September 2, 2019 - "Putting It Out There"

I've been kind of slow to talk about this, for a variety of reasons but I thought I'd outline what's been happening to me since I promised more than a few people that I would do so.

Back in March, due largely--I believe--to my immune system being compromised, I fell victim to herpes zoster (Shingles) for the better part of six weeks. The pain was horrendous, and the medication I took was very strong, so I may have masked something else that was happening at the same time. By mid-May, I was done with shingles and commenced to do some things that were on my list, including a trip to Chicago to do a deposition in a wrongful death lawsuit involving my deceased wife and a trip to California to do some recon on an annual Music Jam that I felt was going to eventually become a very big and important event. I was on four planes in less than a week. Sometime after I was done with the trips, I had discomfort in my upper right lung, which felt to me to be an infection or something. About mid-June, I finally got to see my PCP for my annual physical. She is the most trusted doctor I've ever had and believes in my gut feelings, so she concurred that even though I am the very picture of health, due to my Vegan-type lifestyle, I may have nevertheless gotten some infection along the way during my trips. Even though all my tests came up stellar, including an "underwhelming" EKG test, she prescribed a Z-Pack (azithromycin) for the suspected infection. It ended up not doing much for the discomfort, and when the chest x-ray came back showing a "mass" in the lung--where the discomfort was, my doctor ordered a CT scan (with dye) to examine it more thoroughly. It was then that I commenced to doing my research. By the time the results had come back and my doctor herself called, I was already prepared to hear what she would tell me.

The mass was larger than something that would normally be considered to be benign or a "nodule"; it was suspected as cancer and I was referred to a thoracic surgeon that my doctor trusted, with the caveat that should anything feel or sound wrong to me to just abandon that path and come back to her to try something different. Basically, she empowered me and confirmed that she trusted my gut.

Because of my history of smoking (27 years ago I quit after thirty years of smoking) the thoracic surgeon said he'd probably surgically remove the mass, but wanted to find out more about it. He ordered a PET scan (radioactive glucose) and a lung volume test. It started to become clear that everyone assumed I had lung cancer and wanted to see how far it had progressed and if it had spread, as well as testing to see how capable I was at recovering from lung surgery. I waited two weeks for the call back after the tests. 

When the surgeon's office liaison called me, she said he wanted to do one more test and then see me for consultation. She didn't know what the test was for or much about it. When I got off the phone, I went straight to the internet and found that the test was normally used to test for a pulmonary embolism. After some more study, and discussion with knowledgable people, I realized how unlikely it was for a renowned surgeon to set a test for three days later and a consultation for seven days after that if I was in that kind of immediate danger, which a blood clot in the lungs would be. So now, it seems likely that he wants to get one more look at the growth of this mass, blood flow, and God knows what else before he makes his suggestion(s) to me. Tomorrow is the test. The following Tuesday is the consultation. I didn't want to worry my trusted friends, but I didn't want to keep them in the dark either. So now you know what I know.

The pain in my right lung area is increasing with regularity, and I can't imagine this problem to be anything that has been discussed yet. On the other hand, I can't say anything for sure. I'm actually in the dark now, whereas I thought I was really clear a few days ago. Life will teach you, won't it?

I intend to keep everyone posted. Maybe see you Wednesday at S.V. Noon (EST). I hope to have good news by then.

Love and blessings, 

Grateful Ken

A Whole New Part of The Adventure

In May of 2019, after enduring The Shingles (Herpes Zoster) for nearly six weeks, I finally took some time and made it out to Happy Camp, CA  to do what I call "recon" on a yearly musical event that I felt was going to finally pick up steam and perhaps become something of a National Event, such as The Monterrey Pop Festival (1967) and Woodstock (1969). As an aside, I think it will.

I flew four times at the end of May, and by mid to late June I started to feel as if I might have picked up a slight infection or something in my pleural cavity, particularly on the upper right side of my chest. Since my yearly physical was due, I made the appointment and by mid-July had another great physical, with the addition of a Z-Pak (antibiotics) for the supposed infection.

When the x-ray came back showing a "mass" in the upper right lung, a CT Scan was ordered, and when the results from that came back, things got serious quickly. I hesitantly started sharing with close friends and loved ones only, but soon began opening up for some reason. Eventually, I would be writing two or so emails a week, to up to 40 people on a Blind Carbon Copy List, to comply with the many wishes to be "kept in the loop".

I have decided to post these all here, to share the story with others and perhaps make a difference in some lives. Mine has become more peaceful, hopeful, and full of Gratitude.

The saga begins to be shared via email in early September, as far as I can tell. I will try to keep this all in order so that readers can either catch up or look up a certain entry or entry time with greater ease.

Typhoon Season On The Isle of Ken

Once in a while, I find myself immersed in a flurry of "storms" on the internal terrain of my life, which I often (lately) call the Isle of Ken. The previous post bears this out, and that "in spades". I'm not saying I wasn't genuinely relating how I felt. I did. But when the storms move on, as everything in Life does if you wait long enough, I am left with some cleanup and find myself reflecting and pondering the changes these strong winds bring in me.

So, Music itself is the obvious center point of the last post. And Music is, and always has been, precious to me. It gives me energy, heals me, lifts me up (♪ when I'm feelin' blue ♫) and just plain makes me happy. The typhoon that caused me to write the last post is passed. I've actually found myself getting back onstage a number of times in the past year. I also had two songs come to me; the first writing I've done in twenty years. Granted, they are simple (very simple) Blues oriented compositions, but the creation process was very cathartic. I'm now asking myself if I really want to cut off my nose to spite my face. Obviously, the answer is a definitive "No". Music wins again.

"My songs are merely dreams
That come visiting my mind
We talk a while
By a crooked stile
You're so lucky to catch a few"
(from the song 'Celeste', by Donovan-1966)

Right On Time

As an aging flower-child (I was never a true 'hippie', having worked pretty much every day of my life since pre-teen years), I used to use the jargon of those days of old. Sometimes I find I still do. In this case, not only do I think this post will be right on time but actually "right on". And I believe some other musicians will think so, too.

To this very day, people still ask me if I'm playing around town, writing, performing or jamming. When I respond that I'm winding down nowadays, and don't really play much, they are incredulous and almost demand an answer as to why. I think I've finally thought about this long enough to put it out there right now. (which, with the Universe as my witness, would necessarily be "right on time")

I recently had to start researching my next dental visit, due to a pressing issue, and see that the amount is going to be in the hundreds of dollars this time. That will be pretty tough to absorb, but I really don't have much choice. I started thinking of how many years dentists have to attend schools to get their licenses, and how much they need to pay for their overhead. At that point, the fees more or less made sense. Then it occurred to me that the general populace just puts up with the pricing and has never done anything, as a group, to make it more equitable for the people who live at the bottom of the financial spectrum.

Spinning off of that thought, as my mind usually does, I entertained how the same populace seems to have gotten together and agreed to do the opposite with performers and just refuse to pay anything but the same damned $100 (for an entire night's work) that has been the standard for decades. And that's if they happen to pay even that. Many times, I have worked for $15 dollars, even many years after having made that exact amount back in my high-school days.

If one listens to club owners, promoters or anyone who happens to be footing the bill, you'll get promises of "exposure" and a chance to do what you love. That's been the excuse I've heard and abided by, for most of my life. I've finally grown sick of it.

A fellow musician recently posted a humorous scenario, where he hands back people's mentality on the "doing what you love" ploy, and turns it around by putting the shoe on the other foot. Like folks saying, "Could you bring your guitar to the party? People love to hear you play, and you enjoy it so much that it shouldn't be a big deal for you." My friend told his roofing contractor friend, "When you come to my party, could you bring your tools? I have this huge leak in my roof. You are SO good at it, and seem to enjoy your work so much it shouldn't be a big deal." Some folks will now get my drift.

I don't have a big office or practice space to keep my equipment. My bedroom has to suffice, and always has. I have never been paid enough to afford the amenities that most other long-time professionals do. I drive a 15 year old car, not a Mercedes. I can't pay others to act as my 'assistants' or to answer my phone and handle scheduling and appointments. I have been working at my craft for over sixty years, but get paid the same as someone wet behind the ears and with barely a year's experience. Perhaps that part of this post got through to more folks than the previous one. I'm just putting it out there. Basically, I'm just not playing that game anymore.

One other thing that has stuck in my craw for low these sixty-plus years is the issue of disrespect. Most of us have issue with that, and I'm no different. I offer a little story to explain more fully:

The first time I ever got together with others for a "jam", I was a young teenager. I knew less than half a dozen chords at the time. Two other friends had electric guitars and amplifiers, and I had rented mine for the weekend (for $15 dollars, interestingly). We got together one evening in the basement of the tenement of one friend's father. It had a great natural echo to it, with it's cement walls and floor. With minimum experience, we were restricted to doing the simple guitar song "Honky Tonk" as our first foray into 'live' Rock and Roll. I was in Heaven.

Before the song was over, a man came down the stairs and stood at a distance from us just watching and listening. He conveyed no emotion that I can recall. When we either finished the song, or stopped out of respect for an adult standing there looking as if he needed to say something, he said the words that would be echoed for another sixty-some years of my life:  "You guys are really good, but could you turn the volume down?"

For years, I'd be playing at clubs known by reputation for having loud 'live' music, but still have people come up with some version of those words. I am one of those who so hates confrontation that I've spent my whole life just putting up with it, and either turning down or pretending to turn down. One time at a Summer Festival--in a huge tent--a guy actually stood in front of the stage, mockingly sticking his fingers in his ears for the whole audience to see. At the end of the song my keyboard playing brother, God bless his soul, got on the mike and said directly to this arsehole, "If you feel it's too loud for you, why are you standing directly in front of those huge PA speakers?" We then resumed playing, to an audience that didn't have a problem with us. I like remembering that one.

So there you have it; my answer to those "inquiring minds that want to know". I've grown weary of all that crap, and I've had enough. I'm now content to play in basements and studios owned by people who don't have problems entertaining Reality, or right in the very comfort of my own living room or bedroom.

I can hear a few last voices, in my day-dreaming head, saying "But you have such a gift! You won't be sharing it with anybody anymore." Yeah? Nice try. Take a hike.

I guess I'm not quite the 'flower child' I once was, am I?

Some Call It "Dining"

Years ago, I wrote a column for our company newsletter called "Dining In Downers". It was a tongue in cheek report, marking my first foray into writing for a periodical. Currently, the only writing I do is letters and emails to friends. I stay in practice that way, and every so often I am moved to go to one of my blogs and add something.

Today, I was thinking about an email I wrote to a friend, regarding White Castle. I had just made a comment on a Facebook page that reminisces my old home town. I was remembering "Prince Castle", known for it's 'One In A Million' chocolate malts. Later it became Cock Robin, which in my opinion did not ever do justice to it's forebear. White Castle was not related, but had a similar theme to Prince Castle. One commentor confused the two, causing me to remember my email. Having located it, I cut and will now paste it here. I think it might include some "in" jargon, used by my friend and I for quite a few decades, but the message should come through:

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So, I finally get around to visiting the new White Castle here near us. In short, a disappointment.

The smell is NOT the oniony aroma of old, as you walk in. Gone is the stark white tile, though, which was reasonable. A bright decor, but set up more like a fast food joint than the "deli" look of Yvonne's place of old. 

They now sport a whole "seafood" menu, ironically. I didn't notice mealglaze, per se, but they have a few meals including a shrimp fiesta of sorts. Myself, I just wanted a "one in a million" (silly me....that's PRINCE Castle) and a coupla burgers. I guess everyone is expanding their menus these days. Not for the better, in my opinion.

The onion yield was scant, but also oddly flavorless, as were the pickles. I suspect they soak them is the purest distilled water for weeks to insure the flavor and smell of those two items is totally non-existent. They accomplished that, in any case.

The "shake" (never shaken, but stirred mechanically---a little) was basically soft-serve ice cream. I pretty much made a dozen attempts to suck it thru a straw as I drove home, but to no avail. I got home and ate it with a spoon, except for the last few ounces which had melted from the heat of my hand.

So, there you have it. My first and last visit to the newer and not better slider depot. That's another thing, some ad-man probably made a bundle convincing the board of directors to just go with the term "sliders", which was likely the offhanded description by a couple stoners sometime in the past. They call them Sliders on the menu, now. It kinda gave me a creepy feeling, as if the menus behind the counter were festooned with dirty jokes. I mean, didn't "sliders" originally refer to the speed and way they shoot thru the alimentary canal and out the anus? 

I wanted to just slap somebody, but didn't have a clue who.

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Translations are available on request. Just message me here.

John Belushi's Drums

Years ago, prior to my stint with PG&E, a Wheaton College student I had met at Burke's Guitar & Music Studio---a fellow guitarist, vocalist and music teacher, Robert Rose---had a band which needed a drummer for a six-week gig at the Golden Pheasant, in Elmhurst. Needing the money, I decided to parlay my drum talents (I had been practicing for a few years, and had taken lessons) for the $60 a week I could make, which---for a four-night a week gig---was considerable pay back in early 1968. Having played with John Belushi's band, The Ravens, a few times during high school (I imagine Mike Blasucci, John's lead guitarist, was unavailable or something), I knew John had a drum kit. Since Belushi was busy in his acting pursuits at that time, he lent me his drums for the gig. I auditioned by playing a dance at Wheaton North High School, with Rose's group "Omega", and made the cut.

About three weeks into the Pheasant gig, as we lovingly knew it, it became obvious that my talents on guitar and vocals were considerably better than my drumming. I ran it by Rose and his crew that I had a great drummer in mind, if everyone would split the pay a little bit. Enter Gary Maier, an accomplished and locally well-known drummer from my home town of Wheaton. Gary took over on John's drums and, with the money he got during the last three weeks of the gig, ultimately bought them from Belushi.

Some time later, Gary saw a great set of drums that he wanted, and ended up selling the former 'Belushi set' to Burke's to help buy the set he wanted. There was little clue as to how much value, both sentimental and monetary, those drums would have today. Their whereabouts are unknown, at least partially due to the passing of almost all of the Burkes we knew and loved, who helped a great number of local musicians get rolling in music, even when the money for equipment wasn't there.

1956 -- A Very Good Year

It started May 17th, 55 years ago in 1956. The year I fell in love with Rock and Roll.

The week after my brother Allan died, I stayed with my Aunt Evy and her friend Jane. Aunt Evy used to take me to the haunts, bars really, that she and her girlfriends frequented. She would be telling the barkeep about Allan's death while keeping me busy playing the jukebox with nickels she gave me.

I found such joy and freedom that week; it never left me. I could get a 'play' for 5 cents, 3 for a dime and 5 for a quarter. It may have been something like 12 for a 50-cent piece. Rock Island Line (by Bobby Darin, I think), Tutti Frutti (Little Richard), Boney Marone, Hound Dog, Rock Around the Clock and many others quickly became my favorites. For only 9 years old, I was quite the Rock 'n' Roll fan.

Very soon, I began playing Dion songs on the piano and two years later, when my brother Stevie gave me a plastic ukulele for Christmas, I was off and running; playing songs by Eddie Cochran, like Summertime Blues and C'mon Everybody.

The following year's summer, when I went to camp, I heard a big, country style guitar around the campfire. I can still remember the brilliance of the strings and the richness of the tones. It must have been a quality guitar with new strings, as I look back. But that was the beginning of my non-stop love affair with guitars. I had spent my childhood playing the piano, which I felt was the most beautiful instrument, until that night around the campfire.