doors.

As I rode by on my bicycle being careful not to get too near, I saw who the police were trying to apprehend. He was a shabbily dressed older man who appeared mentally deranged who was holding a gun, although not displaying it in a threatening manner. He more or less seemed confused in his thoughts and was dangling the gun. Suddenly, I was reminded of my friend, Denis Carey's, bravery a few years ago in Forest Park, Illinois. He was working outside on the deck of his house, which is high up in the air when he saw the police chasing an armed gunman down the alley. Dennie quickly ran between his and his neighbor's garage and waited for the assailant to come within view. At that time, Denny sprang into action tackling the guy and wrestling his gun away from him. He was and is a hero and was so honored by the Forest Park Police.

So a plan sprung to my mind. The guy with the gun I saw obviously was concentrating on the police in front of him and didn't seem to be cognizant of anything else. He was fairly close to the edge of the building behind him. I figured that at a good clip on my bike, which couldn't be heard because of all the shouting, I could come up behind the crazed fucker and tackle him. Since he looked like such a piece of shit, I was sure that my 300 lb. body with former high school wrestling captain skills could handle the assailant.

Just as I was about to attempt knocking this guy on his ass, a woman came walking around the corner, also from behind the building. I let her know not to go in front of the building because there was an armed man being held at gunpoint. She had walked over from the busy street side, which had some sort of sign explaining what was happening. She then told me what was going on, and I was startled.

My apartment complex has 16 apartment buildings with 16 units in each building and is right next to where the police were running this training. Yet, the police did nothing to inform the residence of this complex about an action that was very disruptive to the neighborhood.

What if I would have tackled the guy from behind on my bike? The officers in training wouldn't have been able to stop a guy who they wouldn't see until just before the point of impact. Almost assuredly that officer would have been hurt getting run down by a 300 pounder traveling at about 20 mph. Would I have been liable for any injury? Would I have been arrested?

Later in the day, another scenario crossed my mind. Idaho is a state where many people own weapons. A hunter could have easily shot this cop in disguise from the balcony of his apartment. Someone with a concealed weapon permit could have shot him at close range. What charged would that good citizen have been charged with? I know Boise is a remnant of the Wild Wild West, but putting citizens in a situation where they can get hurt or in trouble simply for trying to be good citizens shows that the Boise Police simply weren't putting the people they are sworn to "serve and protect" first.

All it would take is simple notes on each apartment building explaining what's going on or at a minimum having at least one officer on each side of the building to explain what was happening to passers by .

One Giant Step for Tony-Kind

It's been a long time since I've gone to the doctor's office and received any good news; however, yesterday was the day. After a series of five brain surgeries, 26 sessions of radiation, and one stereotactic radial surgery, I finally received some good news while visiting Dr. Sawyer. Ma, ma, my schwannomma (sorry couldn't avoid that reference) hasn't grown since my radial surgery. That tumor, which is now attached to my brain stem and has cost me use of my right eye, had been growing at an alarming rate and if left unattended, would eventually have taken my life.

Now I know that there is still a long road ahead in this battle against a tumor that has always been a part of me, but at least for now, it isn't growing. I have a ten-week hiatus before another MRI to check on the tumor's status. This doesn't mean that people should stop praying for me or keeping me in their thoughts, it just means that you'll get to enjoy a more carefree Tony for a while.

Yesterday was also the day that I received one of the most thoughtful and unexpected gifts of my lifetime. My Aunt Helen is Uncle Tom's wife. They are both retired and around 80 years old. They have always lived in California during my life, so my opportunities to see them have always been limited. Frankly, I never knew how much I've always been on their minds. Uncle Tom was the chief of staff at a hospital in San Diego, so he is well aware of my medical struggle and has told my mom how proud she should be of the fight I've made against my brain tumors.

When I opened the gift box, a beautiful quilt lay inside with a card explaining its significance. It was made by the Prayer Quilt Ministry in Chula Vista, California. Each knot on the quilt represents a prayer that was said specifically for me. The strings of the knots were left long so that I could have other people who have prayed for me add a knot to the quilt. That chance came quickly because the NCAA championship game was last night, so my friends John, Lenny, and Elizabeth added knots.

The quilt came with a card that said the following:

You are not alone. For each knot in this quilt a prayer was said just for you. When this quilt is around you, you know that God is also wrapping His arms around you to give you courage, strength, and His everlasting love.

Until my brain problems started, I had never really felt the power of prayer in my life. But during the process of all these surgeries, I could literally feel the prayers and see how people from the east coast to the west coast, even people visiting the Holy Land were praying for me. I've witnessed my illness bringing a brother and sister together again; having an entire school stop to pray for me; and getting people that I've fallen out of touch with to contact me out of the blue. In short, my illness has shown me how much I'm loved by those around me. Their tears and words have shown me how much I've touched each of their lives. I'm not thankful for the tumors, but I am thankful for the opportunity to feel the love of the people who have been such a part of my life.

Thank you, I also love you!

Living up to Sitting Bull's Virtues (fortitude)

The image of a quote from Sitting Bull, captured in marble above is a key to understanding how he had to exhibit fortitude during his life. It says: "When I was a boy the Lakota owned the world. The sun rose and set on their lands. They sent 10,000 horsemen to battle." By the time of his death in the late 1800s, circumstances were much different for the Sioux. Most of their land had been stripped from them by the U.S. government. Their defeat was in no way a sign of a lack of effort on the Sioux's part, but a glimpse of the white menace that believed in winning at all costs. Who would know that within 100 years, the white menace would have dropped atomic bombs on Japan and would be capable of destroying the entire world over and over using just nuclear weapons.


The Sioux believed that the second virtue a man should be judged by is fortitude. According to Robert Utley, author of The Lance and the Shield: The Life and Times of Sitting Bull, there were two main aspects that contributed to a person exhibiting fortitude. The first is the person's ability to endure pain and discomfort. The second involves showing reserve and being dignified, particularly when emotional situations present themselves.

So how would the Lakota Sioux have thought about me when considering my fortitude? I think they would have been impressed by my ability to endure pain and discomfort, but they might have some issues with my ability to show reserve and constantly remain dignified.

Throughout my life I have always been able to take a great deal of pain. This may have started inadvertently from a playful lesson that my dear mother used to make me endure. Mom taught me "mind over matter." No, this wasn't a game in which she made me endure pain and try to suffer through it. Mind over matter was just the opposite. Mom would tickle me until I could use my mind to control my feelings and not laugh while being tickled. Little did she know that this useful skill would one day turn against her. Being a curious child, I somehow always managed to find mischief. Since spanking was commonplace those days, that was my usual punishment, don't worry, mom wasn't mean I really deserved every spanking I got. She'd use a paddle to spank me. Knowing that I could use mind over matter, I would sit and laugh each time she swatted my ass. Of course, this would make mom madder, and then she'd hit harder. I'd keep laughing until the paddle broke, at which point mom would give up on the attempt to reign me in. This trick worked later on in school. Teachers could still paddle then and every time I was given the choice between detention, writing sentences (I will not...), or getting paddled, I'd choose the swat.

During high school, I joined the wrestling team. Talk about showing fortitude. There is no way to be a good wrestler without being able to endure pain and discomfort. By senior year I was the captain of the wrestling team. We were comprised of only three experienced wrestlers, one of whom died during the middle of the season. That's why it was so critical for me to lead the team by example.

Toward the beginning of a match versus Whiting High, the referee didn't blow the whistle in time and instead of the match stopping when I went outside of the circle, the other wrestler continued his move, and I was taken down on the gym floor, not the wrestling mat. Landing on an odd angle with the other wrestler's weight on me, pain soared through my body. Being so psyched to continue, I jumped up, went to the middle of the mat, and awaited the referee blowing the whistle to resume the match. After wrestling for another period and a half, my opponent made a mistake, which I took advantage of by pinning him in the "Saturday Night Ride," a humiliating position to be pinned in.

After the ref blew the whistle and went to raise my arm, I realized something was terribly wrong with my chest. I almost yelled in pain, but summoned the courage to eat the pain. When the team went to put the mats back up onto the balcony, I couldn't do it and knew I'd suffered a significant injury.

The next day I want to the doctor's office to have my chest examined. To my horror, the doctor told me that I had torn my right pectoral muscle and would miss a significant portion of the season if not all of it. At that point of the season, my record was 17—1, with my only loss being to my nemesis, Ivan Gonzalez, the number one ranked wrestler in state. I had visions of scholarships dancing in my head until that point of the season, but I vowed to myself that I'd come back to finish up the season.

About a month later, I was able to suck up the pain well enough at the doctor's office to convince him that I was well enough to wrestle again. You could tell that the man wasn't sure because of the lack of strength on that side exhibited during the exam, but he seemed to understand that the need to wrestle was more important to me at that time than the need to heal.

Coming back toward the end of the season, the time when all the tournaments happen, conference, sectionals, regionals, semi-state, and state while still hurt was distinct disadvantage for me, especially because at some point in each of these tournaments, I'd have to face Ivan Gonzalez again. And that I did, wrestling that beast four more times, losing every time. The only positive aspect of wrestling Ivan, if you can call it that, was my final match against him, when he was 37—0, having pinned every opponent he faced. I came real close to beating him, separated his shoulder, and went the distance with him. The bad thing about it is that with the separated shoulder, he lost in the state championship match, thus making my five defeats to the man seem less significant. And with a 27—7 overall record that year, there wasn't a school in the nation that offered me a scholarship.

However, all of this effort wasn't for not. The following year, when I was home from college, I went and practiced with my old team. To my surprise, when going to practice a move that I often used when starting on top, the coach called out for each wrestler to hit "the Pozeck" ten times. Now I hadn't invented the move, but the entire team, coach and all, honored my memory by naming this move after me. I felt humbled because it was a move I was taught by my previous coach, Mario Chapa, a great man and an even better wrestler. However, I decided to take the naming of the move after me as a sign that my commitment to the team had inspired these young wrestlers and proven to me that I had the ability to teach through example.

Now, I'd like to say that was the only time I fought through pain in athletics, which are sort of modern man's outlet for proving himself, but it wasn't. While trying to make the collegiate wrestling team, with a pectoral that still wasn't at full strength, I re-tore that pectoral and was told that I wouldn't be able to wrestle the rest of that season. It was then that I met some rugby players that lived on my dorm floor. By spring, they had me out on the rugby pitch and even playing in the Midwest Rugby Championships.

By my senior year, I was once again a captain of a very talented team. At a practice about midway through the season, I broke a long run, something unusual for a prop. There was one man to beat, Chaos (Jeff Franciscovich). He was a mild mannered Chemistry student during the day, but once he hit the rugby pitch, he became Chaos. I tried cutting to miss getting tackled, but he hit me right as I planted my left foot. I went down instantaneously and knew I had to go directly to the hospital.

While there, I saw my roommate, Jeff Schmid, walk into the emergency room. I thanked him for coming to check on me, and at that point Jeff held up his left hand, which had a giant gash between the thumb and index finger. You could see bone and just about every layer of muscle. I asked him what had happened, and he gave me a sneer, looked me in the eye, and said, "Chaos is what happened." So in one practice, Chaos had hospitalized two of his own players. Too bad he couldn't master that technique on the teams we played against.

Perhaps the best example of fortitude I've shown in my life has been my battle against brain tumors for the past 16 months. In November 2005 I began having massive headaches, which I believed were migraines. They kept getting worse and worse, but I kept dealing with them, even going on 30-40 mile bike rides. Finally, on December 23rd I went to the doctor's office to see what was up. He agreed it was a migraine and gave me pills. The pills didn't touch the pain, but no matter, I kept riding.

On January 5th, 2006 I went back to the doctor's office. By this time, my eye was exhibiting some tunnel vision caused by a partially closed eyelid. The doctor seemed to know right away that I was having what was called a third cranial palsy. The third cranial nerve controls the right eyelid, the pupil, and the direction the eyeball faces. Doc had me take a CAT-scan and following that, sent me immediately to get an MRI. Turns out, I had two tumors in my head, both of which had been there since birth.

On January 7th, I underwent my first of five brain surgeries in which they actually had to cut my skull open, spread it with tools, and get at the tumor. Then in all but one case, in which infection was involved, my head was put back together with metal plates and staples.

However, throughout the first twelve months or so, I showed fortitude. Being in such good shape before the surgery really helped, and I amazed doctors, nurses, and everybody who visited by how well I took the pain, my great sense of humor about what was happening, and my ability to bounce back quickly. Within three weeks of my first surgery, I was out riding my bike again. These weren't 30 mile rides, but I was riding 5 to 10 miles. If I wasn't biking, I'd be on the trail hiking. Sometimes even going with my aunt and uncle to the mall to walk, because the weather was too cold for those snow birds.

My second surgery was supposedly the deepest my neurosurgeon has ever gone, and the tumor he removed was about the size of my sister's fist. I had some problems with brain swelling following this procedure that were messing up my speech. I could think of words, but they weren't coming out as the words I wanted. It took almost five days before I could read again. Imagine that an editor and writer who couldn't even read.

Almost miraculously after being given higher doses of steroids I was reading and talking like a pro again. Within two weeks of surgery, I was back on my on my bike again, much to my family's dismay. However, I was determined to make my annual pilgrimage to Yellowstone with my friends. Between the third week of March and third week of April the park's roads are plowed and open just to bicycles and local traffic. So we ride 50 or 60 miles through the park. Now, I knew I couldn't ride that far, but I still went with the boys, despite my family's objections, and rode 15 miles.

As I arrived back to the hotel's parking lot, I hit a rut and was tossed from my bike, crashing into the ground. Now with the large hole in my brain where that hand-sized tumor used to be, this fall caused my brain matter to resettle at a massively accelerated rate. I immediately felt sick and was soon to pay the piper for my insistence on riding. Within a week of returning to Boise, my head began swelling, leading to more hospital stays. Finally, one morning, my sister realized that my scares from were leaking liquid (cerebral spinal fluid). I was admitted to the hospital and treated for a brain infection. Basically, Dr. Little had to remove a portion of my skull near the infected area, treat the infection, and sew the head back together. He had to leave that portion of the skull out, so I was forced to wear a custom made helmet (a NHL hockey helmet) for the entire summer.

There were other problems to deal with, such as having to give myself at-home infusions of Vancomyicn twice a day through a tube in my arm. This eventually led to allergic reactions to the medicine and perhaps my worst hospital stay ever. My mom found me seizuring on the hallway floor. All I remember is waking up next to the washer and dryer and eventually being taken away in an ambulance. This time, I was in the hospital for an entire week. The longest for brain surgery had been three days. The allergic reaction eventually was controlled, but I was weak, very very weak. To top that off, I began receiving a series of radiation from June through July. This took most of my remaining strength, but I dealt with it. In August I had another crainitomy. However instead of taking stuff out of my head, Dr. Little was putting fake skull in my head. It was sort of like using Bondo on a car, but this was skull putty being used inside my head.

No matter how sick all of this sounds, I dealt with it. Somehow, through it all, I knew I'd be alright, even with the loss of use of my right eye. I didn't ask for pity. I didn't beg for help. I wouldn't let others treat me as a pathetic helpless case and believe it or not that caused problems. My mother and sister came from Florida many times last year to help me. Their intentions were wonderful, but my insistence on not being treated as someone who couldn't function by himself led to conflict. I kept having to remind them that this was my apartment, my life, and I was going to damn well going to continue to operate as I always have, by operating independently. For God's sake, I wanted them to stop telling me to beware of every curb or cord in my way; to stop rearranging everything in my house; and most importantly to show me the respect I deserved for everything I've accomplished in life.

Now the summer's worth of medical mayhem kept me off my bike for a while and made it so even hiking the smallest hill was taxing on my body, so I had to take it easy. Simple walks around the neighborhood were all I could do for a while. By mid-September one of my favorite Boise events was occurring—New Belgium Brewery's Fat Tire Bike Fest. I wasn't going to miss out on this. The first event I attended was card night. Basically, cyclists rode from from bar to bar, collecting a playing card at each one. At the end of the night, the people with the best poker hands won prizes. My prize was a Bike Fest t-shirt.

That Saturday the main festival happened. The main event was the fat tire bike parade. I wasn't going to miss that. Dressed as Elvis, this one-eyed fool rode with between 750 to 1,000 cyclists in a parade through downtown. I soon learned that it's hard riding with that many people without being able to see out of one side of your head. I guess I'll just have to break away from the peloton when I race in the Tour de France:) The ride went off without a hitch, and Elvis rode home for a much needed nap.

After this day, I continued short bike rides and hikes for a while. But in early November, an MRI revealed that the tumor operated on in January, which I received radiation on in June/July, was growing at an incredible rate. Dr. Little would need to perform another brain surgery. In this one, he would remove the entire third cranial nerve, the source of the tumor. This meant that use of my right eye would never come back. It had already been closed since January, so I thought what the heck, let's cut it out and be done with all this shit.

On November 17th, the surgery on the nerve went well; however, there was one hitch. During the surgery, Dr. Little realized that the tumor, which was bigger in November than in January before the first surgery and all the radiation. Besides that it had extended itself to my brain stem. Another procedure called sterotactic radial surgery would now be needed. An actual operation would not work, because you cannot cut on the brain stem.

This is where I lost my fortitude. My situation seemed hopeless. I finally started believing that saving my life was now a hopeless cause. Upon speaking with Dr. Sawyer, my radiation oncologist, I found out that there was a very good chance I'd be blind from this surgery and there was a good chance of paralysis of some sort. I couldn't imagine living the rest of my life blind at first and wasn't going to have the surgery.

For a while, I put exercise out of my mind. I filled my life in a way I hadn't in years. When I was young, I was a horn dog. Every woman I dated, no matter how much I liked her, was cheated on. Usually, I'd break up with a girl shortly after starting to see another one. However, since college, I learned to respect woman and treat them like princesses. Only cheating on one woman, and although it doesn't make a difference that was to be with a woman I truly loved who had previously left me and moved to Tuscon.

Now it was going to be what I thought was my final stand. If I was going blind or going to die, I was going to go out with a bang. And bang I did. Having met a group of questionable woman, I worked my way though the lot of them. Now don't get me wrong, I had feelings for just about all of them, but I wasn't going to put any effort in, it was just about sex. Funny thing is, that's what it was for all of them.

My true friends then had to call me back down to earth. They had an intervention at a bar with me. Great idea but a stupid place to do it at. One should never bare grievances in public, especially putting the one at question in such a vulnerable situation. I wouldn't have minded if it was a room full of my friends, but it was three friends and a bunch of strangers. What finally got through to me was my buddy Chris' anger. He's one of the people I respect most in the world. He's intelligent, hip, and a man of peace. In fifteen years of knowing the man, he's done nothing but help me, inspire me, and encourage me. In all that time, I'd never seen him blow up at anyone. But my actions and his disappointment in me led him to be screaming in my face at the bar. I almost walked out on the group, but I couldn't walk out on him. As a result, I agreed to stop all the sleeping around with floozies and other foolish/dangerous behavior.

All of that got me to thinking how to adapt if I went blind from my next procedure. I even met with a wonderful lady, Dana Ard, from the Idaho Commission for the Blind and Visually Impaired to see how I could live if I became blind. After several phone conversations with her, she agreed to meet with me. When I met her, my spirits were bouyed. This intelligent together woman, who was obviously very organized and proficient at her job was blind. Seeing her and hearing the words she spoke made me realize I could handle being blind, I could even help out other visually impaired people as I did so.

Now I was ready for the March 1st stereotactic radial surgery. If I lost sight, there were classes for me to take to teach me how to adapt. If I passed the mobility class, I'd even be able to get a helper dog. Of course I'd be willing to wait until a golden retriever became available. Matter of fact, the challenge of overcoming the obstacle of losing my vision while helping people seemed to inspire me.

When my mother, sister, and I entered the hospital room on March 1st, my mom noticed a red toolbox on the window sill. Jokingly, she said, "Dr. Little is going to use those tools on your head." My serious reply was, "Mom, he really is going to have to use those tools, he has to use a ratchet set to screw four screws into my head to hold the halo I need to wear during the procedure."

When Dr. Little entered, we talked a couple of minutes until he was set for the procedure. Then I was given a shot of morphine (Ummmmmm morphine) and four shots of novacaine, each going where a screw would be placed. As doctor little screwed the screws into my head, I took the pain. My head wobbled back and forth from the morphine, but the pain had no effect. Dr. Little asked how it felt, and I replied that it felt a little like having your hair pulled that it was ok. Realizing my ability to absorb pain he let me know that I'd most likely be going home that night.

After a CAT-scan and six or seven hours of surgery, I was ready for my hour in the Norvalis machine with radiation level set on high. The procedure seemed to go smoothly and Dr. Sawyer was pleased with the angles he was able to use to hit the tumor. I felt well and just wanted the damn halo off of my head. Now Dr. Sawyer knew unscrewing the screws could be very painful and unpleasant to watch so he suggested that my mother and sister leave the room. I'm not sure if it was their fortitude that made them watch or that they just wanted to see me squirm, but they stayed in the room.

As Dr. Sawyer took out the first screw, it initially hurt like all hell. However, I used mom's technique of mind over matter to take the pain. Once the first screw was out, I knew the level of pain I'd have to endure for the rest of them and somehow, the removal of the other three screws didn't hurt so bad. My family although somewhat amazed at the pain I had endured surprisingly didn't seem surprised.

In the follow-up conversation with Dr. Sawyer, I found out that although I currently still had my vision, the way such doses of radiation work in your body meant that I could lose it in two days, two weeks, two months, two years, etc. This made me realize that I should just quit worrying about the operation taking my sight.

There seemed to be no negative effects from this procedure. I was even at the bar the following night and the night after that. Four days after surgery, my mother, father, and sister left for Yellowstone. Grant it, I wouldn't be riding a bike through the park this time, but riding a snow coach. The trip was amazing and I was able to show my family much of what I loved about the park.

Upon returning home, I made an effort to start regular exercise immediately. After a few preliminary hikes, I went to the Snake River Birds of Prey Conservation Area with my buddy Tim, one of the three guys who originally brought me back to reality. While lamenting the possibility of still becoming blind Tim talked to me in words that put me on track. He said, "During your first several surgeries, you had the attitude that you were going to kick this things ass, but now you're worried. What you need to do is get back that confidence, you're Tony, and now is the time to kick that tumor's ass."

Suddenly, my confidence in myself was back. I now knew that my strength and toughness could go a long way to fighting my tumors. On that day, I promised myself to get back into good shape. Now it's a long way off until I can bike to the top of Bogus Basin (the ski resort on top of the mountain above Boise), but I was going to damn well start trying. So I've been exercising as much as I can. Bike rides are becoming 15 to 20 mile rides, and I'm even riding to and from just about everywhere I need to go. Hikes are becoming longer, and next week I'm even returning to the gym.

(The portion of this article dealing with the second precept of Sioux thought regarding fortitude will be in an entry later this week.)

An Angel Spoke from Heaven

Tuesday night at the Egyptian Theater fans were blessed with Patty Griffin's first appearance in Boise. The grandeur of Boise's most historic and beautiful venue could not match the awe inspired by Griffin's voice. She sang as if inspired by the angel of heaven as her deep, introspective lyrics brought fans through the gamut of emotions. At one point she'd have you laughing, at another crying, while at others examining the entire meaning of existence.

Patty started off her singing career in Bangor, Maine where she received initial
notoriety with her classic Living with Ghosts. After her recording studio heard her demo of it, executives had her cut the album with a full back-up band. Once finished the studio execs decided that her original bare-bones version was just perfect and released the original demo.

Her next album, Flaming Red, was also recorded with a full rock band. Griffin's intimate lyrics seemed to be lost in all the sound on the album. Patty seemed a little out of place in the context her label put her in. Wisely, she moved away from that label and headed down to Austin, Texas, the Live Music Capital of the World.

She later moved onto a new label, one run by Dave Mathews, and seemed to revel in the artistic freedom she was given to decide who would record with her and what instruments would be heard on each song. Now, I'm a big fan of talented musicians playing in bands, but there are talents, such as Griffin has, that at times are best shown with a minimal use of backing music. With Griffin's near perfect voice and her simple but dead-on guitar playing, she can now decide when to have her band members come out and jam and when she'd like to sing and strum by herself. Bravo Patty for seeking a label that lets Griffin be herself.

From opening note to her last lyric, Griffin mystified the crowd. If you've ever seen how a crowd stands in awe of an amazing guitarist, you'll know how the Boise fans stood in awe of Patty. She did not disappoint any one's expectations and mixed her songs from throughout her career. Several songs came from this years release, Children Running Through. These included You'll Remember, Trapeze, Burgundy Shoes, and her tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Up to the Mountain.

Griffin also played several songs from 1000 Kisses, such as Making Pies and Tomorrow Night. She also rang in some of the old tunes such as Every Little Bit and Not Alone from Living with Ghosts. One fact is for sure, the eclectic crowd, something Boise needs more of, ate up everything Griffin laid down.

As for me, Patty Griffin is one of the best singer-songwriters I've ever seen. Each album she records is like another chapter in her life. Though she doesn't attempt to make the crowd think she's had it tough, the truthfulness of her songs about what she or others around her have endured just makes me want to hold her in my arms and caress that beautiful red hair until her burden of sorrow is lifted away by the angels who gave her that voice.

***to hear a wide variety of samples of Patty Griffin's music, click on the link to emusic.

Living up to Sitting Bull's Virtues (bravery)

As a child, I was fortunate enough to have access to my Aunt Dolores' amazing collection of books. Her room, the entire upstairs of my grandmother's house, which at one time housed seven children, seemed to overflow with books on just about every subject. Aunt Dolores' background involved helping people and always focusing on their positive aspects, rather than their weaknesses. A former history teacher who was working for Chicago Catholic Charities during my youth, I believe Dolores played a major part in guiding me towards the study of history and work in the field. That loving and determined aunt of mine also focused on making me proud of my unique characteristics, rather than focusing on the disruptiveness of my behaviors as much of my family did. She always seemed to choose the right book to peak my interest, and as a boy she had me read lots of books on cowboys and Indians.

To just about everybody in my family's surprise, I always showed more of an interest in Native Americans way of life and seemed to always want them to win their battles against the white regime. Deep in one of my mom's photo albums, there is even a picture of me in grandma's house wearing an Indian head dress. I'm not sure if it was this connection to Native American thought, or just some random part of my personality, but much of my adult life has been spent moving to less-populated locations so that I can enjoy all the nature around me. My life began in a city of more than 3 million people, now I live at the base of the foothills to the Boise Mountains in a state with slightly more than a million people.

A couple of weeks ago, I visited a friend named Chris, who has played a similar roles to my Aunt Dolores throughout my adult life. He's encouraged me to stay on top of modern music and literature and to push my physical limits in nature. Whether it was mountain biking the 25 miles of the Fisher-Williams loop or backpacking through Hell's Roaring Canyon, Chris has made me realize that this fat ass can still accomplish any physical task I set my mind to, as long as I keep trying and don't worry about failed attempts. Chris led me on my first summit of Bogus Basis on a road bike (about an 18 mile climb with roughly 4,000 ft of elevation gain). Sure he had to swoop back several times and offer me encouragement to continue, but he stayed with me and celebrated at the top of the mountain with me.

While visiting Chris, I asked if he had any good books to lend me. With all the free-time I have recovering from brain surgery after brain surgery, a good book can make a world of difference to help pass the day and to encourage self reflection. The book that he recommended was The Lance & the Shield: The Life and Times of Sitting Bull by Robert M. Utely. It discussed the four virtues of Sioux life and therefore, Sitting Bull's life. This made me ponder the job I've been doing in my life to exhibit these virtues: bravery, fortitude, generosity, and wisdom. There's no doubt that I'll never exhibit these virtues in the way that Sitting Bull did, but I thought it would be interesting to look at my accomplishments and failures for each virtue.

Bravery is a hard concept to wrap your mind around. What may seem like being brave in a particular situation to one person, may seem like foolishness to another. Being truly brave seems to require situations to present the opportunity to show disregard for yourself in order to help another or change a negative circumstance. A person can also be brave in certain situations, for example fighting to defend someone's honor, but show fear in other situations that require a different type of bravery, such as pushing one's mind to its utmost limits.

For me, I seem to exhibit bravery the most when it involves the safety of others, especially people I love. Being a big strong man, trained in the art of combat, I've had to control my urge to strike out in situations where my friends are being wronged while at the same time I've had to know when it was time to intervene. For example, while in college, my roommate, Jeff, and I were visiting some friends at Illinois State University. At the party, a brawl broke out that I wasn't directly involved in at first, at least not until I saw a huge dude strangling Jeff from behind. Instantaneously, I ran towards the two connecting with the huge dude's face with an elbow to the head. He was knocked out instantaneously, and Jeff was safe. Once he was safe, just about all of my bravery left my body when the huge dude started regaining consciousness. It was at that time that Jeff and I hopped the backyard fence and got the hell out of there. Were my actions brave of cowardly? It's hard to tell, maybe they were a little of both. Would it have been brave to stay and continue to confront the big dude or would that have just been foolish pride? I guess I'll never know.

Another incident of bravery involved my buddy John (Chris's brother) and I swimming in a river at Pedernales Falls State Park in the Texas Hill Country. The river was at flood stage as we hung out at a big rock in the middle of the river that was surrounded by rapids. After a while of being out there, three unsupervised children, the oldest who had to be around 12 and the youngest around 6, showed up to swim off of the rock. After a short while, the older boy of the group screamed that his little brother was drowning. At that moment, I immediate left the safety of the rock, swam through the rapids, and swam him back to safety, the whole time struggling against the rapids. Both John and I were amazed at how brave I had been. John, who doesn't hand out complements to just anyone frequently tells people the story of what I did with a feeling that shows how proud he is to be my friend. But did my actions really exhibit bravery or were they simply instinct?

Seems like a weird question, but on that same swimming trip, my dog, Indie, who was large and powerful, and whose father was an air-sea-rescue dog made me question my own bravery. As John and I hung out in the river, I pretended that I was having difficulty negotiating the rapids, like I might drown. At that moment, good ole' Indie sprang into action, jumping into the river and swimming towards me to offer help. As he came nearby, I grabbed hold of his collar, and Indie slowly swam my nearly 300 lb. body to the shore. I give Indie credit for being brave, but knowing his lineage, some of his actions had to be instinctual.

This physical bravery that I've shown can also be seen in a wide variety of activities that I've participated in, such as wrestling, playing rugby, mountain biking, rock climbing (a few times), and backpacking deep into the wilderness. However, there are aspects of my life that have shown cowardice. Throughout my academic career, I have always been toward the top of my class and have been encouraged to push my brain as far as I've pushed my body. It's easy to see that at some points, I've done this, especially in my professional career. Being a teacher and a textbook editor requires that you believe enough in your ability to perform such work that you know you aren't hurting students' education. I've even taken leadership roles in these positions to fight for policies and procedures that I knew were better or more justified.

At times I've allowed my fear of not measuring up to others intellectually affect major life decisions. For example, in choosing a college to attend, I had the grades and test scores to get into many excellent colleges. However, my fear of not being the big fish in the pond and of having to assume huge college loan debts led me to choose Northern Illinois University. Not that it was a bad school, Northern just wasn't the Harvard of the Midwest. Who knows how my life's opportunities could have changed if I worked hard enough to attend the best school that I could.

Another example involves my fear of challenging my mind against the best out there in law school. Throughout my undergraduate course work, I planned on attending law school after obtaining my degree. However, as the end of college I decided to give teaching a try, thus bypassing the opportunity to be a lawyer. Several years after graduation, I took the Law School Aptitude Test and did very well. My scores were good enough to get me into a ton of law schools, however, I passed up the opportunity to move to Austin, TX, and to become a textbook editor.

Do these stories show a lack of bravery in relying on my own intelligence to become the most that I could be, or do these moves just show my wide range of interests and abilities? I'm not sure, but I wish I could find out what Sitting Bull would think. I'll look at the remaining Sioux virtues of fortitude, generosity, and wisdom in my next few blogs.

SXSW

That's right music lovers, it's South by Southwest time again and if you're reading this blog, then you, like me, have missed another chance to attend the world's largest and best music festival. Now I'm not going to drone on and on about all of the amazing bands playing this years festival, Cathy will tell us about all of that when she gets home.

Those of us who've missed the festival still have a chance to hear plenty of the amazing shows from this year's SXSW. Just visit NPR's Music Section, where you'll find a bunch of shows already posted from the first two days of the festival. And some bastards think public radio isn't needed anymore.

Son Volt's The Search

It's hard for me to review the new release The Search by Alt-country legends Son Volt. There's two main reasons for this. First, Uncle Tupelo's legendary front man Jay Farrar founded Son Volt after Uncle Tupelo broke up as a result of the rift between Farrar and Tweedy. Uncle Tupelo is my favorite band of all time, and to me, nothing should have broken up a band started between two men who had so much to offer musically that they practically gave birth to a new style of music. However, they did let feelings get in the way and from words you here them say about one another in interviews, it seems like the time was right to separate and to stop letting the other one from driving them crazy.

The second reason why it's unfair for me to review Son Volt is because of their new bassist, Andrew Duplantis. He's an extraordinary bassist who I met in Austin, Texas. Besides Son Volt, he's played with the Meat Puppets/Royal Neanderthal Orchestra, the Dismukes, Buick McCain (Alejandro Escovedo's band), and even opened for Bob Mould. Andrew and his talented drummer roommate, Eric Kahn, lived in the other half of the duplex I lived in. These two men couldn't have been more committed to their craft. However, we always seemed to find time to unwind with one another and to share our love of music. Now Andrew was known for being able to lay down some serious bass, and he knew that I loved Uncle Tupelo, Son Volt, and Wilco. But at the time, I never pictured him picking up and playing with such a band because he seemed to enjoy playing much harder music. Well, he's proven me wrong, he fits in Son Volt just perfectly. Now if I can just get them to come through Boise, I'd have permagrin for a month.

The Search starts of with "Slow Hearse," which right from the start lets you know that you're into Farrar's serious, almost morose, world. He's one of America's greatest song writers, but his songs seem to reveal a heartfelt sense of loss. From there the disc moves on to "The Picture" which seems to be uncharacteristically happy for Farrar. It's opening barrage of horns and a quick beat let you know that Farrar is bordering on some uncharted territory. Next, the album turns to "Action." It's lyrics are still very serious, but it opens up with some heavy jamming, the kind that would make me think that Duplantis is smiling wide.

Son Volt seems to really open up from this point of the album on. Songs such as "Beacon Soul," "Circadian Rhythm," title track "The Search," and "Satellite" reflect the Uncle Tupelo days of Farrar, in which he feels comfortable experimenting with sounds that not only show how deep his lyrics are but how awe inspiring his music can be.

Nooooo Doc!

Life's ironies are sometimes hard to digest, especially when they deal with your actual existence. My last blog entry was entitled, "Thanks Doc." It discussed how happy I was that a neuropsychologist prescribed me playing guitar to get my brain jump started. However, not all news that doctor's have to share with you is that uplifting.

A few days ago, my radiation oncologist, Dr. Sawyer, informed me that he and Dr. Little, my brain surgeon had determined that the best way to treat the tumor on my brain's stem was with radial surgery. This procedure involves a day's worth of massive blasts of radiation to my head. Blasts from six different angels would be used to eradicate the tumor. The bad part is the treatment will most likely take my vision; has a good chance of destroying my speech perception center; and could paralyze my face. These side effects are all possible, because with such massive doses of radiation, surrounding cells will be damaged.

Since the combination of side effects is a combination that I cannot see myself living with, I had to ask the doctor what would happen if I took no action? He informed me that the tumor will take over my brain and kill me, probably within 2 to 5 years.

Not that brain tumors can ever come at a good time, but in my particular situation, I just had to say "Nooooo Doc!" because mine just couldn't have come at a worse time. First of all, I had just lost over 50 lbs and had gotten in incredible shape. Biking from Boise to Bogus Basin was no longer a problem. On long mountain bike rides I was the one hanging up front with Chris rather than being the fatass everyone waited on. I had taken the LSAT and was poised to attend law school.

That's when life handed me the ultimate bitch slap. I found out I had two tumors in my head. Had a total of 5 brain surgeries and 26 sessions of radiation. At the end of all that struggle for life, I emerged as a reborn man. My guitar playing actually became something that people like to hear. I learned some web design and was poised to start graduate school in technical communications. Then freelance writing, editing, and fact checking opportunities popped up all over the place.

Then the doctor's words slapped me back to reality. I had to choose to live life as someone other than I've been. Someone who would most likely not be able to make a significant contribution to society. Or choose to take no medical action, which would mean that I was still me, the same old Superhero Named Tony that everyone's grown to love. But I'd only be around to enjoy my friends and family for a little while.

Tough choice, ain't it?

Perhaps the most ironic part of it all is that within 12 hours of hearing this news, I received a call from an executive editor at Harcourt Achieve. Basically, she wants to hire me as a supervising editor. The company's going to fly me to Austin for the final interview with HR, which is just a formality. Supervising editor, that's just one step below executive editor, the high rung on the totem pole. Don't that fucking irony kill ya?