Last year my friend John Burland questioned my sanity when I told him of my devotion to Wings’ smash hit “Silly Love Songs.” I’ll admit that it may not be Paul McCartney’s deepest composition, but it is a finely crafted tune with different layers of pop sheen displaying the former Beatle’s knack for arranging and producing radio-friendly material that makes you feel good. Yes, the lyrics are simple and, well, silly, but McCartney wasn’t setting out to write “Yesterday.” His passion to remain a touring act meant he needed material other than Beatles songs for his audience to respond to in concert. “Silly Love Songs,” a response to his critics who assailed him for writing too many ballads (and, I assume, for not being John Lennon or George Harrison), was an enormous hit in 1976, reaching #1 on the charts. It was difficult to tune to an AM station that year and not hear the song. That’s where I first heard it.

Long before sports opinions and political blowhards took over the AM dial, music was actually played on these stations. FM was in its early, experimental stages, and it was run by longhairs ushering in much of the music we’re still subjected to daily on classic-rock stations. Meanwhile, AM stuck to safe hits, songs that weren’t too offensive or were sly enough to hide their lewdness within a sugary Top 40 sound (”Afternoon Delight” is a perfect example). During the ’70s my family took long summer vacations that had us driving to KOA Kampgrounds throughout the U.S. This was the era before cassette players, so radio — specifically, AM radio — was all we had to accompany us on our long journeys.

(more…)

Scooby-Doo, my friends.

More precisely, Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat through this 2004 masterpiece of children’s cinema trying to muster a chuckle, the laughs being few and far between, though I realize I’m not the intended audience. Moreover, I was never a huge fan of the original Hanna-Barbera cartoon or its countless incarnations, like 1979’s Scooby-Doo and Scrappy-Doo. (Worst. Idea. Ever.) For Saturday morning viewing pleasures I wanted superheroes, not goofy teenagers and a pseudo talking dog. However, my son, Jacob, fell in love with Scooby-Doo at an early age, which meant having to sit through Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed over and over (and over) again. Now, before you question the number of hours my wife and I allow our kids to watch television, I need to do some explaining.

Jacob’s cystic fibrosis breathing treatments (his “breathers,” as we call them) involve using a nebulizer machine, which blows a misted medicine into his lungs, and a device called the Vest, which wraps around his chest and is connected to two long tubes that insert into a machine. The machine pumps air into the Vest and vibrates against Jacob’s chest. This percussive treatment is done to break up any of the sticky mucus that builds up in his lungs (a result of the disease).

If you’ve checked out Jacob’s Great Strides Video, you’ll see pictures of him doing his breathers. These treatments are vital in keeping him healthy, but they’re uncomfortable and often boring. When he first did his breathers, he didn’t wear the nebulizer mask around his head, as he does in the video. Originally, Julie or I sat with him, holding the mask to his face, but as he’s gotten more independent, he doesn’t require us to hold the mask anymore. These sessions occur twice a day and last at least 20 minutes. To help keep him relaxed, we let him watch television.

(more…)

The call came in the middle of the workday, sometime after lunch. Julie was fighting back tears as she drove home from Jacob’s pediatrician’s office. What we had feared was confirmed: Jacob’s failure to thrive at one month old was because he was born with cystic fibrosis (CF). Here is the definition of CF from the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation:

Cystic fibrosis is an inherited chronic disease that affects the lungs and digestive system of about 30,000 children and adults in the United States (70,000 worldwide). A defective gene and its protein product cause the body to produce unusually thick, sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections, and obstructs the pancreas and stops natural enzymes from helping the body break down and absorb food.

We were vaguely familiar with some of the CF facts after we brought Jacob home from the UCLA medical center. One of his doctors there had mentioned, in passing, that a CF test had been done, but for some reason it hadn’t. Immediately, we did some initial research on the disease, but not too much. Our son was home and out of intensive care — that was what mattered. “Everything’s fine,” we thought. But obviously it wasn’t. When Jacob failed to gain weight and his color continued to be very pale, our pediatrician became concerned. A wonderful, caring man, he wanted to rule out CF after we mentioned what the UCLA doctor had told us when he ordered a blood test.

I should’ve been there. That’s what I was thinking as I hung up the phone. I should’ve been there with Julie and Jacob when the test results were given. But I didn’t believe it was cystic fibrosis. I was optimistic it was a virus or something easily treatable. I should’ve been there.

(more…)

In the autumn of 1981, the band Journey released the multi-platinum album Escape. At the same time, I began sixth grade, entering my second year in an “advanced study program” (ASP) which selected certain students from grades 3-6 and placed them all in one, separate pod classroom. It wasn’t intentional, but it felt like we were miles away from the rest of the student population, instead of just on the other end of the school. All of the “cool” kids — kids I used to hang around with — labeled the ASP students the “ASS” students. The summer before I placed in the program, I somehow found the courage to voice my reluctance in becoming an ASS kid. My parents, only wanting their children to have the best opportunities, put me in there anyway. Whatever my feelings about the class structure now and then, I am appreciative of one thing: It was in the ASP class that I built the foundation of my two longest lasting friendships, with Matt and Steve. (more…)

Growing up in a house filled with the sounds of John Philip Sousa and Henry Fillmore, melody and rhythm came first. As I got older and delved deeper into modern music, I gradually began to listen to the singers and their lyrics. Sitting in the basement of my parents’ house, I was swept away by the three and four minute short stories contained in popular music. It was there in the basement that I first realized some singers were doing something else with music: they were delivering the news of the day. I’ll never forget the first time I brought home a warped copy of Legend from the library. My intention was to listen to “Jammin’.” Instead, I became mesmerized by Bob Marley’s chanting. “Get up, stand up/Stand up for your rights.” Something stirred in my soul. (more…)

As many of you may know, my wife Julie and I fell in love very fast. I knew after our first date that I’d met the woman I would marry and with whom I would grow old. Mot of our friends and family embraced the news with joy. Still, there were some who questioned our sanity. I’ll never forget being told back in 1993 that two of my friends were discussing our relationship. “He thinks he knows what he’s doing,” one said, as if choosing to get married was some folly. I still don’t look at Julie and I together as a choice; I believe it was fate. It’s the only way I can explain how two people, after one month, understood that they were meant to get married, and remain married after 14 years. She is everything to me: lover, friend, support, even guardian. After reading last week’s entry about my friend Matt, Julie commented, “You know, it’s funny, because sometimes I’m still angry because he hurt you … It’s a protection thing.” How blessed am I to have a companion who looks out for me, even against someone who has passed away. I can’t imagine this life’s journey without her. She means everything to me. (more…)

Hey Matt,

I know we haven’t spoken in awhile, but you know I’m always thinking about you around this time each year. I wanted to tell you about this dream I had. I don’t remember many of my dreams, so when I do, I figure they must have some significance. But who the hell am I, Freud? You’re the philosopher, dude.

Anyway, I was snuggling Sophie into bed and drifted off to sleep. She’s been waking up in the middle of night and this has been doing a number on me. I had some shit to do late at night, so I was happy to catch a quick catnap before I “hit the old grind stone,” as my dad used to say.

You and I are reminiscing about the night we went to see Santana and Phish at Blossom back in ‘92. The night was July 31; I recall this because the next night was my first date with Julie. We drove to the concert in my Horizon and got really stoned at the show. I was so far gone that I was paranoid throughout the entire Santana set. Man, the only thing I remember about Santana was that every song ended the same. “Dun dundun Dun dundun,” you know, like the ending of “Black Magic Woman.” After the show you had to drive home. We were hungry and stopped at that Burger King near the amphitheater for some late night grub. Instead of eating in the car, we crouched down in the parking lot and devoured the burgers and fries off of the asphalt. I made a comment that we were like cavemen — hovering over our kill and feeding our faces. We laughed.

In the dream, you’re wearing blue cut off shorts and a light blue, button-down shirt. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, with a few strands of your brown, curly locks dangling in your face. You’re trying to roll another cigarette, but having a difficult time because the two of us are laughing off our asses. We laugh so hard that I double over. When I sit back up to look at you, you’re gone. (more…)

My sophomore year at Bowling Green State University, I attended a performance by an African dance troupe. I don’t recall much of that show, save for the troupe inviting the audience on stage to dance along with them during their final number. Self-conscious, I remained stuck in my seat while other free spirits joined them, undulating to the accompanying percussionists beating on the stretched skins of hand-crafted drums. To this day, a small part of me wonders what I would be like had I participated in the communal dancing. Later that night, back in my dorm room, emptiness settled in. Watching those performers connect with their heritage through an art form made me think I had no roots. I’m a white Anglo Saxon dude with German/Scottish/Irish blood in me. Though I knew that my “people” dated back to the American Revolution, I felt like a mutt with no homeland. Although I would eventually leave my room to resume a typical college existence, I couldn’t shake this feeling for years. It wouldn’t be until Julie and I dove into the madness of Los Angeles that I would come to realize that, indeed, I did have a homeland. Instead of the open plains of the African wild, my landscape was the paved, tree-lined streets of North Olmsted and the Cleveland suburbs where I grew up. And the tribal rhythms I longed to have beating inside my heart did exist. The musical foundations of my life weren’t the chants and drumming of Africans; they were the musicians and artists I heard on the radio when I was an adolescent, adopted children like Bruce Springsteen and Pat Benatar — and native sons the Michael Stanley Band.

(more…)

On a sun-drenched afternoon after a lunch break, I drove through Hollywood, aimlessly navigating Sunset Boulevard. I passed the Virgin Megastore, uninterested in the towering building with overpriced CDs. Distracting billboards screamed at me, advertising the latest blockbuster movies, perfumes, clothing lines and the current season of The Sopranos. It was 2002, and I was lost. But a beacon was calling me: a store I used to gravitate toward in the early ’90s, when I was uncertain and lonely living in Hollywood for the summer.

Tower Records. (more…)

In the world of Canadian major-league rock and roll, if Rush are the Toronto Blue Jays and April Wine are the single ‘A’ Vancouver Canadians, Triumph would be the triple ‘A’ Ottawa Lynx: Three decent musicians good enough to make it to the bigs who never put up good enough numbers to stay in the show. The musical equivalent of Crash Davis. They did have one really good season, though: the release of Allied Forces in 1981. Who couldn’t relate to the story of the girl who pulls the covers over her head in hopes that the DJ’s going to play her favorite song in “Magic Power”? I was that kid.

Yet, in ‘81, I was caught up in the Journey Escape PR. The only person I knew who owned Allied Forces was a kid named Pat Lopriore, one of the coolest, nicest kids in the school. Unfortunately, an after-school fist fight we had (which ended with me getting pantsed by some taunting kids and a humiliating, tear-filled walk home) severed any close bond the two of us might have had. Moreover, back then you lived with an album until you knew every nuance of your favorite songs. It would be a couple years before I convinced my folks to let me join the Columbia House Record Club and I began to understand that music could be a disposable commodity (because, really, who actually gets Sammy Hagar Live 1980 unless it comes free with seven other albums?). I played Escape until the record needle began to gag each time it came close to the vinyl. After that, I dove right into The Kinks’ State of Confusion. It wasn’t until the seventh grade that I began to appreciate Triumph’s formulaic mainstream rock and roll. It wasn’t “Magic Power” that I played over and over, though. It’s the song that opens side two of Allied Forces, “Fight the Good Fight,” that still affects me and makes me feel 13 again. (more…)