April 2005
Tuesday, April 26
Bring it on, Jesus!
Thursday, April 14
Saturday morning. I wake up at 2:25, fifteen minutes before the alarm is set.
I'm off to Lawrenceburg to pick up my son, at the Music City Mystique rehearsal encampment. We've got to get to UT Knoxville before nine o'clock, for him to register for and attend the drumline auditions. Lawrenceburg is an hour and a half south of Nashville. After shaving, preparing a large thermos of coffee, and taking out the trash, I pull out of the driveway at exactly three o'clock.
Somewhere between Columbia and L'burg, I encounter fog - serious, thick, pre-dawn fog, the stuff of seventy-two car pileups. I hit it rather suddenly, and visibility is maybe two and a half white lines on the road. Before long, a tractor-trailer falls in behind me. He's at a grudgingly respectful distance, but close enough to make me feel like I'm in his way. I'm angry; it is a four-lane divided highway, and he could go around me if he wanted. I'm not going any faster, damn it. I'm doing the speed limit, which fluctuates in a slightly silly fashion on this stretch of road...generally sixty-five, with scattered drops to fifty-five, fifty and sixty, which last maybe a mile before increasing again. I have to watch for the signs; the fog gives me maybe three and a half seconds to see them. I'm a stranger around here, and the last thing I need is to lose twenty minutes getting stopped by a rural sheriff's deputy working the night shift. Eventually the truck passes. Bastard.
Still holding every posted speed limit, I creep into Lawrenceburg, looking for the BP where I turn left. I find the high school from memory of the last time I dropped him off here. That was in broad daylight, but I know just where to go, winding my way around to the back of the building, and there are all the cars belonging to MCM members. I shut off the car and step out. The world is completely still and silent as I walk to the foyer entrance. The door is propped open slightly. I step in, cross to the door into the gym's upper deck, and quietly open it. Eric is supposed to have set his cell-phone alarm and be ready to go. He's asleep by the door, and as the light from the foyer hits his face, he wakes up and crawls out of his sleeping bag. I look around in the semi-darkness at the bedrolls and sleeping bodies, reflecting on just how dedicated these people are to their craft. We're out the door and into the car. I refill my coffee cup and prepare the headphones and disc player. I know, it's not cool and maybe illegal, but Eric's going back to sleep, I've got a long drive ahead and I need music.
Back through the fog, up I-65, and onto I-840. The time is five forty-five. I-840 is a new four-lane divided highway intended to loop around the outer edge of Davidson county. It is only partly complete, due to inevitable conflicts between the builders and landowners. The portion we're using was the first to be built, connecting I-40 west just north of Dickson, around to I-40 east just outside of Lebanon. Because of time, money, and a tangle of lawsuits, the north loop may or may never get built. I tend to sympathize with the landowners, but admittedly am very grateful for the section I'm on today. I estimate it will take fifty to sixty minutes less than having to drive back into Nashville, then heading east.
Into Knoxville, we find the exit, and from recent memory, know exactly where we are, arriving on time. Eric registers, and I settle in for a few hours rest.
The day is a classic, beautiful spring weather - warm, blue sky, breeze, bright green buds and young leaves everywhere. Also the occasional lovely young co-ed. I strike up a conversation with a fellow who has brought his daughter from Ohio, for flute auditions. He's a software programmer, formerly IBM, now AT&T. He tells me about training his Indian replacement at IBM, and describes his various skills. I tell him about my audio adventures, and we find some common ground in programming languages. Talking to him, I imagine someone talking to me who dabbles in music programming in their spare time.
Later, I walk the three blocks to the strip where all the food and student amenity establishments are, comfortably knowing exactly where I am, from our previous trip up here. Jersey Mike's and Smoothie King - major Yum. I read some of the local Saturday morning newspaper. A young man of twenty-two, accused of a shooting death in a drug deal gone awry. (Over a pound of pot. For my generation, pot was a peaceful pursuit, and engendered community and brotherhood and all that crap. What the hell happened?) Letters to the editor: Why can't they plan new roadways/mass transit correctly, how come nobody steps up to save the historical blah blah, if only they would do this, they should do that, and so on. I could be anywhere.
I recline the seat and close my eyes. But my body doesn't want to actually sleep, thanks to caffiene overload, the random drum corps cadences emanating from behind, and an SEC-NCAA track competition across the road. It's okay. I manage to calm down and get some rest.
Later, I arise and walk to the open door to the band building, listening to the guest instructor as he guides them through some drills. They break for lunch, and we walk over to the strip. Over lunch, Eric tells me that some Mystique members have given me the Awesome Dad of the Year award for making this drive today. "Wow, your dad's fuckin' awesome..." Such praise from those people is fucking awesome to me.
Back to auditions, and around three-thirty, Eric emerges from the building, saying they're done. Great - a half hour earlier than expected. We make phone calls, gas the car, fill the thermos with dark-roast, and head out. He feels quite good about the day, confident in his skills. I'm glad, and happy for him. I tell him that even if he doesn't make it in, he damn well tried.
Mystique is going to perform tonight, for any parents that can show up, and for the locals curious about this performance group that's commandeered their high school gym every weekend since January. We think we'll just make it in time for Eric to participate, and thanks to I-840 and excessive speed when possible, we arrive in Lawrenceburg with a good thirty minutes to spare. I decide to stay, as this will be my last opportunity to see and hear their knockout show. This ends up being a good move, for that reason and the fact that I downed the last of the dark-roast on the way in and feel like my heart might explode. I'm proud of my connection to the band as I watch the locals give a loud standing ovation.
It's nighttime now, and I have to drive back to Nashville. No longer worried about staying awake, I'm excited enough to put on some lively music - a lifetime favorite from when I was my son's age: Todd Rundgren's Utopia, the first Utopia album. Haven't listened to it in years. I crank it up loud, happily singing all the parts. I still know them.
Arriving safely back in Nashville, I pull up to the house/Mom's former house/my house, expecting to find it empty. Pattie, Ellen, and Jana are still there, going through Mom's "bling." Each assumes ownership of whatever appeals, no arguing or resentment. Lovely.
I shower, pour a beer, say goodnight to everybody, and put on Bitches Brew (having treated myself to its purchase the day before). It takes about an hour for my heart to slow down, and for me to become drowsy. The beer tastes good. I feel awesome.
Tuesday, April 5
Living Will
(passed to me via email, epithets enhanced for emphasis)
I, _________________________ , being of sound mind and body, do not wish to be kept alive indefinitely by artificial means.
Under no circumstances should my fate be put in the hands of sick-minded politicians who couldn't pass ninth-grade biology if their lives depended on it.
If a reasonable amount of time passes and I fail to sit up and ask for a cold beer, it should be presumed that I won't ever get better. When such a determination is reached, I hereby instruct my spouse, children and attending physicians to pull the plug, reel in the tubes and call it a day. Under no circumstances shall the members of the Legislature enact a special law to keep me on life-support machinery. It is my wish that these disgraces to our nation mind their own damn business, and pay attention instead to the health, education and future of the millions of Americans who aren't in a permanent coma.
Under no circumstances shall any politicians butt in to this case. I don't care how many fundamentalist votes they're trying to scrounge for their run for the presidency in 2008, it is my wish that they play politics with someone else's life and leave me alone to die in peace.
I couldn't care less if a hundred religious zealots send e-mails to legislators in which they pretend to care about me. I don't know these people, and I certainly haven't authorized them to preach and crusade on my behalf. They should mind their own damn business.
If any of my family goes against my wishes and turns my case into a political cause, I hereby promise to come back from the grave and make his or her existence a living hell.
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