Harleys, Cars, Girls & Guitars

The Legendary Myrna Thomas… Five Years Gone

Five years ago today, Myrna was called to the next life. I try not to dwell on those days when she was sick and dying.

I remember her alive, beautiful and radiant. Myrna was such a stunning woman.  The most penetrating intellect I’ve ever met.  So deeply spiritual.  And, of course, the most powerful sex bomb God ever created.

Today, the prophetic words of “Know You Rider” linger on:

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Know you rider
You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.
You’re going to miss your mama
Rolling in your arms

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Know You Rider

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God, do I miss you, honey.

I’ll stop and pray for her tonight at five minutes to midnight. She will be with me forever. Thank you, God, for sending Myrna to me.

Life in the Alzheimer’s Ward

This might strike you as unlikely, even disrespectful… but… Alzheimer’s and dementia patients are fun.

We call them “residents,” not patients. When I talked with my old friend, Peter, he seemed surprised that I’m having a good time with the residents.

“It’s different than it was with my father,” I said. “I don’t have any emotional attachment to them.”

Sure, some parts of the job are difficult and unpleasant. Especially the stink. The residents are never really clean. Night sweats are an unfortunate reality of Alzheimer’s. So, the residents are pretty funky when they get up in the morning.

The stench of piss and shit never goes away. I’ve already gotten used to that. The chemical odors are worse. Nasty chemical disinfectants are used to wash the floors. And, the hand wash solutions! More astringent chemicals. By the end of my shift, I reek.

As soon as I get home, I toss the scrubs in the washer and take a shower.

So, what’s the fun part? That would be the interaction with the residents. They’ve returned to childhood and dependence. In the same way that raising children is a load of laughs, caring for the residents is constant comedy and drama.

Although they’ve lost their ability to function in the adult world, their personalities are intact. Stacked up 40 to a ward, the residents have been thrust back into a world that is part elementary school and part playground sandbox. Residents make friends and enemies. They form cliques. They play tricky games with their caretakers.

Caring for them forces me to be cheerful. You’ve got to smile at them. Hell, you’d have to be a hard hearted son of a bitch not to smile at them. Suffering with so many physical losses and depression, the residents need relentlessly cheerful care.

We play with the residents. They are past their days of labor (although they resist accepting that). Nothing is demanded of them except that they sleep, eat, shit, piss and sleep some more. Like schoolchildren, they play with jigsaw puzzles and play schoolyard games.

So, surprisingly, my shifts in the Alzheimer’s ward are quite pleasant. We laugh with the residents over their disappearing abilities. We are, as the Karaoke Queen says, “all headed in that direction.”

Benefit for Mike Esposito at Alchemy

Big Joe and I stopped by the new club in Woodstock, Alchemy, out by the The Bear restaurant on Saturday nighty. They were holding a benefit for my old friend, Mike Esposito.

That’s Mike (on the left) with Chris Zaloom. Mike’s been a good friend for over 30 years. He’s the official Woodstock bass player. Years ago he was a member of The Blues Magoos. He’s also a talented cartoonist and artist. I’ve been sitting down with Mike for a cup of coffee in whatever was the currently fashionable shop in town as long as I’ve been in Woodstock.

I ran into my old friend, Linda, too. It’s been a long time.

“Where’s your little friend?” she asked me.

I had to tell Linda that Myrna died five years ago. I still hate telling people that she is gone. Linda was one of the few people in Woodstock who saw that intense fire, beauty and passion in Myrna. I gave her my weblog address and I hope she visits. Linda, if you do, read my eulogy for Myrna. If you want to see Myrna at her absolutely stunning full flowering, watch this video. I wrote this song to sing at Myrna’s funeral, and later this song to try to describe her. This set of pictures was the last sitting with a pro that we did.

I snapped this picture of Mike and Jean. I really feel for Jean now. She lost her husband, Artie, oh so many years before I lost Myrna. I understand now what she’s going through.

I spent quite a bit of time talking with Linda about Myrna. The pain of losing my wife never goes away. It is just something I put aside in order to get through the day.  I have to live on this earth for a while longer before we are together again. Oh, and Linda, here’s a picture of our headstone in Salem, Oregon.

It won’t be, too long, Myrna, before we are together again. Tuesday will be the fifth anniversary of Myrna’s death.

Report from the Trenches

I passed my CPR certification today. That was part of the EMS course for the Woodstock Rescue Squad. I have to be certified for CPR and first aid to become eligible for the state LPN exam.

I’m in the midst of a two week on the job training session for my CNA job. What a struggle. I don’t learn and adapt as quickly as I did years ago.

My physical and psychological capabilities have declined steeply since Myrna’s death, almost five years ago. Myrna’s death was a ferocious beating. The beating accelerated the decline. I’m wondering whether my abilities will rebound somewhat as I get farther away from that beating.

The nursing profession is a field of land mines for the male practitioner. Nursing homes are full of elderly women (outnumbering men by 10 to 1) who have had no sex life for years. They are nearly or completely mentally incompetent. And, because they are weak and confused, they are terrified of being attacked and/or abused.

What a mess this creates for the male CNA or nurse! I’ve been warned by male co-workers to cover my ass in myriad ways. Keep the door shut when caring for the patient, lest your actions be misinterpreted by somebody passing by the room. Don’t be too demonstrative in giving affection to a suffering patient, because this might be misunderstood.

The job of a CNA is to change the diapers and wash the asses of elderly men and women.  The patients, understandably, despise this humiliation.  When it comes to patients who really fight back and cuss when the CNA changes their diapers, the only protection against accusations of abuse is to always have two CNAs do the job.

Accusations of physical and sexual abuse against the male CNA or nurse are inevitable. Although I understand this is just part of the job, I have no idea how I’ll respond psychologically and emotionally when it happens.

I stopped by a security firm for fingerprinting after work today. Screening for a criminal record is part of the employment process.

I’m still working at the multimedia trade, but that is beginning to recede into the background.

Happy Birthday, Dad! My Old Man Said...

Happy Birthday, Dad! I love you!

Dad’s been gone for over a decade. I wrote “My Old Man Said” over 20 years ago. God knows, my life would have been so much better if only I had listened to what my old man said.

Seems like yesterday that Dad was strapping on his catcher’s mitt and working out with me in the back yard.

My Old Man Said

I miss you, Dad. Won’t be long until I’m with you again. We’ll strap on the gloves and play catch. Won’t that be fine?

All Things Must Pass

Sadly, Michael Blowhard has announced that he’s retiring from blogging over at 2Blowhards.

I have no idea why Michael continues to employ this pseudonym. I think that he originally used it to provide cover at his old job at a liberal magazine. The 2Blowhards site was one of the first to punch a hole in the thought police tactics known as “political correctness.”

Michael was a pioneer of the blogging scene. And, he is just a good, easy to like, generous man. He has a remarkable talent for judging what will excite and interest people. The 2Blowhards site became one of the best sites for honest political discussion under his direction. Michael plugged the work of every artist who frequented his site, including me, which I appreciated.

I began blogging to try to find something... anything... to help me through Myrna’s death.  This says everything about Michael.  He got in touch with me and took me out to lunch, as much to provide some compassionate help to a stranger in distress as for any other reason.

I am very sad to see him depart the scene. I feel like I’m losing a good friend. I hope that life confers only good things on my old friend, Michael Blowhard.  Michael, I hope you know how much that act of kindness meant to me.  When can I return the favor?  Let’s do lunch.

Another artistic and political icon just departed the scene… Mary Travers of Peter, Paul & Mary. I’ll let others talk about whatever they find positive in her life.

Travers was one of the old hard line commie folk singers, and a member of good standing in Pete Seeger’s commie cell. She was one of the Woodstock crazies. Seeger and his followers were propagandists for the Soviet Union and admirers of Uncle Joe Stalin. Until well into the 70s, when the genocidal reality of Soviet communism just could no longer be explained away, the Woodstock commies would not repent. In fact, they still haven’t.

One of my favorite political commentators, Mark Steyn, had this to say about the folkie/propaganda classic “If I Had Hammer.” Hammers were damned hard to find in the old Soviet Union. Here in the wicked, capitalist U.S., any schmuck can take a trip down to Home Depot and buy as many hammers as he wants, dirt cheap. Aisle 16.

I have a hard time separating Mary Travers from her crazy politics. Sure, Peter, Paul & Mary recorded some nice songs. I’m sure her death is hard on her friends and associates. Only God can judge what she did in this life.

Follow the Money… to Healthcare

The money is all in healthcare. Every other sector of the U.S. economy is in trouble or dying. The only growth is in healthcare.

Our population is becoming geriatric. As white American women become ever more reluctant to have babies, the population is also becoming more black and Hispanic.

So, the Democratic Party’s obsession with healthcare isn’t entirely about compassion and social justice. In fact, I think those are minor concerns. What’s really important here is getting your hands on the money. The winner in the battle to control the healthcare industry gains control of immense political power.

I don’t worry too much about large scale political issues. But, I am trying to figure out how to maintain a decent income into old age. So, I’m also headed toward the money. I’ve just landed my first job in healthcare, a part time job as a CNA at a Catholic nursing home. I’m also attracted to the work because I can remain useful and help other people for as long as I am physically able.

The work is tough and dirty. The pay is terrible.  I’m not going to do it for much longer than a year or two, when I’ll hopefully graduate to an LPN job that pays twice as much... and doesn’t require so much heavy lifting.  (I start next Monday.  I’ll be working out diligently to get ready for the physical labor.)

Inadvertenly, I’ve become a member of a union, SEIU, the Service Workers International Union. SEIU isn’t shy about its political opinions. In the welcome pack that I received at orientation, they solicited contributions to support lobbying for President Obama’s healthcare legislation. I declined, not out of hostility, but because I don’t yet have a clue what they plan to do with the money.

I’m definitely taking the “if you can’t beat them, join them” route. After three months, I’ll get my health insurance through the union. That’ll be a big improvement. I’m not running the world. I’m just trying to get along. Right now, there’s no place to go except to the healthcare industry. My multimedia career is petering out because age discrimination is making it impossible for me to find work.

Myrna, the Union Activist

In her twenties, Myrna worked summers in the fish canneries in Alaska. She was always looking for action, and always finding it. Drama and, often, violence followed her throughout her life.

I’m insulating my attic. That means that I have to dig through all the boxes of memorabilia that Myrna collected. Most of it will have to be thrown away. I pulled out a union campaign book from one of her boxes of papers, and discovered the above picture of Myrna when she was 27, running for Union Trustee for the International Longshore and Warehouse Union (ILWU)

The workforce in the canneries was dominated by Filipinos. The unions were on the wrong side of the Marcos gang. In 1981, just a year before Myrna ran for Union Trustee, “… Silme Domingo and Gene Viernes, Secretary Treasurer and Dispatcher of the Alaska Cannery Workers Union- Local 37, International Longshoremen’s and Warehousemen’s Union (ILWU), were gunned down in broad daylight at their Pioneer Square union hall.”

Ultimately, the Marcos regime was found liable for these murders.

Myrna lived in a very dark world in those years. She was trying to escape the world of the Filipino gangs. For most of that decade of her life, she lived in Seattle, in the hope that leaving her home town of Portland would distance her from the violence and craziness of gang life. She did not know exactly what kept her locked in that world, and she was trying everything she could imagine to fight her way out.

She returned to Seattle after the canning season.  Although she was warned by the Marcos gangs that she would be severely punished if she continue to be involved in the union and anti-Marcos demonstrations, Myrna refused to quit.  She was attacked in her apartment by the gang, savagely beaten and raped.

Myrna was absolutely fearless. She would often tell me:

“What can anybody do to me that hasn’t already been done? The worst has already been done to me.”

Myrna was an incredible storyteller. And her incredible stories were true.

She’s been gone for five years. I’ll see her again one day.

Anti-Obama Care Protest in Kingston

The Karaoke Queen won’t return from the Philippines until next weekend, so I’m on my own. I drove over to the mall in Kingston to shop for groceries yesterday and encountered this protest on Route 9W.

I’d guess about 50 people lined the street with their signs. Motorists honked their horns as they drove by to signal approval.

The yellow flags both read “Don’t Tread on Me,” and the sign proclaims “Anti-Socialist Family.” I like the guy who brought along a lawn chair.

A similar number of protesters in favor of an issue that the Woodstock Times supports would feature a front page story. Don’t bet on seeing any coverage of this event in the Times.

Woodstock Farm Festival

Any proposed new activity in Woodstock will be met with fierce political opposition. Somehow, the Wednesday weekly farm market slipped by the anti-whatever-it-is crowd, and has been doing business for several months.

We have crossing guards to help folks across the street to the farm market. You might think that Woodstock is free and easy. No. We are obsessed with rules in Woodstock. The fight over whether the farm market could take place featured two strangely opposed groups: (1) the keep everybody out of Woodstock crowd versus (2) the buy your food local crowd. Thus, we endured an unusual controversy: two different Save the World groups squaring off against one another.

The keep everybody out faction hates any event or business that brings traffic and tourists to Woodstock. Their latest argument is that nothing should increase the “carbon footprint” of our fair town. This faction has always had a following in Woodstock. The fabled Woodstock Festival was driven out of town and down to Bethel by this group. Back then, the argument was that nothing should be allowed to detract from the peace and quiet of our village.

Facing off against the keep everybody out faction was the “eat local” contingent. Now, I eat as local as you can get. I grow a big garden every year. No doubt about it, the closer your garden is to your kitchen the better. I’m just not very interested in crusades of any kind. In my plus 30 years in Woodstock, I’ve endured thousands of crusades. The eat local crowd believes that the answer to global warming is to buy that which is produced nearby. And, so the farmer’s market was their crusade.

The two groups duked it out over the farmer’s market, and somehow a compromise was reached. I didn’t pay enough attention to know how. So, Woodstockers can now buy incredibly overpriced produce, bread and free range meat, at least during the warm weather months, at our once weekly market. “Homegrown Blueberries - $4.00” a pint! The Karaoke Queen would bust a gut over that. Good thing she’s over in the Philippines for a couple of weeks. So, I guess that the surplus carbon produced by all those cars driving into town for the market is offset by all that carbon that is not created by folks taking a trip to Kingston to buy their groceries at Shop-Rite.  It’s a wash.

I had to take a pee while I was in town, so I dropped by the town’s public toilet. I was astonished by this piece of graffiti next to the urinal. How can this be?  In Woodstock! I thought that we were all firmly in line with our Dear Leader. “Fascist” is misspelled. We must have a contingent of anarchists in residence.  People who insist on correct spelling are probably fascists.