Last week when it came time to finally nail down my top 10 albums of the year (so far) — a labor of love — I was a bit stunned to find the smart playlist I’d built had ballooned to a dizzying 372 albums and EPs.  Jesus Marimba.  And while you might be asking yourself, “how in the name of all things large and small is this even possible?” I might just say, “it’s what I do.”

But more interesting than the 372 itself as… well… a jaw-dropping sum, is what it represents.  About 99% of the music I’ve listened to so far was downloaded, not acquired as a physical product, i.e. CD, vinyl, tape.  And about 80% of it was free or “pay what you want”, released directly through the artist or posted on music blogs, with the majority of that being EPs or singles.

Now, I won’t go into the significance of what that might mean to the music industry *cough-deathknell-cough*, but I will point out how it’s contributed to the discovery of new artists and my ability track their careers.

This list, if nothing else, owes a great deal to that last fact.  Over the last few years, about two thirds of the artists on this list first came to my attention in the form of either a posted single or EP.  Which is cool, because, make no mistake, making the leap from from a promising EP or single to a great album is no easy feat.

And while I’d love to include the many EPs and singles that have grabbed my attention so far this year (another list for another time perhaps), I’m going to forgo that impulse, remain traditional, and give you instead my top 10 albums… an artform — I suspect — that’s becoming less relevant by the month.

The times they are a changn’.

The list (in alphabetical order):

Avi Buffalo Avi Buffalo

In spite of the group’s age — which comes across in the “spirited” lyrics (and which I otherwise wouldn’t mention) — there’s a knack for songwriting here that transcends precociousness and veers into downright gifted savant territory.  In other words, these kids have the goods.  Jangly and raw in the best of possible California ways, this self-titled debut, feels good going in, and equally as good hanging around.

Beach House Teen Dream

Dream-Pop, for good or for bad (for me, at least), is a genre best taken in a heightened state.  This may seem like contradictory advice, but to truly appreciate the sugary, fuzzed out, languorous sonics you want to be wide awake.  That said, it’s the sleepy quality of the music, that gives it its mojo … and Teen Dream is no exception.  Tighter and more focused than previous Beach House releases, this feels more like a re-occurring dream than one that will quickly fade as the morning unfolds into the subsequent hours.

Delorean Subiza

Last year’s wonder of an EP, Ayrton Senna, was no fluke; it was an auspicious introduction of things to come. Subiza is every bit as infectious as its predecessor, but with a broader palette.  This is a house music valentine, filtered through a modern-indie dance aesthetic; keys climb, beats pound, surprises happen and the soul feels happy.

The Drums The Drums

In the same way that The Jesus and Mary Chain’s Psycho Candy took the whole Beach Boys meets Phil Spector thing to ridiculous but satisfying distorted extremes, so do The Drums take the synthpop ‡ la beach pop fusion to their own satisfying ends.  Like no other record this year, this LP screams summer. Which is good considering summer’s basically just begun (hey, I’m on the coast of California, what can I say).  And while some of that’s due to the lingering vapor trail of the infectious single “Let’s Go Surfing” (included on the album), I’d say most of its due to the melodic bubblegum instincts the band so effortlessly lays down.

Gil Scott Heron I’m New Here

Arguably one of the most important/poignant political-musical documentarians of the 70s and early 80s, Heron’s free jazz baritone, spoke truth to power where few were as successful or poetic.  I’m New Here, his first record in 16 years, is a surprise of sorts, given all the record is and is not.  What could’ve been a referendum on all that’s passed in the last decade or so, is instead a naked look inward, and feels like the perfect way to go.  Sharp, direct, moving, this is a stunning, thought-provoking piece of music.

Hot Chip One Life Stand

It would be a shame — almost tragic, really — if the LP with my favorite song of the year (by far), “Take It In”, with a chorus so anthemic and beautiful you need to take care your heart doesn’t explode, lacked the meat to make it in my top 10.  Fortunately, this isn’t a case. Instead, Hot Chip have delivered their best — and dare I say — most satisfying record to date.

Jonsi Go

Jumping off and running with the exuberance that made the leftfield pop opener “Gobbledygook” off Sigur Ros’ last album so exciting, Go — as the title would seem to suggest — is about movement.  Which isn’t to say it’s a record about going from point A to point B, but rather about ignition — that bursting out of the gates moment.  His falsetto, the crescendoed songwriting, the layered instruments, all feel like a mouthful of Pop Rocks and Coke. Which — when you think about it — might be the ultimate liftoff.

Magic Man Real Life Color

I always hope that somewhere amongst the 200 plus unsigned and micro-indie bands I listen to during the course of the year (or half year, as the case may be), that there’ll be at least one LP that makes me go “whoa” and prick up my ears.  It seems odd, given the numbers, that it’d be so rare, but if we exclude EPs and singles (which I am — and trust me, there are some good ones… strike that, great ones), it seems to be.  A strong LP — from start to finish — for a myriad of reasons, is a difficult thing to create.  Which is why Real Life Color is such a joy.  Is this this year’s Passion Pit?  Could be. Get the album free here. 

Surfer Blood Astro Coast

Here’s where you can pretty much judge a book by its cover.  Let’s see… heavy, check.  Surf/Summery, check.  New wave/postpunk influenced… well… okay… check.  Anyway, you get the point, this is a heavy guitar-based, distortion drenched, reverb informed postpunk/indie mid-January released summer record that rocks nostalgia without feeling nostalgic.  Hells yeah.

The National High Violet

I’ll admit when I first heard High Violet, I was like, meh, it’s good, but definitely no Boxer.  Outside of “Bloodbuzz Ohio”, with one of the most poignant lines of the year — “I still owe money to the money to the money I owe” — I was finding it difficult to latch on to any of the melodies (which is saying something given Matt Berninger’s instincts in this regard).  But here’s the thing, it began to grow on me.  And after seeing the majority of the LP performed live, it’s depth and sonic emotion made complete sense.  Sure, it’s the same melancholic stuff of previous records,  but what’s a little co-misery amongst friends.

Honorable mentions:

Trentem0ller Into the Great Wide Yonder, The Radio Dept. Clinging to a Scheme, Broken Social Scene Forgiveness Rock Record, Toro y Moi Causes of This, Janelle Monae ArchAndroidl, Dinosaur Feathers Fantasy Memorial, Marching Band Pop Cycle, Owen Pallett Heartland

pau.

Well, here it is, my dog Shadow’s 16th birthday.  Earlier this week I wasn’t sure we’d make it this far, but alas her resilience and lust for life are not things to be trifled with.  Per her annual neck tweaking/stinger/compressed vertebrae, she was literally just — Sunday, Monday and Tuesday — hobbling around, not eating, not barking, panting and even a bit incontinent.  I say annual, yes, so perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising, but the thing is, as she approaches these more twilight years of her life, it certainly makes one pause and wonder if this is where the road starts to tip at a more downwardly angle.

But if this is indeed the downhill slope of her life, she seems generally unfazed, with a playful light still glowing brightly behind her slightly cloudy brown eyes.  Just yesterday we were on the track and she walked the entire mile, occasionally bouncing after a tennis ball.  She has the legs of an old dog, to be sure — not so steady on the abrupt stops — and like our favorite aged ones, she farts like a champion, is less tolerant of creatures younger and more rambunctious than herself, forgets things, can be willful, and more often than not prefers the consistency and comfort of her own carpet over travel.

Now, I don’t know how much more time we have together — conventional wisdom and golden retriever genetics would suggest not a whole lot more — but however long it may be, each day, month and year that passes is a moment I’m forever grateful to be part of…

prolific flatulence included.

Happy birthday Shadow and happy May Day, all.  Peace.

pau.

So in my last post I ended things on the up note proclamation of adjustment, and while I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, I want to further clarify what that means in my life — both specifically and in the abstract.

First, the specific (big to small, small to big, big to big, whatever, I’m not sure).

* Sailing: the kind of which that inspired this site, is — as I’ve decided to label it — on temporary indefinite hold.  This was a tough one to wrap my head around, for sure, but heeling (when the wind fills the sails and causes the boat to lean) for extended periods of time, on either side of the boat — high or low — is extremely taxing on my neck.  I’m not sure when or if this will change, but for now I’m taking stock in rest, design ingenuity or a really big catamaran showing up.

* The wheelchair: this is a tricky one because I have a bit of a balancing act going on already.  On the one hand, the acoustic chair — the chair I use on the track for my exercise routine — causes me far less pain and allows more uptime without pressure problems than my electric chair.  But on the other hand, I’m far less independent and need assistance most everywhere I go outside of my home, the track or smooth, flat surfaces (not exactly common in Berkeley).  The electric chair allows me the freedom to take off and go where and when I please, but again, the problem is the pain, and the now ever increasing issue of having to stop every 30 m or so to let the function in my arms return — a sketchy situation under the best of circumstances, but when crossing long, busy intersections even more so.

This give and take/pros vs. cons of choosing either of these chairs is forcing me to assess what I want from my life, and to some extent reshape what my independence means to me.

* Exercise: over the last 6 months or so I’ve had to face the fact that — for the time being, at least — I’m not the same guy, speed or distance wise, I once was. Instead of a mile and a half on the track, I can now only do a mile in the same amount of time. At first this was frustrating as hell, but I’ve since come to a place where if I’m still able to do it, and I can feel “the burn”, I’ll take what I can get and let time sort out the rest.

The abstract (where I get all metaphysical on ya).  Over the years I’ve come to a pretty clear understanding that everything is borrowed.  And what I mean by that is this life — our health, our bodies, our families, our lovers, our spouses, our friends, the sun, the stars, the Earth, war, platypuses, our favorite Mexican restaurant, record collections, family heirlooms, houses, iPads, etc., all of it — are temporary phenomenons and will fade away.  You can count on this.  But if we live in this moment — right here, right now — then we’re experiencing something altogether more real — the truth, in fact — and that’s pretty compelling.

So when I speak of adjustment in terms of the above understanding, what I’m really speaking to is greater awareness of where I truly am.  It’s the ultimate task at hand.  But it’s easy to lose this, and I’m still not all the way there yet — not 100% of the time.  At times, I try to cling to that which can’t be clung to and I slip out of the moment; getting hung up on the temporary and how I think things should be.   When this happens, I suffer, and that’s when — as in my big WTF? in my last post — I miss what’s really going on and get lost in what’s going away.

Understanding — or better yet, knowing — everything is borrowed is a powerful catalyst to remind us about what isn’t, and also to facilitate a greater celebratory appreciation of all that will leave us.

Just as life means nothing without death, love means nothing without hate, light means nothing without the dark, so too is it true with that which lasts and that which doesn’t. Letting go of anything — even, well, you know — is an adjustment well worth making, and makes everything a whole lot easier to roll with… and I’m so about the rolling.

Let the recalibration begin!

pau.

I always assumed — as it turns out incorrectly (the assumption thing, I guess) — my disability would be stable (you know, aside for those first couple of years where I was convinced my paralysis was just a hiccup).  I figured, I broke my neck, I’d get back what I’d get back and that would be it.  Science, might one day move things along, and I’d certainly bust my ass and make the most of what I had through strengthening, but I was pretty much under the impression my paralysis was locked in.

I never in a million years imagined — despite many spills out of my chair and wipeouts on the slopes — that things could actually go backwards; that it was possible to lose all I’d gained without, like, you know, breaking my neck again.  Because, really, c’mon, what kind of crap would that be?

Now admittedly, I was a bit “focused” back in the day when I broke my neck (some might call it stubborn) — still am, I suppose — and my lack of foresight, and grasp of my own mortality probably rivaled that of your average house cat, but even still, it wasn’t like I was warned about said possibility and flippantly disregarded it as somebody else’s fate.  No, because even as things were changing, it never crossed my mind they actually could… or would.

And while this last decade has been all about change (when isn’t it, really), and I’ve become quite adept at handling it (even relishing it, on some level), I’m not going to lie; this slow, perplexing loss of sensation, mobility and range of motion (not to mention the silly pain) is proving to be quite the bitch.  And as strange as it may sound, I almost feel if it were to happen over night it might be easier to wrap my head around.  Because, quite frankly, there’s a reason conventional wisdom says to just grab the Band-Aid and rip — it’s painful, but at least it’s not drawn out.

(Note to whom it may concern; if you have any control in this matter — God, gods, Cosmos, existence, what have you, you know who you are — sit back down and relax, I’m not trying to tempt the fates here, I’m just saying.)

Look, losing the use of my arms terrifies me, I’ve got no problem admitting that. I’m a high enough quad as it is. I’m able to eat by myself, write, do my graphic design work, push my chair, etc., I don’t know anything different. But like it or not, change is coming down the pipe… for all of us. Sometimes it’s welcomed, sometimes not so much. And while it’s been tempting to label this particular change as bad, the truth is, I know better.

I’d hoped surgery would arrest this problem, but thus far — for whatever reason –  it hasn’t. I was cautioned from the beginning things could possibly get worse before they got better, and perhaps this is the case, I don’t know. I certainly hope so.  But either way, life will go on. Differently, yes, but for certain just as miraculously.

Given this, it’s impossible to reflect back on 2009 and not reflect on what it all will mean for the future.  Large elephants, I guess, have a way of demanding that kind of attention.  But that’s just it — the future — despite how things may appear now — and they do appear a bit sketchy — I don’t know what the future holds anymore than I did back in 1980 when I broke my neck, which arguably seemed like a bad thing at the time and turned out to be quite the opposite.

So sure, the word for 2009 will probably go down as being syringomyelia, — in my life, anyway — but that just means the word for 2010 will probably be adjustment.

And I can certainly hang with that.

pau.

I recently heard an interview with actor/musician Billy Bob Thornton talking about his band and music in general and one of the things he said that struck me as odd was; “There has been no good music since 1980″.  Not more than a week later I got an e-mail from a friend (going through a serious Talking Heads phase) who lamented that all the music he heard in cafés these days sounded like wood veneer paneling and wondered if our generation (the 80s) was the last generation to do anything musically original, adding, “perhaps this is what Terence McKenna meant when he talked about the end of novelty”.

Now, I won’t argue that the seminal bands of the 60s and 70s have a place in the lexicon of rock ‘n roll, or the startling originality of the Talking Heads, or the fertile musical soil of the 80s (sorry Billy Bob), or whether Terence McKenna was… well… whatever. But I will argue that the music today is as vital, interesting and, yes, as great as anything that’s come before it.  Sure, there’s an element of the derivative, but I don’t see that as a bad thing — it just means that bands of today have so much more to play with, riff on and reimagine.

I have a theory — and it’s probably not too original — that whatever music you grew up listening to as a teenager, or while in your 20s, that’s the music that will resonate most deeply with you.  For Billy Bob it’s the Beatles, Smokey Robinson and The Stones, for my friend it’s the Talking Heads, The Replacements and The Swans and for me, well, for whatever reason, I feel connected with whatever’s happening at the moment.  Which isn’t to say I don’t feel connected with the music of my past, because I do, it’s just that my appetite for music is like a shark, if it stops moving it dies.

Anyway, it’s been a good year for music; it started with a bang and finished just as bangin’ i.e. bookended by two Animal Collective releases.  I hope some of what I’ve written or listed here inspires you to search it out, make a purchase, load it onto your iPod and move, dance or sway to the sounds of 2009.  All in all, it’s been a vintage bottling and if you’re in your teens or 20s, just think, in 2029 you too can wax nostalgic about the music of your past; “Man, they just don’t make music like the Dirty Projectors anymore.”

[Site note: As I’ve said before, numbered lists such as this are a slippery proposition.  Pretty much anything here could be moved around and it would be just as representative of what I was digging this year.  I’ve left some things off — such as EP’s (and there been some great ones: Delorean, Bon Iver, Washed Out, Animal Collective, Deerhunter, Memory Tapes, etc.) — simply because I wanted to keep this list at a manageable 50 (if you can call 50 manageable).  Bottom line; if I did this list next week it might look completely different.]

The list:

50.  Empire of the Sun: Walking on a Dream
48.  Travis Callison: Free
49.  Wild Beasts: Two Dancers
47.  Bear in Heaven: Beast Rest Fourth Mouth
46.  Real Estate: Real Estate
45.  Hush Arbors: Yankee Reality
49.  the dodos: Time to Die
44.  Cass McCombs: Catacombs
43.  Megafaun: Gather, Form & Fly
42.  Telefon Tel Aviv: Immolate Yourself
41.  Junior Boys: Begone Dull Care
40.  K’ naan: Troubadour
39.  Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Its Blitz
38.  Neko Case: Middle Cyclone
37.  The Very Best: Warm Heart of Africa
36.  The Mountain Goats: The Life of the World to Come
35.  Field: Yesterday and Today
34.  Fever Ray: Fever Ray
33.  Bibio: Ambivalence Avenue
32.  Nosaj Thing: Drift
31.  Xx: xx
30.  Various artists: Dark Was the Night
29.  Röyksopp: Junior
28.  Atlas Sound: Logos
27.  Yo La Tengo: Popular Songs
26.  JJ: JJ N° 2

25. Various Artists: 5: Five Years of Hyperdub

Yeah, it’s kind of a copout to put a 32 song compilation on a list such as this, but this is number 25 and it’s just a damn fine record.  Arguably the most important dubstep label, Hyperdub, has amassed an impressive catalog of heavy, bottom-ended music.  And that’s the thing — catalog. Most of this has been released as singles, so unless you’re a DJ, or a collector of this stuff, you probably haven’t taken the time to pick any of it up. Split into two discs — past and present — it’s a good glimpse into where the label has been and where it’s going.  Can you dance to it?  Good question.

24. Clientele: Bonfires on the Heath

I wouldn’t say Bonfires on the Heath is treading any new ground for Clientele, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  Sticking with the 60s style jangle pop, sorrowful lyrics and hummable melodies that swim inside your head for days, this is an another assured release.  Sublime and haunting in a way few albums are, #24 on this list seems ridiculously low (case in point why numbered lists are frustrating).  But here’s the thing; 10 years from now when I revisit the best music from the first 20 years of the 2000s, Bonfires on the Heath will probably be in the top 10. Or any Clientele record, for that matter.

23. Wilco: Wilco (The Album)

Stylistically, Wilco (The Band) has always been a bit slippery to pin down, but with Wilco (The Album) and Sky Blue Sky before it, a definite sound, from this incarnation of the group, is starting to emerge.  Feeling like a 1970s post-Nixon era drive down the PCH (or what I imagine that would be like), most everything on this LP would fit nicely onto 1970s AOR FM radio.  That said, there’s nothing nostalgic about the songwriting (see “Bull Black Nova”). Instead, Wilco (The Album) finds a band at the top of its game, digesting its influences and, again, defying expectations. Because, really, how else can you explain the audacity of a rock song with the lyrics “everlasting love” that wasn’t penned by Bryan Adams or Celine Dion for the closing credits of a romantic Hollywood blockbuster that’s absolutely free of irony?  You can’t.  And that’s what makes Wilco (the band) such a rewarding experience.

22. Dirty Projectors: Bitte Orca

To say that everything that’s going on here is a bit dizzying, is to undersell what the Dirty Projectors are all about.  In fact, the band throws more at a single song than most artists do over a career; orch pop, R&B, electronica, chamber choir, you name it.  Is it a mess?  Well, that depends on how you like your pop… err… art pop.  If you’re looking to hook onto a melody or rhythm for an entire song, I suggest you look elsewhere.  But if you’re willing to let go — let the ideas (yes, ideas, it often feels a bit brainy) lead you through these, arguably, delicious nine gems, then you’re in for quite a treat.  Download “Useful Chamber” and if you like what you hear, the rest of the album will surely work for you.

21. Girls: Album

Hype is a funny thing. So is the knee-jerk reaction to it.  And while I’d like to say I’m immune to both, the truth is — where the indie music blogosphere is concerned — not so much.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to jump on or off a bandwagon because some Brooklyn music journalist tweeted I should, but until the record companies start sending me review copies of albums, before I plop down my nine bucks on this year’s Vampire Weekend, I’m going to follow a few social networking threads.  Which brings me to San Francisco’s own Girls, this years uber indie “love ‘em or despise ‘em” sensation. Toss off, the band’s colorful story, stick with the requisite lo-fi aesthetic, garagey Beach Boys melodies and dizzying songcraft and, well, you have yourself a hype/backlash defying, wonder of an album.

20. Andrew Bird: Noble Beast/Useless Creatures

This album was released in two forms; Noble Beast and Noble Beast/Useless Creatures.  And while I love the standard version Noble Beast (and perhaps it would have been on this list regardless), the two disc version, with the instrumental Useless Creatures, is revelatory, capturing everything Andrew Bird is about.  Of course, Noble Beast is still filled with Bird’s quixotic love of words for words sake lyrics, but on Noble Beast they seem to be accompanied by a surer sense of melody, making the odd word combinations resonate in ways they haven’t before.  For instance, every time I hear the lines from the song “Masterswarm”; “So they took me to the hospital, they put my body through a scan/what they saw there would impress them all for inside me grows out of man”, riding on the back of its rising melody, I want to melt.  I can’t tell you why exactly, but I understand what he means.

19. Serge Gainsbourg: Histoire De Melody Nelson

First, let me throw out a couple of caveats in regards to this one: 1).  I don’t speak French.  And 2).  This was originally released in 1968.  In regards to the first, this hardly matters when it comes to Gainsbourg — especially this record. All you need to know (and believe me there won’t be any confusion about it) is that machismo and sexuality are what he’s going for (surprise surprise).  As to the second, well, until this year, the album has essentially been out of print and unavailable to all but the most committed of crate divers.  So then caveats aside, what do we have?  A funky, dripping, sexy album that’s as hip now as it was no doubt then.

18. Mos Def: The Ecstatic

As much as I love Mos Def the renaissance man, his music so far this decade has been inconsistent at best.  Which is all the more reason why The Ecstatic leaves me… well… ecstatic — it bumps.  Funky, loose, poignant (and perhaps a little lazy at times), Mos has something to say that’s worth listening to, and thankfully he has the beats and production to deliver it over.  Working with the likes of J Dilla, Madlib, Mr. Flash, Oh No, Slick Rick, ex-Black Star partner Talib Kwelli and others, seems to make for an inspired work environment.

17. Passion Pit: Manners

How to make a pop album that’s both loved and loathed: Ingredients; 1/8 part Syrupy sweet/anthemic synths, 1/8 part contemporary indie falsetto: 1/8 part slightly vague yet.  romantic lyrics (of the happy sad variety), 1/8 part select choruses accompanied by children’s voices, 1/2 part uncanny sense of melody and songcraft.  Stir, package and release.  Serves untold amounts of summer indie music festivals.  Delicious.

16. Beirut: March of the Zapotec & Realpeople: Holland

I don’t know, maybe I just have a soft spot for Balkan infused song stylings filtered through Mexican brass bands, but damn, if this isn’t another inspired delivery by Zach Condon’s Beirut.  But that’s only the half of it — literally — as Beirut technically makes up only half of this record, the other half goes to Condon’s electro-indie endeavor, Realpeople.  Two EPs, with two different aesthetics, merged into one record, this really shouldn’t have worked as well as it does.  But with Condon’s mournful voice as the through line and the brilliant bridging “My Night with the Prostitute from Marseille”, it’s a very satisfying journey that works in spades.

15. The Decemberists: The Hazards of Love

If there are two things as a music fan I’ve had trouble wrapping my head around over the years it would be prog rock and Jethro Tull… no, wait, there’s a third, rock operas.  Now if you told me in 2009 that one of my favorite records would have elements of all three (some more than others), I would’ve dismissed your suggestion outright.  But if you then told me it would be a Decemberists’ album, well, the conversation would’ve lasted a little bit longer.  Even still, the fact that the record is as good as it is, is a bit of a surprise;  heavy, crunching guitars, ridiculously rocked out vocals from guest singer My Brightest Diamond’s Shara Worden and repeating motifs… it’s a hell of a ride that gets better upon repeated visits.  And, yes, there’s some sort of story.

14. Loney, Dear: Dear John

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the album has two of my favorite songs of the year, “Airport Surroundings” and “I Was Only Going Out”, and while it isn’t Loney, Dear’s best (that would be Loney Noir), it is an affecting collection of songs dedicated to sorrow.  Oh, and just in case the title Dear John, didn’t give it away, multi-instrumentalist Emil Svanänen (Loney, Dear) is looking to work some things out… which is fine, because Dear John is well worth the time.  A folk-techno hybrid of sorts, this is a slightly new direction for the band.

13. Helado Negro: Awe Owe

This is another one of those albums that if you try to pull it apart and latch on to individual songs, you’ll probably be disappointed. On the other hand, if you let the beachy, fuzzy,  glitchy electronic tropicalia of Roberto Carlos Lange’s debut wash over you, then trust me, you’re in for a treat.  In heavy rotation late this summer, I’ve got some advice for you; if you’re stuck somewhere cold — oh, I don’t know, north east of the Mississippi, bracing for another dump of snow and you like your latin music with a dash of experimentation — look no further than Awe Owes, click download and start thinking about swimsuits and mojitos.

12. Grizzly Bear: Veckatimest

All right, you get it, I’ve got a particular soft spot for meandering, midtempo, throw every instrument you can think of into the protection mix orch pop.  And while you may want to keep that in mind in regards to my opinion about Veckatimest, it doesn’t change the fact that this is a brilliant, lovely record. Opening with the sprawling America-esqe “Southern Point” and then moving on to, arguably one of the best singles of the year, “Two Weeks”, you know what you’re going to get within first eight minutes — an album of meticulously produced, well thought out pop songs.

11. The Antlers: Hospice

The post-rock/indie rock aural tradition is loaded with sad sacks and melancholia to the point of almost ridiculous cliché.  And while I’ve got no problem getting down into the mud with the best of ‘em and vicariously rolling around in artistic pain, it’s not exactly what I’m looking for in my music these days.  Which is why my love (and inclusion on this list) of The Antlers Hospice is such a surprise. Sure, I’m a sentimentalist, and the brazen honesty and sadness on this record are indeed seductive, but tackling a concept album (a relationship with a terminally ill child) — regardless of how sincere it wants to be — is a harrowing endeavor, and one wrought with potential failure.  Hospice succeeds in spite of the odds and is an unqualified and paradoxically big and small sonic wonder.

10. Fanfarlo: Reservoir

Another Swede responsible for great indie rock?  Well, yeah.  Throwing everything into the mix — pianos, mandolins, violins, trumpets, toys and traditional bass, drums and guitars — lead Fanfarlo songwriter Simon Balthazar has created one of the best orch pop records you probably haven’t heard.  Why some records take off and others don’t, it’s hard to say, but with production by Peter Katis (The National, Interpol), you’d have thought this would have.

9. YACHT: See Mystery Lights

If there was ever an album where one song sold the whole thing for me, “The Afterlife”, the second track on this synthy retro fest, is that song.  Easily taken as ironic, See Mystery Lights, is anything but — optimistic, spiritual, bouncy and, yes, a little derivative (hey, what’s wrong with a little homage to the Tom Tom Club and Kraftwerk?), if I’m gonna reach for a quick pop fix to remind me of what’s really going on, I could do a whole lot worse than to cue this record up.

8. Bill Callahan: Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle

Sublime.  Contemplative.  Beautiful.  Purposeful.  Dark.  All these are apt descriptions for ex-Smog singer Bill Callahan’s new solo effort.  Orchestrated in a way his previous band never was — or attempted to be — the storytelling and arrangements of these songs suit Callahan’s deep melancholic voice perfectly.  Like last year’s For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver, this is a haunting, personal record that lingers long after it’s finished playing.

7. Le Loup: Family

Falling somewhere between tribal rock, freak folk, a bite off the Animal Collective and Fleet Foxes mushroom, and a celebration with friends and family around a bonfire on the beach, Family works, not only because it’s able to hold all these things together, but because it just should.  By that I mean, I can think of no other record this year I wanted to work more than this one.  Call me a sucker for reverb soaked songcraft, but this one had me at the first cavernous note.

6. Neon Indian: Psychic Chasms

When I was a kid I used to have this portable, yellow Panasonic AM radio shaped like a warped donut that could be twisted apart into an S- shape and that I would carry with me everywhere.  It was a beach radio more than anything else, the only one I had, and pretty hip looking.  But the thing I remember most about this radio was the sound; whether it was the salt air’s effect on the transistors or all the sand clogging the speaker holes, it had a sort of warbly fidelity that gave the music a psychedelic glow.  Psychic Chasms reminds me of that radio; warbly AM radio disco tunes that feel sunburnt and phased, but oh so cool.

5. Jack Peñate: Everything Is New

Pop music — despite the general misconception of what most people believe it is — is deep and complicated stuff.  Argue all you want about the complexities post-bop jazz, the musicianship of prog rockers, and the what have you of what have you, but a good pop song — in my estimation — is shoulders above it all.  Now don’t get me wrong, some pop has the lasting power of a snowflake on a dog’s warm nose, but even when it does, for that brief moment — when it’s makes that quixotic imprint on your brain and you’re humming something you didn’t even think you liked (*cough-Black Eyed Peas-cough*) — it’s nothing short of miraculous.  Everything Is New as an album title might be Peñate’s cheeky way of saying, “look, I understand what I’m doing isn’t exactly original (think Robert Smith and Edwyn Collins), but I really believe in it and these are great songs.”  Or maybe not.  Whatever.  Either way, this is brilliant pop album.

4. Amadou and Miriam: Welcome to Mali

The back story behind this husband and wife duo from Mali is the stuff of Hollywood rock biopics and the music on Welcome to Mali makes them deserving of one.  In many ways, this record begins and ends with Amadou’s virtuoso guitar playing, combining traditional Malian blues and other African elements with Western rock, but if there’s a sweeter, more achingly sincere voice than Miriam’s on any other record this year, I’d like to hear it.  And that’s ultimately what what one takes away from this breathtaking album.

3. Sin Fang Bous: Clangour

Stepping out from his usual gig, Seabear, Icelandic musician Sindri Mar Sigfusson has created a modern folk classic — a twee, glitchy, multi-instrumental (synths, banjo, guitar, etc.) songwriting tour de force with a whole mess of catchy melodies to wrap your head around.  Equally able to be dissected and listened to song for song or taken as a sonic whole with an odd psychedelic rhythm and logic, it’s a fairly obscure gem that deserves more buzz.  Not sure what it is about the far north — the cold, the long days and nights, what have you — but they certainly export some lovely music.

2. Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

Another band on this list that has taken what they’ve done so well in the past and perfected it 2009.  Pure power pop electro fun, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, represents the best in sugary songcraft.  Deceptively simple and catchy, it might be easy to dismiss this record as lightweight.  But don’t let your desire to dance or the seductive hook-into-your-brain melodies fool you, there’s a whole mess of romantic angst going on here as well… I mean, c’mon, they’re French.

1. Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion

A friend of mine said upon hearing this record, “this is the first Beach Boys’ album I’ve ever liked”. And I understand where he’s coming from. It’s impossible to listen to Merriweather Post Pavilion and not hear the best ideas and elements of that seminal group. But it also must be said, this sounds nothing like a Beach Boys’ record. Animal Collective have indeed decided to explore a more pop aesthetic on Merriweather, focusing on Panda Bear’s melodic vocal harmonies and sensibilities, while foregoing instinctual forays into discordance and horror, but while the sampling and electronic beats do sound “familiar” and contemporary, the term “pop”, as it applies to Animal Collective, is a relative one. Densely layered and transcendent, this is nothing short of a masterwork.

Hau’oli Makahiki Hou!

pau

The beautiful thing about writing a personal blog — you know, aside from the obvious personal stuff — is the opportunity to share something useful that might pop up in a Google search (or Bing if you prefer one giant conglomerate over another).  And while that’s certainly true of this posting, it took a little time to figure out how I was going to go about it, i.e. how personal did I want to be?

In the end, however, it was kind of a no-brainer. After many less than stellar searches of my own, it was obvious if I wanted to say something useful about syringomyelia (outside of the clinical definition), then I would need to be specific to my own personal experience as a quadriplegic. Because, ultimately, that’s what would have been most useful for me.  So personal I will be.

The salad days

Up until about four years ago — aside from the whole chronic pressure sore thing (another story for another time, though there’s plenty alluded to it on this site — directly or indirectly) — things healthwise have been pretty stellar. I have a kick-ass immune system and for a C 4-5 quadriplegic — almost 30 years postinjury — I’m in excellent shape. Simply put, I take care of myself.

Still, somewhere around 2005 I started to notice some changes happening in my body, namely sensation loss below my level of injury (in my groin, er, *cough - penis - cough*).  And while the loss was spotty at first — sometimes there, sometimes not — as time wore on it grew more and more consistent, sometimes lasting for months.  Alarmed by the progression, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor and began the process of trying to figure out what was happening to me.

The first thing that was done was to get an MRI, but because my sensation loss seemed so specifically located in my pelvic region, instead of ordering a complete scan of my spine, only one of my lower back and sacrum were taken.  A decision which, as it turns out, was grossly incomplete.  Had I seen a neurologist familiar with spinal cord injuries from the beginning, instead of my physiologist, most likely a complete set of scans would have been ordered and my situation now would be markedly different.  However, that never happened, and regardless, the radiologist at the time did see something he didn’t like, but when a request was made for further, more complete scans, my insurance provider denied it out right as “redundant”.  I was then counseled by my doctor to “keep an eye on things”, and if they seemed as though they were getting worse we could give it another go then.

Fast-forward three years, and while the sensation loss didn’t appear to be spreading to other parts of my body (as far as I could tell, anyway, with my limited sensation), I was beginning to have severe neck pain, the kind of which I hadn’t known since the time of my injury.  Wrongly or rightly — and perhaps some might say consistent with my character — I endured it for almost a year more before finally admitting I needed to see a neurologist or some sort of spine specialist about it.

Around February of 2009, after meeting with spine surgeon Bobby Tay at UCSF, a new set of MRIs revealed, not only a major chaiphosis in my neck, but a condition known as syringomyelia and a massive syrinx that ran from my level of injury at C 4-5 all the way down to the base of my spine, with a syrinx to spinal cord ratio of about 95%.  It was suggested that, given its size, it had been expanding for many years (perhaps as long as 10) and was most likely the cause of both my pelvic sensation loss and my pain.

Admittedly, looking at my MRIs that afternoon, I was both relieved and nervous.  Relieved, because at last I had a diagnosis and an explanation of what was happening to me, and nervous because, well… of two things, really; one, I’m intimately familiar with what happens to a spinal cord when it’s stretched or compressed for an extended period of time — neurons die.  And two, I was told the usual solution to this problem was surgery.

Ouch. 

And while I’m not somebody who dwells on past decisions or has regrets about things I’ve done, I do like to subscribe to the philosophy; do things for the you of today that the you of tomorrow will be thankful for. Because, c’mon, really, the last thing I want the me of tomorrow saying about the me of today is, “Gee, what a f—-n’ dumb ass”.  So, yeah, it was a little difficult not to question what the hell I was thinking for so many years.

But I digress.

So, with my head spinning, I left that initial appointment with these three things:

1. a follow-up appointment with a neurosurgeon.
2. an understanding that my syrinx was probably expanding and therefore causing more damage.
3. a desire to Google syringomyelia.

Be careful what you Google for

One of the first things I discovered about syringomyelia was that it kind of exists in that gray area of medical conditions, where it affects just enough people to draw the attention of the neuroscience community and generate a few websites, but not enough to be considered “sexy” and garner mainstream attention, celebrity spokespersons and research dollars.  All of which could go a long way in advancing the further understanding of the condition and stimulate cutting edge (no pun intended) surgical techniques for treatment.

But as I’ve said on several occasions, and I think it bears repeating here, googling medical conditions is a sketchy prospect.  On the one hand you might find what you’re looking for, but on the other, you might also find what you’re looking for.  The point being, any condition you research is going to have a list of symptoms or facts ranging from the rather benign to the downright scary, and for whatever reason our attention always seems to fall on the scary.  And mine was no exception.  But since I was already dealing with symptoms that were categorically sketchy, the things I found out about syringomyelia — including the above — were less of a shock and more informative, giving me a much more pragmatic viewpoint than I had just hours before when I was looking at my MRIs in the doctors office.

Questions to answers to questions

No doubt, having an exhaustive breakdown of syringomyelia was immensely valuable, but in the end, this information felt somewhat broad.  One of the great things about the websites I visited, however, was that most had forums, and for me this is where my diagnosis got personal and began to take shape.  But unlike most forums out there (cooking, tech, what-have-you), medical forums — 99% of the time — will never be able to give you the exact answer you’re looking for.  And how could they?  Any medical condition one might have is going to come with an infinite array of unique factors that may or may not pertain directly to a clinical diagnosis.  In other words, your mileage may vary. Which is fine, if you understand this going in, otherwise, you may come away with a skewed understanding of your particular situation and a very depressing outlook on your future.  Because, medical forums are about people with problems looking for answers, they’re generally not — in my experience anyway — happy-feely places loaded with success stories.  Which isn’t a bad thing –  there are valuable nuggets of wisdom to be found from other peoples difficult experiences and/or questions, you just need to know how to apply them.

Opinions are like…

True (if you carry that expression out to its natural conclusion). But if I took anything away from my research, it was this; find a neurosurgeon experienced with syringomyelia and get several opinions.  Obvious advice, to be sure, but it’s easier said than done.  As I said above, syringomyelia is not the most common of neurological disorders, and even if it were, it’s not like I attend cocktail parties with neurosurgeons.  No, aside from Dean Chou recommended by UCSF, I had to bite the bullet, tell family and friends of my condition, and ask if they could pass on my situation to their friends and family to see if anyone knew of any good neurosurgeons.   Within two weeks — surprisingly or not so surprisingly — I had six, very well-qualified neurosurgeons to choose from.  From these, I chose to schedule appointments with three; Bruce McCormack at the Neurospine Institute Medical Group, Larry Shuer at Stanford and Langston Holly/Ulrich Batzdorf at UCLA.

From my research, among the more important things I learned before going into these appointments, was that the standard way of dealing with syringomyelia was to insert a shunt into the spinal cord to drain the cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) from the syrinx.  I pretty much knew that, unilaterally, this would be the recommended course of treatment, no matter how much I wanted to hear of some other new technique that would avoid placing this kind of hardware in my spine.  Even still, I had questions; where would the shunt be placed, how long would the surgery be and what would it entail, who would be assisting with the surgery, i.e. a physician’s assistant or another neurosurgeon, how long would I be in the hospital, how long would my recovery be once I was released, and — you know, because one has to have priorities — would I be able to ski again?

But also — and almost equally important — I wanted to get a sense of who would be working with me, i.e. did we gel and what did my intuition tell me about them — understanding full well neurosurgeons aren’t typically the most effervescent crayons in the box. In the end, however, if you’re going to be cutting into my spinal cord, I’d more than likely go with skill over a sparkly countenance, but I’m also wise enough to know you can have both… or you should at least look for it.

Of the four doctors I met with, their experience, opinion on treatment and personalities varied enough to differentiate them from one another.  The first doctor I met with, Dean Chou, suggested two shunts; one directly below my level of injury, and a second lower down, in case the syrinx was segmented.  The shunts would run from my spinal cord and drain into the cavity around my lungs, requiring another incision and procedure from the front.  Bruce McCormack recommended essentially the same thing, however, felt that two shunts were unnecessary due to the fact that syrinxes are rarely segmented.  He also felt that the shunt should drain into the abdomen region rather than around the lungs, a more typical location.  Both Larry Shuer and Langston Holly also recommended single shunts, but unlike the first two doctors both wanted me to have a CT myelogram before they could say anything specific about where the shunt would be placed.  The difference between Shuer and Holly, was that Larry Shuer also suggested that, given the extreme size of my syrinx, an alternative, more experimental procedure, which didn’t involve shunting, might be a possibility — a terminal ventriculostomy.  A suggestion that admittedly piqued my interest.

Personality wise, I felt comfortable with all four of these doctors — somewhat surprising given the aforementioned rep neurosurgeons have. But in the end I narrowed it down to Larry Shuer and Langston Holly, if for no other reason than they both requested more nuanced scans.

[Side note: I met with both Dean Chou and Bruce McCormack at the beginning of 2009 and Larry Shuer and Langston Holly at the end of spring.  At each of the initial two appointments, I asked them if surgery needed to be done immediately — my ski season was just getting under way and I wanted to know if either felt it would be unwise to put things off until it was over.  Both doctors felt the best course of action would be to have surgery as soon as possible, but that given the look of my scans, waiting a few months would probably be fine.  Each issued a caveat, however, saying that while my symptoms didn’t appear to be rapidly changing, a jarring accident could change that — there was really no way of knowing.  So in the end, it came down to risk versus reward; and since I had no idea what would happen during or after any surgery, but I knew I had the ability to ski at that time, the coarse I chose was to ski my brains out that winter/spring and let the consequences be damned. Carpe diem]

To shunt or not to shunt

Truth be told, I was having a difficult time wrapping my head around the whole shunting part of the surgery.  I understood surgery was necessary — that was a no-brainer — if I didn’t do anything things would continue to get worse, and if I had surgery, well, at least I had a chance things would improve.  But shunts — aside from the risk of infection or the fact that they usually need to be replaced at some point due to dislodgment or clogging — seemed so… oh, I don’t know… clumsy.  Which only hammered home how little was known about syringomyelia and the lack of cutting edge surgical techniques in its treatment.  Aside from that, and probably more importantly, I didn’t really see myself as the kind of guy who had hardware inside him — I see myself as a strong, healthy individual and not one who needs artificial parts to function properly.

So what to do? 

No doubt, the option to go with the terminal ventriculostomy, and avoid a shunt altogether, was appealing if for no other reason than that.  But, the caveat with that technique — aside from the surgeon who suggested it had never performed one before (which truthfully wasn’t an issue, given that either way my spinal cord would be cut into) — was the simple fact that it wasn’t done very often. And when it was, the little information I could find, seemed to suggest it was only marginally successful.  Still, the pull in that direction was strong — I really didn’t want a shunt. And besides, it could be argued, given my unique situation, I was the ideal candidate.  But if I was going to roll the dice, and be somewhat of a guinea pig, I wanted to feel confident my reasoning was sound.  Meaning; was I avoiding the shunt because I didn’t see myself as a shunt kind of guy? Or, given my extreme situation, was a terminal ventriculostomy a truly valid option?

Well, after much research, soul-searching, and the advice of a cousin of mine who’s a spine surgeon — I decided to take the more conventional route and go with the shunt.  It wasn’t an easy decision, by any means, but given the risks versus rewards — namely if it didn’t work I’d have to get right back under the knife again — it seemed like the prudent thing to do.  Of course, there was really no way of knowing what would be best, but it was a decision where — regardless of the outcome — I could live with my reasoning.

Yeah, but what about…

When ski season came to a close at the end of April, it was alarmingly clear I needed to get on with scheduling surgery. I had taken several hard spills over the course of the winter and spring, and whether or not it had anything to with my escalating symptoms of more sensation loss and weakness in my left arm (some would suggest it did), things were definitely getting worse and needed to be arrested.

However, here’s the thing; while I was mostly comfortable with my decision about the surgery — even though I had yet to choose a surgeon — what I wasn’t sure about was my postsurgical recovery.  Definitely a concern, if for no other reason than it would help me mentally prepare for what lay ahead.  The doctors said it would be about a month, but their experience was primarily with able-bodied persons — or at the very least, paraplegics — and their abilities and needs were far different from my own.  As a fairly high-level quadriplegic, just getting in and out of bed could be problematic; I have to be lifted, which, under the best of circumstances, stretches my spine — a potential issue after major spinal surgery.  Also, in order to do pressure relief while in my chair, I need to do a bit of a yoga move, where I lean over onto my knees, arms dangling at my side, with my head almost touching my toes to get the full pressure off of my butt — a  serious stretch, which, again, seemed like a potential issue after spinal surgery.

So back to the forums I went, trying to get some sort of sense of what I could expect.  And while I couldn’t find a single quad who’d gone through this type of surgery for me to bounce my questions off of (though they’ve got to be out there), I was able to get in touch with some paras, and what they said differed greatly from the prognosis my doctors gave me.  Eye-opening, to say the least; recovery — based on their anecdotes — was a rather protracted and difficult affair.  And while it wasn’t easy to hear, it was important to wrap my head around, because in the end it would serve to prepare me for either outcome — short and simple or long and challenging.

But obviously it wasn’t the short and simple that concerned me, it was the long and challenging.  And not for the reasons one might think. I’m perfectly fine with physical challenges.  Difficult or otherwise, it’s the story of my life.  But if I’m going to couple a risky surgery, that carries with it a possibility of inflicting more harm than good, with that of a protracted recovery, well, then I better be ready to commit to a new direction in my life.  Which I was (am).  But I’m also all about committing to the present moment. And at that time — despite the growing sensation loss and weakness in my left arm — I felt I was at a crossroads.  In other words, if there was something I wanted to do, I should seize the day and do it, as there were no guarantees after the surgery.

And so for about three days there, I seriously thought about packing up and going to South America or Spain.  I’d never been out of the country before (aside from surf trips into neighboring Baja) and I was perfectly willing to accept any collateral damage that came with putting off surgery in exchange for traveling with the strength and physical mobility I still had.  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want to lose any more function — I’m a high enough quad as it is — but like I said, the surgery was risky and came with no guarantees.

In the end, however, I decided to go with getting the surgery and put off my traveling until next year. I felt I had enough information about the recovery and faith in my own stellar health to roll the dice and attempt to arrest the problem where it was.  Sure, others had a tough go of it and, yeah, I was a quadriplegic, but damn if I wasn’t going to be some sort of postsurgical, medical journal worthy, recovery phenomenon.

The first slice

On September 21st, almost 6 months after my diagnosis, I had my surgery at UCLA with neurosurgeons Langston Holly and Ulrich Batzdorf.  Of course, I was out cold for the entire six hours of the procedure, but roughly here’s what went down (or so I’ve been told): In order to facilitate the draining of the syrinx, the surgeons cut into my back between my shoulders, cut through the dura surrounding my spine, removed some bone at T 5-6 to access my spinal cord (a location chosen for its proximity to my level of injury, but far enough away so if the spinal cord was damaged during surgery I wouldn’t lose any mobility function), inserted a 6 inch shunt into my spinal cord, which would drain the CSF into my dura and be reabsorbed back into my body, closed me up and then stapled the whole thing shut with 23 staples. Simple.

All told, I was in the hospital four days, released and spent two more weeks in Palm Desert recovering at my folk’s house before heading back to Berkeley to resume some semblance of my previous life.  As far as the recovery went, I was spot on — there were no medical hiccups and I healed quickly.  Of course, I’ve never had surgery before, so I don’t have anything to compare it to, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say, yeah, I’m some sort of postsurgical, medical journal worthy, recovery phenomenon.

The hospital stay itself, was a bit of a blur — drugs and anesthesia have a way of doing that, I suppose — but that’s probably not a bad thing considering the circumstances. Palm Desert, on the other hand, was an unexpected and memorable gift. I anticipated the benefits of being around family, but I didn’t really consider what that would mean outside of the obvious loving vibes, great food, etc..  The relaxed nature of the desert, the hot weather, not having to worry about making meals (I ate enough seafood to be rung out and used as a mercury source for a large thermometer company), allowed me to work on my only two self assigned jobs of healing and completing the first season of Dexter.

During those two weeks, I was able to get into my chair at least two or three times a day for about an hour at a time, and that was more than sufficient — any longer and my dysreflexia would kick in.  As I said above, I don’t have much experience in these matters, but I’d say if you’ve got a surgery to recover from, you might want to call the Schmiesing’s in Palm Desert.  Because truthfully, I’d say my speedy recovery owes as much to my folks’ unconditional hospitality as it does to the incredible healing abilities of my body.

Home again, home again

On October 6th, two weeks after my surgery, my staples were removed and I was given the green light by my neurosurgeons to head back to Berkeley.  At the appointment, they asked me if I noticed any changes for the better or worse, and I found the question difficult to answer.  All things considered, I felt pretty good, but until I was able to return to my normal life’s activities, I had no frame of reference.  I hadn’t exercised in two weeks, my muscles had atrophied and I was still feeling somewhat dysreflexic.  I didn’t feel any damage had been caused by the surgery, but again, it was difficult to say until things re-equalized — my sensation in general is difficult to pin down and really a matter of nuanced degrees.

My instructions for Berkeley were simple: no skiing (drag city), no pushing for at least two weeks, and then to take it slowly after that, seeing how I felt on a day-to-day basis.  Two weeks on the nose, I was back on the track, trying to pick up where I left off, but it felt as though I hadn’t worked out for about a year.  I was weak — my left arm especially, locking up every third rotation — and the time it usually took me to do a mile and a half, I could only do a mile.  My incision healed magnificently, but the affected areas from the syrinx, not so much, and it became patently obvious this portion of my recovery might take longer than I hoped.

But how much?

That was then, this is now (December 11, second follow-up appointment et al.)

“So when you say subtle changes for the better, what exactly do you mean?”  I asked my doctor.  “Subtle seems kind of vague… like the word may.  Like in a news story; “the bag may have contained heroin.”  Which is true.  But it may have also contained donuts.  So is subtle something I could see?”

The doctor smiled slightly, getting my meaning. “Yes.  There’s a subtle change in the size of the syrinx at the base of your spine and up towards the level of your injury.  It shows up as more definition on the MRI.”

“Cool.  A little better is better than a little worse.  But is it going to drain more?”

“It should. Typically, in cases such as yours, and for reasons we don’t quite understand, the drainage at this early stage is slight, but in the coming months we should see a more substantial decrease in the syrinx’s size.”

“But what about my arm?  It definitely feels weaker than before the surgery.  Especially when I’m on the track pushing, it’s almost like it becomes paralyzed or something.”  I demonstrated my pushing motion.  “Every fourth push or so, I have to stop, wait a second, let it recharge, and then go again.  It’s very frustrating.”

“Well, there’s nothing on the MRI to suggest it’s neurologically related to the syrinx, so perhaps it’s a fatigue issue with your deltoids.  Try drinking some Gatorade a half-hour before you work out and see if that helps.”

“Gatorade?”  I laughed, almost in disbelief.  “You think it’s an electrolyte thing?”

“Perhaps, but it’s all I can suggest at the moment.  Give it a try”.

Okay, so I was expecting something a little more neurological from my neurosurgeon, but okay, Gatorade, I can go with that.  It’s a bit low-fi, but it’s simple enough to put into action.

“So, can I ski this winter?”

Say yes.  Say yes.  Say yes.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, no.  It’s still too early.”

“What about spring?”.

“Maybe.  Let’s see how the MRIs look in March and we’ll discuss it then.”

I digested that for a second then asked, “And why can’t I ski exactly?”

The entire room burst into laughter; my dad, my good friend and, yes, my neurosurgeon… everyone but I. Clearly my extraordinary healing abilities weren’t appreciated.

“Because you just had major spinal surgery.”  My doctor said, still laughing.  “We usually like people to wait at least a year before doing anything extreme.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.  But I mean, what are we afraid is going to happen?”

“The shunt hasn’t had enough time to secure itself and could come loose”.

“Fair enough.”  I said, understanding March still gave me a couple of months to ski out the season.

He paused for a moment, looking me in the eyes, to confirm I understood the gravity of my situation, then asked, “So when in March would you like to schedule your MRI and follow up?”

“The first week.”  I said without hesitation.  “Definitely the first week”.

And there you have it, three months into this whole shunt thing and the doctor’s orders are to drink Gatorade and don’t ski… who would’ve thought (well, the skiing part, yeah, I would’ve thought).  All in all, I have to say, I feel pretty good; the weakness in my left arm is still a major issue and I’m still having some pain in my neck from time to time, but I’m drinking the Gatorade and trying to work my way through it.  Quite honestly, I think there’s more going on than an electrolyte deficiency, but either way, it’s encouraging to know that whatever is happening, it’s not related to the shunt.  Because the fact is, like it or not, I’m now a shunt type of guy.

*Actually, there was a celebrity spokesperson on one of the sites I visited, a hobbit — or should I say Sean Astin — of “Lord of the Rings” and “Rudy” fame.  Not exactly an A-list celebrity, I know, and truthfully I don’t even know if the PSA he did ran anywhere other than the particular website it was on, but he is a celebrity nonetheless, and I’ve got to give him credit for taking the time to do it.  So, yeah, thanks, Sean.

pau.

September 21 — International Day of Peace a.k.a. Cut Tony’s Spinal Cord Open And Give Him a Shunt For That Syringomyelia Thing Day

3 a.m. — Yes, 3 a.m.. For whatever reason surgery is best done before dawn like fishing and surfing.  Unfortunately a quadriplegic doesn’t just open the eyes, throw on some sweats and get out on the road with commuter cup of coffee in hand.  No, I open my eyes, catheterize, stretch, throw on some sweats, get in the chair and go… commuter cup of coffee not in hand.  One hour minimum.  2 1/2 hours eyes open to go on an average day.  So, yeah, I may get up before you, but no doubt when I’m at last ready to roll up to that pink box of a baker’s dozen, you’ll have beaten me to the best donuts.

4:15 a.m. — Thirsty, hungry (you know the presurgery drill) and on the 405 heading to Santa Monica.  Oil refineries actually look kind of cool in the dark.  Come to think of it, most of that part of the 405 looks better in the dark.  I must be slightly nervous because I have the chills.  Hadn’t noticed signs of nervousness until that moment.  No… seriously.

5 a.m. — Check-in at UCLA Medical Center.  “We have private rooms available for a little extra charge.  Would you like one?”, the woman asks as she takes down all my presurgery information; name, insurance numbers, power of attorney.  A vision of the humongous, wheezing carp man flashes before my eyes.  “Absolutely”, I say.  “What box do I check?”.

5:20 a.m. — Surgery is a group hug.  Or at least that’s how it seems, as a group of about 15 of us are led on a winding Wonka-esque tour through hallways and eventually into an elevator by a cheerful nurse/guide/Oompa-Loompa.  “We’re newlyweds.”, the cute girl says to me, crammed into the corner hugging her husband.  “Really?”, I say. “Well, I hope this isn’t your honeymoon”.  Next stop: the surgical on deck circle.

5:45 a.m. — After hearing more details about my skiing addiction and yoga-style stretch routine, the surgeons reconvene and decide to move the surgery down a couple of vertebrates.  I wasn’t privy to the meeting, but I’m told it looked like a football huddle over MRIs.  Medical X’s and O’s. I’m impressed that such a major shift in surgical plans could be done so last-minute. I’m tapped and ready for the drugs.

6 a.m. — Begin the begin.  Here we go!  As we enter the elevator to head to the operating room, I feel myself start to fade midconversation with the anesthesiologist.  I close my eyes… you know, just for a second and then…

12 p.m. or so — I blink and I wonder if we’re ready to do surgery yet.  Truthfully, this elevator ride is a bit of a blur, but I remember feeling talkative, happy and as my good friend said, “mellow (as in high)”.  That said, it really felt like I had just blinked — that six hours condensed into a nanosecond.  I’m still trying to wrap my head around this one, but I did have surgery… that much I know.

Approaching the break

Because I had some complications during my surgery or because, well, it’s standard procedure after something as invasive as this (leaking issues, I assume), they wanted me to spend at least one night on a monitored floor.  Which — even in my postsurgical three hours of sleep haze — struck me as something that wouldn’t be working out out in my favor.

Don’t get me wrong, I was all for the monitored floor if the docs felt it was necessary.  It’s just that the incessantly loud beeping of my 91-year-old roommate’s machines going off, every minute on the minute, whenever his heart rate went above a certain level was nothing short of a cruel joke.  I was exhausted, and between the pain, my upright position and the noise, I was finding it difficult to see the benefits of being monitored.  And this was only the early afternoon.

Sleep — despite all the chemicals bivouacked in my bloodstream — did not come.  And as the hours passed, and the absurdity of the situation seemed to grow, so did a certain challenge — how long would my uber patience last before reaching its breaking point?  In my favor, I had my beautiful, loving family and good friends to keep me company and to squeeze my Dilaudid Pez dispenser pump whenever the pain began to tip the scales, but at my disadvantage, were the hospital machinations themselves.

At 1:30 a.m, after having just slept for only an hour and a half, I was awoken from my Ambien stupor by the “Lift Team” wanting to transfer me to the special bed I was supposed to be in when I arrived in the room 13 1/2 hours prior.  Not quite all the way in my head yet, but alert enough to recognize the “Lift Team” (emblazoned on the chest of their navy blue polos) had no idea what type of surgery I’d just had — nor any understanding of my disability, let alone any clue as to what my doctor’s orders were — I, my sisters and my buddy John (more forthright and animated than I’ve ever seen him before), took it upon ourselves to “educate” the “Lift Team” on the proper way to transfer a post-spinal surgery quadriplegic from one bed to another.  30 minutes later I was safely wide-awake in my new bed ready to tackle the rest of the morning’s obstacles.

As for my roommate, I don’t think he was faring any better than I (you know, aside from the fact that he was to be able to sleep soundly through his machine’s call to arms), and quite frankly, as far as hospital roommates go, he wasn’t that bad.  In fact, I felt sorry for him.  The nurses, save one (Jing, the caffeine infused hummingbird assigned to our room), for whatever reason, treated him as some sort of demanding nuisance — which he wasn’t.  And any minor request he had, say, like, needing water or having to pee, was greeted with a crackly, impatient “yes, what do you want?”  over the intercom.

When around 4:15 a.m. he had to catheterize (I had a foley in, thank Jesus), the charge nurse — not the softness cotton ball in the bag — arrived, kit in hand, and stepped behind his curtain with officious purpose, I foretold doom.  Not a minute later, screams of pain and what I can only assume where expletives in Japanese, began filling the room and spilling out into the hallway.

“You wanted to have this done, Mr. Nakamura”, she said firmly,  “Now, please relax.  It’s not that bad”.

Okay, I’m going to interrupt things here for a second to drop a little clinical/physiological science on what’s happening behind Mr. Nakamura’s curtain for those of you out there who might be uninitiated or unfamiliar with the joys of catheterization.  Basically what’s going on is this; a sterile, “flexible” silicon/rubber catheter tube — most likely larger in diameter than the urethra — is being inserted into Mr. Nakamura’s penis, pushed up through the sphincter muscle (essentially, a closed door) and into his bladder to drain the urine.  This, I might add, under most any circumstance, is not a comfortable procedure.  I myself do it 4 times a day, but then I can’t feel any pain below my level of injury (which includes my Johnson)… Mr. Nakamura apparently can.

Now hearing the cries of pain, hummingbird nurse came darting into the room and ducked behind the curtain to see what was happening.

“You need to use more lubricant than that”.  She exclaimed.  “That’s not enough.”

“WTF?  Not enough lubricant?  Who are these people?”, I thought, wincing in solidarity.  I couldn’t believe my ears.

When the charge nurse finished with Mr. Nakamura and started to head out the door, she stopped, turned, and with a perturbed look on her face and box of urine in her hands, looked at my sisters, my friend and I and said — as if she’d just seen us together for the first time that shift; “This isn’t a lobby.  Only one person is allowed in here at a time.”

Now I say, “as if she’d just seen us together for the first time”, because she’d been in and out of the room twice already — once to take my vitals and another to take Mr. Nakamura’s, and neither time did she have a problem with our numbers.  And why should she?  My posse was quiet, respectful and above all out-of-the-way.  And not only that, they were my advocates and my company during my miserable sleeplessness phase, i.e. the 24 hours previous.  In fact, given the advocacy done by my sisters on Mr. Nakamura’s behalf, I’d say if you took a poll of the two paying residents of the room, the results would be unanimous in favor of keeping things how they were.

Don’t get me wrong, I completely understood where the sudden need to enforce the rules was coming from — she did after all just get an embarrassing lesson in the medical benefits of appropriate lubrication where a human orifice is concerned — but that’s exactly why we chose not to pay attention to her request… it came from a place not of necessity and logic, but rather out of personal frustration.  And truthfully, except for at that moment, I don’t think she really cared one way or the other.

Is that where it is?

I consider myself a very patient person — super monklike, really, if you want to get right down to it.  And that’s true.  If being a quadriplegic has taught me anything, it’s taught me that very little in my life happens the moment I want it to.  I rely on other people for just about everything, and at the very least, that means I’m subject to somebody else’s timing — however that manifests itself.  For the most part this is cool and presents me with challenges that are eternally rewarding, but there are times, say like when I’ve barely slept in over 24 hours, eaten nothing but ice chips in that same amount of time, have 23 staples in my back and am one good solid body shake away from being a Dilaudid and anesthesia fizz, that I realize I might be less than super monklike after all.

At around 11 a.m., after serving my requisite time in the monitored room, and apparently having been “rehabilitated”, a hospital representative/”care specialist” (also emblazoned on the chest of her navy blue polo) gave me clearance to move to my private room on the orthopedic wing, where they would better be able to meet my needs as a post spinal surgery “guest”.

“So they’re moving me now, yeah?”, I asked the “care specialist”, itching to be heading somewhere where I could actually get some sleep.

“Well…”, she started to say.

Uh-oh.  Here it comes.

“We’ll need to get these IVs unhooked and drain your bag, and call somebody to take you over, but that shouldn’t take very long”.  She continued.

“Cool.” I said.  But wait, didn’t she say “shouldn’t… shouldn’t take very long?”  She did.

“So we’re talking, like, 10 minutes or so, yeah?”, I asked.

“Something like that.”  She said dismissively, closing her clipboard and getting up to leave.

“Because I really need to sleep… seriously.”

“Don’t Worry, someone will be in shortly.”  She said, then disappeared from sight.

But despite her semi-placating reassurances and use of the words shouldn’t and shortly (which under normal circumstances — outside of this room — wouldn’t be ambiguous) I managed to maintain — albeit with a bit of extra effort on my part — a curious but steadfast optimism that I would indeed be moving — as she said — shortly.

At 12 o’clock, however — after many attempts at trying to hail somebody to take care of the two very simple things that needed to be taken care of in order for me to move — my optimism had waned (or should I say disappeared completely) and I began to notice a transformation taking place within me that wasn’t altogether recognizable… irritation, delirium and impatience.  Even if somebody came at exactly that moment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for at least another hour, as they would need to check my incision, change the dressing and do the whole vital thing on the other floor.  So for me, each tick of the clock represented another hour before I would get to sleep.

By 12:30 p.m. I was fast approaching my breaking point and seriously feared I would lose my shit if something didn’t happen soon.  Fortunately for me — and, I suppose everyone around me — a guy from the “moving team” showed up with a bounce in his step, an attitude to match and orders to whisk me away to slumberland.

“Ready to go, man?”  He asked.

“Yeah, like you can’t possibly know.”  I said.  “But –”

He looked at the cornucopia of bags hanging from the IV drug mobile beside me and said, “I can’t take you with these IVs like this, man — there’s no pole on the bed”.

“I know.  And they also need to drain my bag.  We’ve been trying to get someone in here for the last hour and a half to do it, but no one comes”.

“I’ll see what I can do”.  He said, and took off to wherever one would go to find staff that doesn’t want to be found.

When he returned some 10 minutes later, he was alone.  Not surprisingly, but I wanted to believe he’d have more cachet than we did wearing the hospital’s khaki dockers and blue polo shirt homage to Southwest Airlines.

“No luck, huh?”  I said, knowingly, trying not to show my sarcasm and frustration, but wanting to be real enough to connect with someone official who could rally behind my cause.

He surveyed the faces in the room — mine in particular — and like a dog or a bee who can sense fear, he recognized our impending defeat.  “I’ll try again in a couple of minutes, don’t worry.  In the meantime I’ll see if I can get a pole or this bed, man.”

“Dude,”  I said, stopping him before he could reach the door.  “Don’t leave me.  Seriously.  You’re the first person I’ve seen who wants to get me out of here.  If you get a page or something and have to go somewhere else in the hospital, and then get another one, it might be an hour or two before I see you again… and I don’t think I’m going to make it that long.  Seriously.”

He stepped back toward the bed, put his hand on the edge, smiled and said.  “Don’t worry, man… I’ve got your back”. And then stepped out of the room to look for an IV pole.

20 minutes later I was at last being wheeled down sun lit hallways by my new friend to my new room.  With each click of the wheels on the polished linoleum floor, the near coup d’état Godzilla-like anxiety that threatened to bring down this UCLA Hospital, all its satellites, Santa Monica and Tokyo was being replaced by a more benevolent Gandhi like peace.  And while I hands-down prefer my normal peace and love equilibrium to the unpredictable reptilian one, it was interesting get so close to — what I can only assume — was my tail swinging, firebreathing breaking point.

Like I said, I consider myself a patient person and so to get to where I was — not by just one thing, but an accumulation of enough little things (or large, as the case may be) lined up in the right order  — was a bit of a trick from the get go and one not likely to be repeated (knock on wood).  Even still, it’s nice to find out that whatever the circumstances might be, I’m going to have to be pushed pretty far out into the stratosphere before I’m going to want to take out Tokyo… or a local hospital.

In the end, what I’ve really hoped to set up in my protracted description of this “viscerally challenging” first day and a half  — and truthfully I can only recall about 70% of it, the other 30% is lost in a chemical blackbox somewhere in a anesthesia and its byproducts fog — is that in no small way I made it through it all because of the supportive people around me.

Despite the seemingly full frontal assault of indifference by some (knowing full well that the “institution” had something to do with this), it was dwarfed by the overwhelming concern and loving engagement of others — from the highly professional medical team that performed my surgery, to the kid who stuck around to move me to my other room, to the hundreds of folks who sent their prayers, words of support and good vibes my way before, during and after the surgery, and to the endlessly — and I do mean endlessly — mind blowing commitment and love of my friends and family who left their homes and lives not only to advocate for me, but to just be with me.

And when all is said and done — and especially after seeing the above photo — I’d walk through hellfire and back to experience that.

Big mahalos all, I couldn’t have done it without you.

pau.

1980: A reputation, especially a bad one, is a difficult thing to shake. 

When I was first told the second attempt at my neck surgery would take place at Pomona Valley Medical Center (PVMC), I’m not going to lie, I was scared shitless.  I’d never been the place before, but the stories that made their way around the rehab hospital were the stuff of medical nightmares.  In my mind, PVMC was that house in your childhood neighborhood that nobody wanted to go near and was occupied — at best — with a family of cannibals and at worst, well, a family of cannibals with an appetite.  People went in, but they didn’t come out.  Posterior and anterior neck surgery was bad enough, having it done in Satan’s “pick and pull”, only added to my uneasiness.

On the day before the surgery, I was strapped to a gurney, loaded into one of the rehab hospital’s vans and transported down Garey Ave. to the hospital some 15 minutes away.  And while that part of Pomona isn’t exactly the most dogeared chapter in the “Great Views of California” book, it was at least a view and had I been able to see it I would’ve cherished it like it was my last.  Macabre?  Perhaps, but it was something to hold on to — even if it was a view of distracted commuters, carbon monoxide poisoned trees and mini malls.

When we arrived at the hospital, they unloaded me in the parking lot and wheeled me some 10 yards to the emergency room entrance.  Inside, my eyes hesitated to adjust to the dimly lit hallway.  The half covered, long row of fluorescent lights overhead sputtered and blinked and barely illuminated the space with an anemic gray-green hue.  Any hope I had that the hospital’s rumored reputation would be assuaged by a deceptive but comforting ambience or welcoming cadre of sweet nurses was duly crushed in those initial moments.  I now waited to be greeted by a neurosurgeon with dirty hands, a utility belt loaded with dull, antiquated instruments and a bloodstained smock that read, “my other grill is an operating table”.

“Mr. Schmiesing,” he would say between puffs on a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, “A table in the morgue opened up rather unexpectedly and we’d love to get you in for your surgery now if we could.  There’s a bit more light down there and I think we’ll have the anesthesiologist for most of it”

By the time I was checked in and taken to my room, my experience in the place was fast becoming an unspooling ball of confirmed negative expectations.  The room I was assigned to, a six bed set up, was empty except for a grotesquely large fat man in the far corner bed by the window wheezing like a drowning carp.  The lights, as with the entrance to the hospital, struggled to illuminate the space but seemed enigmatically effective at beating back any comforting spectrum of natural light that dared enter the room.

My bed, praise Allah, was by the door, far away from Death’s next fare, but aside from that fortunate spatial arrangement, its elevated side rails, made it look more like a cage than a welcoming alternative to the gurney.  Over the bed, bolted to the head and foot boards, running lengthwise down the center, was a thick steel bar with a dirty metal triangle dangling from it by a steel chain.  Sketchy though it was, the setup wasn’t unfamiliar to me — paraplegics at the rehab hospital used something similar to grab and hoist themselves up into a sitting position — but why it was only over my bed, a quadriplegic with no ability to use it, was a mystery to me and not altogether comforting in regard to what the staff knew about my disability.

“Are we ready to transfer to the bed?”, an orderly asked, unstrapping the belts that kept me secured to the gurney and then rolling me partly on my side while two other orderlies shoved a large plastic transfer board under my back.

“Uh, I guess we are, but –”  I started to say, knowing it wasn’t a question but still wanting to let them know they should go easy with me.  And before I could say anything further, they slid me onto the bed with a bounce and pulled the board out with the same disregard for my comfort as when they shoved it in.

Lying there, staring at the steel bar looming a mere 3 feet from my face, as a nurse hooked the night drainage bag to the side of the bed, covered me, and then pulled the side railings up with a jolting clang, I wanted only one thing; to call the whole thing off and get the hell out of there.

“I don’t want to do this.”  I said to my mom as soon as the nurse left the room.

“I know you don’t.”  My mom answered, sitting down in a chair beside me.  “I know you don’t.”

And just as she was about to reach out to comfort me, there was a strange metallic cracking sound behind my head and the steel bar above me began to fall.  I say began, but began isn’t quite accurate, it simply fell.  And as heavy metal objects often will, it fell with great velocity and intention — coming at me so fast I didn’t even have time to close my eyes.  And then Bam!, 2 inches from my face it stopped with a bed rattling explosion.

Dumbfounded and in shock, I couldn’t say a word.  Somewhere in my adrenaline filled brain neurons were frantically trying to connect the dots as to what the hell just happened and were failing miserably.  Was it a dream? A joke?  Was I dead?  I mean, if avoiding surgery was what I was after, well, death via a crushed skull was one way to go about it.  So did I will it to happen? I didn’t know. Nothing was clicking.

And then I lost it — physically, emotionally, psychologically — that was it.  I was done.  And I began to cry.  From deep within me it came, like vomit; everything, all of it — the fear, the frustration, the doubt — anything I’d pushed below the surface out of necessity, function or pride found its way back to the fore.  It was at once both embarrassing and cathartic, but mostly it was just honest — a pure, visceral truth.  My mom tried to comfort me, and while her touch was reassuring, what I really needed was time.  Because all those neurons, just moments before, that couldn’t find their mark would sort themselves out again, my breathing would return its appropriate autonomic pace, I would be relatively baggage free from my colon to my frontal lobes, and I would once again realize I was in Pomona (or Hell), in a hospital room a mere 24 hours away from anterior and posterior cervical fusion.

Bad blood

That night, needless to say, I didn’t sleep very well.  I laid there with my eyes open for most of it, kept awake by the gurgling breath of the carp in the corner and the fear that the bar — despite the dubious reassurances to the contrary — would once again try to bludgeon me.  But more than this, I was beginning to feel like that guy in the joke who’s asked God to show him some sort of sign while all the while ignoring the lightning that’s striking the ground around him. A fact which, quite frankly, was making it difficult for me to reconcile how things couldn’t get worse… which, of course, they did.

In the morning when they began to prep me for surgery, among other things, they gave me a transfusion of several liters of blood.  Being anemic* — and a quadriplegic — they felt it was the only way to keep my blood pressure up and stable while they did their little cutting/fusion thing on my neck.  But as soon as that blood entered my bloodstream and started to circulate throughout my body, I began to have a reaction to it.  At first, it was just a hot, itchy sensation, but soon after it became something much worse; my hands and face began to swell, hives broke out all over my body, and it was only a matter of time before my esophagus would join in the fun as well.  Seeing what was happening, the nurses stopped the transfusion and quickly injected me with an epinephrine, a steroid or some sort of Benadryl derivative to prevent me from going into anaphylaxis.

“That’s strange.”  One of the nurses said, detaching the connection from my arm.  “I’ve never seen that happen before.”

“Really?”  I thought.  “What a surprise.  Maybe we should consult the PVMC Ouija board to see what to do next”.

“We’ll wash the proteins and see if that works.”  She continued, “That’s usually all we need to do and you should still be ready in time for your surgery “.  And then left the room with the offensive sack of blood.

In the meantime, my head was spinning with disbelief and I wasn’t altogether confident about the “dirty” blood now circulating throughout my body.  I may have been anaphylaxis free, but my skin was still crawling and itching in places I didn’t even think I could feel.  And truth be told, the whole  “washing the proteins” thing seemed to have a faint whiff of bullshit to it and felt like another way of saying, “Oops, my bad.  I’ll go get the good stuff now”, which didn’t exactly boost my comfort level for another go around of transfusions.

But comfortable or not, some twenty minutes later, just as the Raid was starting to work its magic on the insects under my skin, the nurse returned with the newly “laundered” sack of blood and hooked me up for “transfusion take two: the redux”. The difference this time being, the concerned looks of everybody in the room as they waited to see what would happen next — a wait, as it turned out, which wasn’t very long, as the previous symptoms came crawling back with each pump of my heart.

Again, I was immediately detached from the offensive sack of blood, injected with whatever drug they injected me with before and found myself, once again, fat faced and itchy, surrounded by a bunch of perplexed health-care workers collectively uttering phrases such as; “this is so strange”, “I’ve never…” and “I don’t know what’s going on”.

For me, however, it was no longer strange nor perplexing.  As far as I was concerned, PVMC had made its point and with impressive efficacy.  There’s no doubt prejudice and reputation had something to do with it — things were colored by reputation from the beginning — but this haunted hospital stuff, with the sickly fluorescent lights, dying, wheezing fat men, tainted blood and guillotine deathbeds were beyond the pale, and I was more than ready to close the chapter on this living Stephen King novel.

In the end, it made little difference what I or anyone thought or wanted to do.  The fact was, if they couldn’t give me blood then they couldn’t safely do surgery.  And my neurosurgeon, who was not a member of the PVMC staff, didn’t have anything invested in forging ahead regardless.  Even still, the strange circumstances and happenings — and I implore anyone to find their equal that isn’t fiction — were enough to give me pause. At the time it seemed as though there was something malevolent was at work, but looking at it now, I’m not so sure.

For starters, I didn’t have a go through an extremely risky surgery and protracted recovery.  Sure, I would have to wear my halo brace for a few months more, but as miserable as those twice-weekly screw tightening sessions were — and trust me, they were miserable — there wasn’t any risk of death or paralysis (At least not for me, anyway. The doctor who tightened the screws into my skull, well, she ultimately became the source of many homicidal fantasies… but that’s another story).  Also, my friends and family — particularly my mother — were spared an agonizing day of worry, pacing hospital hallways and drinking nasty hospital coffee.  And lastly — and perhaps most importantly — I learned valuable lessons in both the power of reputation as a guide for selecting a hospital and how to use my intuition to recognize unconcealed signs from God.  Both of which came in handy in the years to follow.

So I share with you the above experience because on the 21st of this month I will be having another go at spinal surgery.  And while the circumstances this time are different – the diagnosis is syringomyelia (more on that in the next post), it’s at UCLA not PVMC and, of course, I’m older, wiser and definitely more zen than I was at 16 — that last experience, “valuable” as it was, has made surgery of any kind a difficult thing to wrap my head around.  Oh sure, I’m zen, I’m even a little bit of a buddha, but I’m not exactly looking test those facts.

That said, I’m comfortable with what’s about to happen. I’ve given it a lot of thought, seen several specialists, absorbed my fair share of radiation and I’m now throwing my chips on the table.  What’ll happen, will happen and at this point it’s out of my hands.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to have surgery, but the beauty in this particular situation is that I don’t have a choice — if I don’t have surgery things will progressively get worse, and if I do, well, there’s that possibility as well, but more likely I’ll arrest the situation where it’s at and even possibly improve.  Also, I’m in the best shape of my life, I’ve been eating nothing but local organic food for the last 20 years (yes, it matters), I’ve got a kick ass positive attitude and I’m blessed to the hilt with kick ass positive friends and family, and the surgery is scheduled for — you guessed it — the “International Day of Peace”.

So seriously, could things be any more in line for a day on the operating table?  You know, aside from the whole quadriplegic thing.

Next up:
Syringomyelia: a love story.

pau.

*I was anemic at the time because I refused to eat hospital food and dropped below 100 pounds.  Not a good move, perhaps, but it says something about the quality of institutional food.

Okay, technically I suppose I’m a few weeks late on the whole midyear thing (July 2nd was the actual midpoint), but at this stage in the game trying to come up with a short list of my favorite albums — when there’s so many yet to listen to — is a dizzying prospect.  Seriously, each week seems to bring a new gem — either one that I’m catching up with or waiting on to be released — that deservedly warrants my attention.  I’m not complaining — such is the nature of this type of list — but, hey, ultimately it’s going to be incomplete.

Thus far, 2009 is shaping up to be an intriguing musical year, and with the exception of a couple of albums, most of these releases are from established artists several albums into their careers; representing a type of songwriting that’s about further honing and synthesizing musical ideas that have already been there.  For the most part, this means there are no radical shifts in style other than, perhaps, towards the more “accessible”.  But that’s not necessarily a bad thing — we’re still talking art here.

In tackling this list, I chose to forgo the standard 1 through 10 thing and went with an alphabetical one instead.  As I said above, the list is incomplete and, truthfully, I’m just too lazy to try to nail down something so fluid.  Call it a copout if you want, but, trust me, we’ll all be better for it in the end.  Besides, you’ll get your ranked top 10 list at the end of the year.

In the meantime, if you haven’t already, I highly recommend you pick up some of these albums.

The best albums of 2009… so far:

Amadou and Miriam: Welcome to Mali

The back story behind this husband and wife duo from Mali is the stuff of Hollywood rock biopics and the music on Welcome to Mali makes them absolutely deserving of one.  In many ways, this record begins and ends with Amadou’s virtuoso guitar playing, combining traditional Malian blues and other African elements with Western rock.  But if there’s a sweeter, more achingly sincere voice than Miriam’s on any other record this year, I’d like to hear it, and ultimately that’s what one takes away from this breathtaking album.

Andrew Bird: Noble Beast/Useless Creatures

This album was released in two versions; the standard Noble Beast and the deluxe Noble Beast/Useless Creatures. And while I love the standard version Noble Beast (and perhaps it would have made this list regardless), the deluxe two disc version, with the instrumental Useless Creatures, is revelatory — capturing everything that Andrew Bird is about.  Of course, Noble Beast is still filled with Bird’s love of words for words sake quixotic lyrics, but here they seem to be accompanied by a surer sense of melody, making the odd word combinations resonate in ways they haven’t before.  Every time I hear the lines from the song “Masterswarm”; “So they took me to the hospital, they put my body through a scan/what they saw there would impress them all, for inside me grows a man”, riding on the back of its rising melody, I want to melt.  I can’t tell you why exactly, but I understand what he means.

Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion

A friend of mine said upon hearing this record, “this is the first Beach Boys’ album I’ve ever liked”. And I understand where he’s coming from. It’s impossible to listen to Merriweather Post Pavilion and not hear the best ideas and elements of that seminal group. But it also must be said, this sounds nothing like a Beach Boys’ record. Animal Collective have indeed decided to explore a more pop aesthetic on Merriweather, focusing on Panda Bear’s melodic vocal harmonies and sensibilities, while foregoing instinctual forays into discordance and horror, but the term “pop”, as it applies to Animal Collective, is a relative one. Densely layered and transcendent, this is nothing short of a masterwork.

Beirut: March of the Zapotec & Realpeople: Holland

I don’t know, maybe I just have a soft spot for Balkan infused song stylings filtered through Oaxacan brass bands, but damn, if this isn’t another inspired delivery by Zach Condon’s Beirut.  But that’s only the half of it — literally — as Beirut technically makes up only half of this record, the other half goes to Condon’s electro-indie endeavor, Realpeople.  Two EPs, with two different aesthetics, merged into one record, this really shouldn’t have worked as well as it does.  But with Condon’s mournful voice as the through line and the brilliant “My Night with the Prostitute from Marseille” bridging the two projects, it’s a very satisfying journey that works in spades.

Bill Callahan: Sometimes I Wish I Were an Eagle

Sublime.  Contemplative.  Beautiful.  Purposeful.  Dark.  All these are apt descriptions for ex-Smog singer Bill Callahan’s new solo effort.  Orchestrated in a way his previous band never was — or attempted to be — the storytelling and arrangements of these songs suit Callahan’s deep melancholic voice perfectly.  Like last year’s For Emma, Forever Ago by Bon Iver, this is a haunting, personal record that lingers long after it’s finished playing.

The Decemberists: The Hazards of Love

If there are two things as a music fan I’ve had trouble wrapping my head around over the years it would be prog rock and Jethro Tull… no, wait, there’s a third, rock operas.  Now if you told me in 2009 that one of my favorite records would have elements of all three (some more than others), I would’ve dismissed your suggestion outright.  But if you then told me it would be a Decemberists’ album, well, the conversation would’ve lasted a little bit longer.  Even still, the fact that the record is as good as it is, is a bit of a surprise;  heavy, crunching guitars, ridiculously rocked out vocals from My Brightest Diamond’s Shara Worden and repeating motifs, it’s a hell of a ride that gets better upon repeated visits.  And, yes, there’s some sort of story.

Dirty Projectors: Bitte Orca

To say that everything that’s going on here is a bit dizzying, is to undersell what the Dirty Projectors are all about.  In fact, the band throws more at a single song, than most artists do over a career; orch pop, R&B, electronica, chamber choir, you name it.  Is it a mess?  Well, that depends on how you like your pop… err… art pop.  If you’re looking to hook onto a melody or rhythm for an entire song, I suggest you look elsewhere.  But if you’re willing to let go — let the ideas (yes, ideas, it often feels a bit brainy) lead you through these, arguably, delicious nine gems, then you’re in for quite a treat.  Download “Useful Chamber” and if you like what you hear, the rest of the album will surely work for you.

Fanfarlo: Reservoir

Another Swede responsible for great indie rock?  Well, yeah.  Throwing everything into the mix — pianos, mandolins, violins, trumpets, toys and traditional bass, drums and guitars — lead Fanfarlo songwriter Simon Balthazar has created one of the best orch pop records you probably haven’t heard.  Why some records take off and others don’t, it’s hard to say, but with production by Peter Katis (The National, Interpol), you’d have thought this would have.

Grizzly Bear: Veckatimest

All right, you get it, I’ve got a particular soft spot for meandering, midtempo, throw every instrument you can think of into the production mix pop.  And while you may want to keep that in mind in regards to my opinion about Veckatimest, it doesn’t change the fact that this is a brilliant, lovely record. Opening with the sprawling America-esqe “Southern Point” and then moving on to, arguably, one of the best singles of the year, “Two Weeks”, you know what you’re going to get within the first eight minutes — an album of meticulously produced, well thought out pop songs.

Loney, Dear: Dear John

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the album has two of my favorite songs of the year, “Airport Surroundings” and “I Was Only Going Out”, and while it isn’t Loney, Dear’s best (that would be Loney Noir), it is an affecting collection of songs about sorrow and longing. Oh, and just in case the significance of the title Dear John, slipped past you, multi-instrumentalist Emil Svanänen (Loney, Dear himself) is looking to work a few things out.  Which is fine, because Dear John is well worth the wallow.  A folk-techno hybrid of sorts, this is a slightly new direction for the band.

Mos Def: The Ecstatic

As much as I love Mos Def the renaissance man, his music so far this decade has been inconsistent at best.  Which is all the more reason why The Ecstatic leaves me… well… ecstatic — it bumps.  Funky, loose, poignant (and perhaps a little lazy at times), Mos has something to say that’s worth listening to and thankfully he has the beats and sounds to deliver it over.  Working with the likes of J Dilla, Madlib, Mr. Flash, Oh No, Slick Rick, ex-Black Star partner Talib Kwelli and others, seems to make for an inspired work environment.

Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

Another band on this list that has taken what they’ve done so well in the past and perfected it 2009.  Pure power pop electro fun, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, represents the best in sugary songcraft.  Deceptively simple and catchy, it might be easy to dismiss this record as lightweight.  But don’t let your desire to dance or the seductive hook-into-your-brain melodies fool you, there’s a whole mess of romantic angst going on here as well. I mean, c’mon, they’re French.

Serge Gainsbourg: Histoire De Melody Nelson

First, let me throw out a couple of caveats in regards to this one: 1).  I don’t speak French.  And 2).  This was originally released in 1968.  In regards to the first, this hardly matters when it comes to Gainsbourg — especially this record — all you need to know (and believe me there won’t be any confusion about it) is that machismo and sexuality are what he’s going for (surprise surprise).  As to the second, well, until this year, the album has essentially been out of print and unavailable to all but the most committed of crate divers.  So caveats aside, what do we have?  A funky, dripping, sexy album that’s as hip now as it no doubt was then.

Travis Callison: Free

For good or for bad, a lot of contemporary pop music is either somewhat saccharine or filled with angst.  And while obviously I don’t have a problem with either, Free is neither of these things.  Blending elements of hip-hop, electro, soul and the best elements of modern folk, Travis Callison isn’t entirely creating new sonic landscapes, but rather new messages… and that, in its ambition alone, makes this record exciting.  Callison’s guitar playing certainly owes much to Hendrix, but only in the way hip-hop owes something to jazz — definitely worth checking out.  Download it for free here.

Wilco: Wilco (The Album)

Stylistically, Wilco (The Band) has always been a bit slippery to pin down, but with Wilco (The Album) and Sky Blue Sky before it, a definite sound is starting to emerge.  Feeling like a 1970s post-Nixon era drive down the PCH (or what I imagine that would be like), most everything on this LP would fit nicely onto 70s AOR radio.  But that said, there’s nothing nostalgic about the songwriting (see “Bull Black Nova”), but rather an attention to craft that comes from a seasoned band clearly in sync and at the top of their game.  I mean, really, how else can you explain the audacity and success of a rock song with the lyrics “everlasting love” that wasn’t penned by Bryan Adams or Celine Dion for the closing credits of a romantic Hollywood blockbuster?  You can’t.  And that’s what makes Wilco (the band) and Wilco (The Album) such a rewarding experience.

Honorable mentions:
Fever Ray: Fever Ray, Neko Case: Middle Cyclone, K’ naan: Troubadour, St. Vincent: Actor, Röyksopp: Junior, Dan Deacon: Bromst, Junior Boys: Begone Dull Care, Telefon Tel Aviv: Immolate Yourself, Japandroids: Post-Nothing, Red Hot Compilation: Dark Was the Night, Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Its Blitz, White Rabbits: It’s Frightening, Woods: Songs of Shame, the dodos, Time to Die

pau.

So on Monday I went to the hospital for a scheduled CT myelogram (think spinal tap) and a whole lot of waiting around on gurneys, in empty hallways counting holes in acoustic ceiling tiles (more on why in a later post).  And while I enjoy all the pomp and circumstance of having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with an iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle as much as the next person, I can probably think of one or two other things I’d rather be doing on an 85° Berkeley day… like, oh, I don’t know, not having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle.  Call me crazy, but I’m just wired like that.

Still, like so many things in life, it’s not always about the size of the needle, but rather the size of the heart, and yesterday, my heart had an opportunity to swell again by at least two more sizes.  Hospitals, it seems, have that effect on me.  But it’s not really hospitals — personally I prefer to be nowhere around them — no, it’s really more a matter of what I’m able to see while I’m there — outside the backless gown, if you will.

From the beginning, I thought the day would be no big deal; check in, get prepped, get spiked, get scanned, lay flat, go home.  Simple.  But my mom, in her unchecked sensitivity and love, felt she would’ve been remiss in her motherly duties if she didn’t let me know just what kind of test I was actually having:

Her: “You know this is a serious exam don’t you?

Me: “Uh, yeah?”

Her: “Well, let me just send you a couple of links so you can see what it’s all about, just in case”.

Now, I know a lot of people out there subscribe to the whole “ignorance is bliss” thing, and while I’m not one of those subscription holders, I will cop to the adage that sometimes “less is more”, and in this case it especially applies to myelograms*.  In other words, go in cold, you’ll be a whole lot happier if you do.

Anyway, long story short; given the unfiltered, straight dope presented on those websites — and because my parents are just that cool — my mom and dad wanted to fly up to Berkeley to be with me for the exam.  Now you’re starting to see where I’m going with this, aren’t you?  And though I didn’t think it was necessary, I do enjoy their company and if a needle in the back facilitates that, well, then, far be it from me argue the point.

But as I said above, sometimes it’s not about the size of the needle; and what was most huge about the day — besides my mom waiting seven hours with my anxious dog, all the good thoughts from all over penetrating those reinforced steel walls, the cool nurse who chatted with me for an hour and a half while I was in recovery, my two friends shifting their schedules around to help me out — was my dad driving my battery challenged car over 100 miles to nowhere in the 90° plus heat without air conditioning after they woke up at three in the morning to catch a flight north, so that my car would be charged up enough to be smogged and then registered**.

Big, no?

But wait, here’s the kicker (and a lesson for humanity about how we should all be, what we’re all capable of); when he came down to see me in the basement post-op recovery room as I was being discharged, he was nothing but smiles — no sign of fatigue, no grumpiness, not a single complaint about what he’d just done***, not a word about it, just his sweet, patient, kind smile, and a “well kid, are you ready to go?”.  And, wow, I gotta tell ya, my heart at that moment couldn’t have been more expansive. My pop is an amazing father, to be sure, but more than that, he’s an exceptional human being who continually surprises.

Now I can give you a thousand and one reasons why I think this is so and where I think it comes from, but really, it’s hardly important — to know him is to love him and that’s enough.  Is he flawless?  That depends on your understanding of what that means — politically he can move a bit further to the left (but then so could most everyone else in SoCal) — but he continues to grow more patient, kind and loving with each passing day. And this is beautiful when you consider how full of these three things he already is.

And there you have it, a CT myelogram, while not exactly a ride you’re gonna see at Disneyland anytime soon, is like everything else in life — neither good nor bad — an open door in which opportunity — of all sorts — can be had.

Footnotes:

*This actually applies to most medical referencing on the Internet.  If you don’t believe me, try putting in the symptoms for the common cold and you might find that you have the Ebola virus.  I’m just saying, exercise your Google health searches with caution.

**Seems crazy, I know, but I don’t drive and neither do any of my friends.  It’s Berkeley, after all, and this is a town of bikes and public transportation.  So why do I have the van, you ask?  Well, believe it or not, it does occasionally come in handy, i.e. trips to the Sierra to ski.

***This, incidentally is really nothing compared everything he’s selflessly done since I’ve known him.

pau.