Burgundy

Stumbled my way back
To the Royal Saint Charles Hotel
Found out the fast way
Those hurricanes can feel like hell

We didn't know it then
Or maybe way deep down we did
Those free-of-care days of life
Were drawing to an end

Took shelter from the rain
In a dive down on Burgundy
Can't recall the barmaid's name
But I asked her to marry me

Kept on slidin’ tokens
In some casino on Canal
Until one more spin
Turned into 4 a.m. somehow

Gassed up in the morning
Daylight making my head scream
Quart of oil, halfway home
In that faded red, old four-speed

That crescent city left me
Broker than I’ve rarely been
But no one reminisces
On money they didn’t spend

Well they tore down the Charles
And tokens are obsolete
But I like to believe
Tonight down on Burgundy

There's a dive bar on a corner
With a drop-dead Delta queen
Serving shooters and smilin’ “maybe”
To a boy drunk as me

The year I almost died

A year ago today I was in the hospital.  It was day two of my three-day, three-night stay in a facility I gave 3 and a half stars to on TripAdvisor.  Service was outstanding, a solid 5.  Amenities were kinda lacking.  I mean, other than the medicines and equipment that likely saved my life.  So a 3.5.  Food and snacks?  I'd strongly recommend ordering in.

I had been home alone on Friday afternoon.  Mrs. Bone had taken the kids and gone to splitsville, er, Louisville.  (She came back... eventually.)  I was supposed to go but had been having stomach problems all week, and it had gotten worse.  

I figured I was badly dehydrated from my many toilet treks and was feeling weaker by the hour.  Mrs. Bone (and others) strongly suggested I should go to the walk-in clinic.  (The nearest hospital is 22 miles away, because you know, America!)

But, as has been rumored before, I am a man.  As a whole, our kind is not particularly fond of going to medical establishments.  Hospitals, doctors, dentists, proctologists... you get my drift.  We prefer to think we are mostly invincible.  Unless we have that plague known as the common cold.  Then?  We are at death's door.  Besides, if they don't check you for anything, they won't find anything, amirite?

So I was thinking I'd stay home and if it wasn't better by the morning, get up and go see someone then.

I really don't know what made me get up and go, other than Mrs. Bone's constant, um, encouragements.  There was a point, I think, when I realized I was feeling so weak I wasn't sure I could drive myself to the clinic.  And if it was that bad tonight, what if it got worse...

The clinic was not busy, thankfully.  I don't remember what they checked first.  I think my heart rate was 119.  And then I just remember hearing my blood pressure reading, and none of the numbers were triple digits.  Something like 92 over 52, maybe?  That kinda scared me.  I mean, normally I run hot... 135/95 range.  I'm a boiling kettle.  A ticking time bomb, some might say.

The early discussion was that the doctor could give me something for nausea, I could go home and hydrate and see if it was better by morning, or I could drive to the ER and they'd probably give me an IV.

Then my blood work came back.

There's a look doctors get when something is wrong.  Perhaps you've seen it, perhaps not.  But when you see it, you also immediately know something is wrong.

Now I could regale you with tales of astronomical white blood cell counts and bilirubin five times its normal level.  And who knows what happened to my lymphocytes???  But hopefully... (hopefully?), there'll be time for plenty of those as I amble through these golden years.  

I think I can sum up what was going on by slightly altering the lyrics to one of the great songs of all-time, the magnum opus, if you will, of Donald McLean III.  

Here goes.  

It appeared some of the organs I had admired the most -- my liver, kidneys, and lungs (the both?) -- had caught the last train for the coast.

I just remember the words, "You need to get to a hospital.  We are calling for an ambulance now."

I did talk them down to letting me go if I had someone who could pick me up.  Who wants to pay those exorbitant ambulance rates?  But I was not to drive there.  I thought about Ubering, but then I might get murdered.  Also, I don't have the app.  Mrs. Bone offered to turn around and come home, but I told her I was fine.  Besides, it wasn't like I had a cold or something.

So I signed some refusal of care document stating I had declined an ambulance ride (at just $900 per mile, I might add!).  Mrs. Bone got in touch with one of her friends to drive me to the hospital.  I was able to drive myself home from the clinic.  I mean, what were they gonna do?  I had signed the NDA.  DNR.  Whatever it was called.  They can't just keep me there!  This isn't Nazi Germany.... well... not yet anyway.

The ER also was not busy.  (Must not be a lot of common colds going around, I thought to myself.)  I was hooked up to an IV and put on oxygen.  Then after a couple of hours I was informed I would not be returning home that evening, and probably not for a few days.  

I was septic.  

Never been septic before.  I'd been allergic.  Rheumatic.  Arthritic.  I'd been called toxic by more than one female.  But never septic.  I didn't grasp the severity at first.

Then you hear phrases like, "Your organs are shutting down."  It starts to sink in pretty fast after that.  Like really organs?  How about a heads up next time, guys?

I asked the doctor, "How serious is this?"  Her response: "Let's just say it's a good thing you came in tonight."  

Yes.  Let's.

So I was admitted to a room, where I would spend the next three nights.  My mother and fave aunt had come to offer their support.  A mother should never have to see her son in this situation.

Anyhow, three different antibiotics and lots of fluid later, I was released.  Mrs. Bone made it back by Sunday.  She'll have to wait a little longer to collect on that $2,000 life insurance policy.

The good news?  I never had to have a catheter!  I will drink whatever you bring me, I told them.  Pedialyte.  Buttermilk.  Horse urine.  Whatever!

I was released on a Monday.  Out of work for a week.  But can we look at the big picture?

Still catheter free since '83!  

(Proceeds to do Cabbage Patch dance, pulls muscle in back.)

Brain storm

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Fevered nights I couldn't get any air
And fits of fright, I swear, I was certain I would die

I still feel the guilt
Of the damage I did do
And there's no reason, only excuse
Blame placed on me, I could never deny

The mood swings have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more ripples than volcanoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

I'm better now
But am I really my true self
I beat that question to a long slow death
Still no answer can I ascertain

I still feel ashamed
For being on prescribed drugs
Cried “I’m so sorry” to Heaven above
Too weak to handle the chemicals in my own brain

The fits of terror have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more breezes than tornadoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

No more mean reds, jealous greens
Or the feeling of doom over the smallest of things
The pills keep me from getting too low
But now and then I miss the highs

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Panicked nights spent fighting for air
And times, I swear, you could not convince me
I was not about
                         to
                             die

That first season

It is a Tuesday evening in February in this contented little town.  Inside a well-worn gymnasium, the Heat of the co-ed 6-and-under basketball league have fallen behind early, four to zero, in their final game of the season.

"Could be a long game," I remarked to Mrs. Bone.  After all, we had seen these types of starts before, such as in the devastating twenty-four to zero loss to the Bulls -- a team which, by the way, sported a couple of "6-year-olds" -- I use that description loosely -- who already at like four-foot-ten are probably destined for the NBA.  Or at least community college.

Then something remarkable happened.  You made a basket.  Later, a free throw.  Then early in the second period, another basket.  The Heat were ahead five to four.  And the gangly kid with the hair I used to have and the deep-set eyes I still do had scored all of his team's points.

The Heat would go on to win 15 to 11, finishing the season with a record of six wins and four losses, good for a tie for fourth place in the league.  But when I think about that first season, it's not the wins and losses I'll remember.

Instead, I'll think about how far you came. 

From the shy kid who I wasn't sure would ever want to play organized sports, to one who--even before we left the court after the game--was excitedly saying, "Momma, you have to sign me up again next year!"

From the kid who was reluctant to shoot and always looking to pass, whose first basket of the season was a long one from near the 3-point-line that took everyone by surprise--not just that it had gone in, but that you had shot the ball at all--to the one yelling, "I'm open!" and shooting at most every opportunity.

From the kid I was teaching in November you had to dribble and couldn't just run with the basketball, to the one who practiced out in the driveway almost every day, and by that last game was directing his teammates where they needed to be on defense.

But hey, you're not the only one who accomplished something this season. Your little sister successfully created the as of yet unchartered Bleacher Barbies Social Club, which by the end of the season had grown to a membership of 4 to 5 younger siblings playing with sundry Barbies in the stands, one hundred percent oblivious to anything going on on the basketball court.

And me?

Well, I had "progressed" from a dad who began the season saying I just wanted you to have fun and didn't understand all these parents who get so upset over children's sports, to one who was sitting in the stands during that final game, continually making the traveling gesture to the official.  An official, I might add, who was obviously was unfamiliar with that basic rule.

"They're six!" Mrs. Bone scolded.

Hearkening back to the 4-foot-10 goliaths we had succumbed to earlier in the season, I thought to myself, "...but are they?"

alice

Alice
Are you smiling in some surf somewhere
With sun shimmer off your hair
I can see it when I close my eyes

Alice
Are you still there in Somerset
Or did you finally move north and west
I must have wondered ten thousand times

Alice
Did you hold onto your dreams
Or did you let them die like me
And forget we only get one life

Alice
Did you change the world for the good
Like I was always so sure you would
Or decide it wasn't worth the fight

Alice
I hope your life turned out quite fair
I can feel you in this November air
Are you singing "...For a Winter's Night"

Alice
I hope you're smiling in some surf somewhere
With sun shimmer off your hair
And I'll see you when I close my eyes

A love letter to you, at seven

 "You're gonna make a great dad someday."

That sentiment was expressed numerous times to me throughout my prodigiously extended bachelorhood. I'm not sure why.  What did they see in me?  Was it my mind-of-a-12-year-old sense of humor?  My affinity for Alan Thicke as TV-dad Doctor Jason Seaver?  The fact I was still playing video games well into my forties?  That I got/get along far better with kids and animals than I did/do any adult?

Yeah, probably the Alan Thicke thing.

Truth is, they couldn't know.  I sure didn't.  I still don't.

But what I can say is that from day one -- like literally, your first day off the big Umbi -- the moment you peed in my face the very first time I changed your diaper, I have loved you.  Before then even, before we even knew if you'd be a boy or girl.  Maybe even before you existed if that is possible.

I have loved you the very best I know how, like I had never loved a thing or person before.  Yes, Sunshine came close.  But I don't have to worry about her inheriting my introversion, crippling anxiety, or Peter Pan syndrome.  Explain to her why she has to do lockdown drills at school.  Or worry about her not making friends with other cats.

Is she eating too many Pop Tarts?  Why have I still not signed her up for swim lessons?  Am I spending too much time with her?  Not enough time?  Am I pushing her too hard in her in her first year playing organized basketball?  (I use the word "organized" very loosely.)  Or am I not pushing hard enough?

And I don't have to worry about some teacher putting her on the wrong bus on the first day of school!

It was the first time you ever rode a bus, when you weren't even supposed to ride the bus at all.  Your mother called me in a panic saying, "They've lost Luke!" after your teacher said she mistakenly put you on the bus.  She then rushed back home hoping to get there before the bus did and minimize the damage, only to have that bus driver stop and tell her you weren't on his bus -- the bus driver who knew who you were even though you had never ridden a bus because of the countless times you'd stand out in the yard and wave as the bus went by in the mornings.  I left work immediately, rushing home and driving around town to try and find you to no avail.  Your mom called the school and was told you were safe but they couldn't drop you off until the end of the route!

Deep breath.  

(Apparently I should have scheduled a therapy session for this.)

I won't ever forget seeing you stepping off that bus, a full hour after you should have been home, doing everything your six-year-old little self possibly could to hold it together.  I walked you inside.  You went straight to your bedroom and locked the door.  And I cannot explain the godawful feelings I felt, knowing the whole time I couldn't begin to know how you felt.

If you never ride a bus again, I will understand.

I suppose some of this parenting thing is instinctive.  God-given.  A lot is probably learned from your own parents, some by watching other parents.  What to do, and sometimes it seems to me even more commonly, what not to do.  But way too much of it (for my worrisome heart) is trial and error.  

One day, perhaps you will read or learn something about the pandemic of 2020.  Assuming, that is, all the books have not been burned by then.  (If you're reading this in 2040, just Google "DeSantis.")  There was no playbook for parenting through that.  Your Mom and I tried to make the best decisions we could based on the information we had and what your doctors told us.

Sometimes that is all you can do.  

This was supposed to be a post about you.  About you turning seven.  About your recent and unforced (I swear!) love of football, and how every day when we get home we rush outside to use up the waning moments of daylight practicing on the football field we lined out of marking paint in the backyard.  

About how you watch entire Bama games with me, your many questions interspersed with your ever-so-excited commentary, such as:  "Ooo, Daddy!  A false start!"  Or "Ooo, he just punted it!"  Or my favorite, the unprompted, "Go!  Go!  Go!  Yeaaaah!!" whenever Alabama makes a big play.

About how when I am mowing the yard, you are walking along right behind me pushing your toy mower, sometimes even carrying a pair of scissors with you so that you can cut some blades of grass for real because Dad was unable to find or build a mower that would actually cut without significantly endangering your appendages.

About your air traffic controller Halloween costume and how you have to "direct" us out of the driveway anytime we go somewhere now, always ending by coming up to the driver's window and saying, "I'm gonna hop in now" before sauntering around and climbing into your booster seat.  As if we thought you were just gonna chill at the house by yourself.

About what an awesome big brother you are to Harper.  How you walked over to her and leaned your head over to give her a "hug" the very first time you met her, and how that is still how you give hugs today -- leaning in, very little arms involved.

About how she can hit you or take something away from you, but as soon as I get on to her, you suddenly turn into her high-priced defense attorney, whispering, "Daddy, maybe we don't have to take away all her dolls.  Maybe we can just take away one... for one hour."  (Insert facepalm emoji.)

Truth is, buddy, if I am at all a decent dad, it is because you make it so easy.  You are kind, respectful, funny, and way too smart for my own good.

I'm not sure there are words able to convey the pure joy you bring into our lives every single day.  But I hope they can at least convey some of the love I feel for you.

So I'm writing them down, so that I won't forget.  And maybe even so you will find these pages some faraway day and be able to smile as you read about some of these storybook moments.

And don't worry, I'll fill you in all about Alan Thicke someday.  Probably after you finish listening to the One Thousand Selected Songs You Should Know playlist which I will give you when you turn seventeen.  And we have re-watched every one of Alabama's national championship victories.

I love you, Lukie.  Looking forward to practice this afternoon.

Oh, and by the way, I have a feeling you're gonna be an amazing dad someday.

Love, 

Daddy

Man disillusioned to find out not everything about stripper is real

 (Courtesy of fakeonion.net)

Anderson, IN ~ A 43-year-old Indiana man says he is now "questioning everything" after finding out his favorite stripper, K8ie Texxass, has been using a stage name.  Danny Money, who says he is a risk management analyst from nearby Indianapolis, has been coming to The Pole Barn gentleman's club for the better part of two decades.

"I've never had anything like this happen," a still shaken Money said before rattling off a list of his previous favorites.  "I mean, Honey Wails, Misty Reign, Lauren Boobert -- they were real.  Nothing about them was fake.  You felt like you knew these girls.  You became friends with them.  At least until they graduated college or... got remarried."

Money reportedly made the discovery when the stripper's ID fell out of her purse.  "Yeah, it just fell right out!  I definitely wasn't looking through her purse or anything."

When asked if the exotic spelling of the name didn't give him pause, Money shrugged, "I figured it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy or something."

Now he knows "K8ie Texxass" is really Brooke Delashaw.  "And she ain't even from Texas," complained Money. "She's from flippin' Muncie!"

When reached for comment, Ms. Delashaw said she no longer works for the club, stating she quit due to "that creepy guy who kept telling me he was Eddie Money's brother and he wanted to take me home tonight.  Is that supposed to impress me?  Who the heck is Eddie Money"!

Money later told us he was unsure if he'd even continue coming to the club every Thursday night.  However, it appears he may have just been letting off a little steam, as a witness claims to have seen him the very next week at the nearby A&W, getting change for a twenty.  

Meantime, another dancer at The Pole Barn, Jill Lishous, reports that Money had only very recently started casting suspicious glances in her direction.

Editor's Note: After a quick search of credit card receipts and social media accounts, it was determined that Danny Money's real name is Edward Quattlebaum.  He is a painter apprentice, from Markleville,

alison's house

Used to play cards at Alison's house late at nights
Never felt like I was missing out on the city lights
'Cause her innocence was pure
And her brown eyes seemed a cure
For anything that was ailing me or anything that might

We were young and we were free
It was nineteen ninety-three
And I's always told the years will go
So much faster than you can believe

But I did not believe...

Used to drive by Alison's house to see if she's home
Sometimes I'd stop and see her, sometimes I'd drive on
'Cause when you're young and when you're not
Always don't know what you got
Until someday you're years away and she's all gone

We were young and we were free
It was nineteen ninety-three
And I's always told the years will go
So much faster than you can believe

I'm starting to believe...

I drove out by Alison's house last Saturday
Don't think I'd been past it since her momma passed away
It looks just like it did then
And as the shivers flew down my skin
I wished to God I could stop and see her one more time again

We were young and we were free
It was nineteen ninety-three
And I's always told the years will go
So much faster than you can believe

It's still so hard to believe...