I AM ISBISTER !

== Yes, I have some animus issues.

You got a problem with that?
~
Everyone has seen "Spartacus" I assume. Oh, really ... well, here's the Cliff Notes version in 6:53.

Back already? Good. I have this recurring dream that's a beautiful riff on it that I want to share.

We have won the Revolution. As prophesied by Gil Scott-Heron, the sucker was NOT televised and there will be no highlights at eleven. The Capitol dome is awash in a psychedelic light show and we're rounding the bastards up and herding them down to the Interstate. They're all yowling and terrified and, of course, we're all passing huge spliffs. People are dancing in the streets and wearing Volcanoes on strapped to their heads, and we're all singing chorus after chorus of 'O Freedom' at the top of our lungs. Sounds pretty damn good from people who aren't supposed to have lungs anymore, bouncing down the windswept corridors of semi-beautiful downtown Lansing.

Here and there an assistant principal or a night shift manager is briefly glimpsed running down an alley, eyes wide and mouth agape as a sea of torches swarms after them ... for years they feared that the PTA would light up and descend at the first sign of acquiesence to those drug-crazed hippie perverts ... but in the end it is the Stoners dipping their torches in the hemp oil buckets and going forth to seek Justice.

We've get 'em all, too. Thirty years worth of Cowards and Bigots and Tyrants, the Uncaring and the Hypocrites, the Self-Serving, the Selfish, and the Fools. They're all here. These are the so-called 'public servants' who turned their backs on us, mocked and marginalized us, had us arrested and jailed, sentenced us to lives of pain and struggle and suffering. How many of us have they hunted and jailed? How many have they killed? What kind of god spawned this vermin ...

Isbister is a Quisling, the Iago of the medical cannabis movement in Michigan. A Public Health Department official, he collaborated with NIDA in the 1980 program and attempted to sabotage it by providing substandard federal cannabis that NIDA knew to be "unfit for therapeutic use" to our cancer patients. He was willing to jeopardize their health, their lives, their pain to his false gods, the Administriviators of NIDA who had themselves been chastised from our bordwers and were afraid to return. They simply turned their Quisling ...

In real life, I'm told the bastard dropped dead of a massive heart attack during the life of the program, back in the 1980's. A poolside heart attack, cigar in one hand and a scotch in the other, fitting end for a thoracic surgeon. Probably apocryphal, but too good to pass up telling the story. At least one minister familiar with Isbister and friendly to us interpreted it as Divine Intervention. Who am I to argue with Christians?

But in my dream, we are hunting for him, passing the word that he is to be brought forward. He apparently thinks he's getting the Lasker Prize and staggers to his feet, cigar in one hand, careful not to spill his drunk. "I am Isbister!" he warbles, waving the cigar overhead.

One of his DPH Toadies realizes his Supervisor isn't getting any prize, and hoping for a really strong Performance Review, stumbles to his feet.

"I am Isbister!"

We've always known these jerks to be delusional, and now they prove it. "I am Isbister!" comes a voice from down near the underpass. "I am Isbister" is the cry from the median. The chorus swells. "I am Isbister ... I am Isbister ... "

And we take them all and impale them on the sixteenth poles and snow fences lining Interstate 96 all the way to Detroit, along the same route along which Chuck and Betty Kile pushed their son Curtis in a wheelchair to Lansing during the summer of '79. All the way down to Hart Plaza we impale the pissants, a hundred miles of them on poles with their lives running down their legs ...

I passed this dream on to a young woman coming back to Michigan after college, already an accomplished Grower. She told me she'd be pretty pissed too if she was in the struggle ten times as long as she has.

I sure hope that never happens.


= 10 Jan 09

BASKETBALL KNEES (REDUX)

=

Where am I to go,
Now that I've gone too far
Soon you will come to know
When the bullet hits the bone
- Golden Earring - Twiliter Zone

Let me tell you a little about living on my knees, just so you know. I work well into the evening ~ I'm bi-coastal (North and West), remember? ~ and have no trouble sleeping, per se. Buyt when you sleep your circulation isn't what it is when you're active, and your joints aren't getting their lube either. Mine start to hurt after a couple hours - I can sit up. pop .2gr into bowl and be okay, but I've interrupted my sleep. Louis d'Labrador sleeps at bottom of bed. There's been a Labbie down there for near three decades and having a big black foot-warmer is one of my life's creature comforts, but sometimes he really snuggles and its a real challenge hard to roll over or change my leg position adequately. So I'm up early ~ 4:30 seems to be the witching hour here.

Sitting up isn't easy - it hurts. So does maneuvering out of bed, which is not unlike Nick Nolte's unfolding in "North Dallas Forty." That hurts a lot, and so does hobbling to the bathroom and down the stairs where I put on my carbon-filament knee braces. Takes about ten minutes to slip on sleeves and adjust velcro straps (six per leg) properly. These things keep my joints aligned, stop my legs from rotating out and gravity from eroding my ruined joints any faster. They're a necessary part of my life, and with them I'm off to the races. I'll wear them until I'm ready to sack out tonight. I'll wear them, or artificial knees, for the rest of my life.

Helps if you love the sound of Velcro in the morning.

Early hours aren't bad. Get a couple tenths (gram, not Oz) into me as prophylactic to Pain and get to work for hours, now even before going to therapy or the gym around sunrise. I have to devote an early morning hour three times a week for each, former with therapist and latter with trainer; just use a trainer in California, the Minnie-Soter Seabee. I have a long way to go and they all work me pretty good, which is what I want.

I can deal with the day. I work, and I do most of the shopping and errands ~ I used to cook and want to again, but for the moment I can't stand in place to work at stove or counter, so that's gone, so I frequently walk to the Avenue for my evening meal at either a Thai or Italian joint on the block. But my gait is stiff and awkward, stiff-legged. I wear warmup pants to allow me to get at my braces during the day. I sling a bag slung over my shoulder and carry a cane, a substantial 19th century light chestnut with metal tip ~ used to sail the Sheepshead Bay on a three-master with Old Joe Ford, and it is just a dandy Social Distance Arbitrator for crowded sidewalks and errant bicyclists.

I was told I wouldn't know when I was wearing the braces. That isn't quite true - I always have pain, and when I'm wearing the braces I'm always aware that they're on me, but you develop an ability to pretty much forget about both Pain and the braces. What I really notice is taking them off. That's when I'm weak, wobbly, and bounce off things, and when Pain comes back.

When the day is long, my knees tell me what they think of what I've been doing. Sometimes they're fairly laid back and there's not much beyond the normal 24/7 background noise. They're pretty good in California, where I have no stairs to contend with; here they're fuckin killing me. Again. Can't eat when I hurt all the time (can you?) and I'm down about 30# this year.

Hadn't been back in MIchigan twenty-four hours and knees already felt like exploding. Climbing the thirteen steps up to bedroom & office is like climbing Everest = one laborious, painful riser at a time. Yes, I'm crawling again; coming down on my ass, too, also one step at a time. Can't even eat. Am right back where I was four months ago and know I'm in for a rough winter. This is really Not Good.
~
Had a long huddle with Surgeon.

He's okay on the cannabis recommendation, will write it as soon as his Clinic clears its administrivia & muddifications ~ he's University affiliated, you know. Had been sweating that out, but indication now is that his sports med clinic is going to buy in and make referrals. Have always been transparent with him and all he ever wanted to know is "Does it work?" He much prefers cannabis to my other choices of pain medications, all of which are quite capable of killing me and for which he's written the Rx. Gave him a M3A button. He gave me some hip x-rays and another pair of surgeries to look forward to, somewhere down the pike.
~
There was a basketball on the sleeping platform this afternoon. I haven't touched one in years ... not months, literally haven't as much as touched one. Can't even remember the last time, much less when I put up a shot ... just haven't wanted to remind myself of what I was missing.

I hesitated to move it, knowing what it would feel like, and how I would feel.

Tucked it under my arm and struggled to my feet, moving quickly across hall into my office. Settled into my work chair [oak swivel w/ rocker seat, a bloody great chair] and just held ball above my lap, fingertips cradling it ever so softly staring at its pebbling as if we I were exploring a lover's skin and crying like a baby. Just fuckin broke down and if you can't understand that, then you never really loved a Sport or an Art, never had a working relationship with a Tool like I had with a basketball.

The feel is just so familiar, even after years. I cradle its 29" diameter, gently heft its 20 ounces ... this one is rubberized, a college souvenir ball and not the grand old leather jobs, not one of the Grandfathers ... Yes I remember laces on the ball, but forget it, that's vestigial memory (never played with one, so leave me outta that one) ~ I'm a product of the Modern Game. My heroes were Cousy & Russell, Wilt & the Pearl. I've seen em All, and learned from the Best. Pete Newell died not long ago, and like any Old School post I learned my inside footwork from his manuals, the dropsteps and hip pins and when & where to go and how to hold my hands and what to do with my off arm {this, not often in the manuals ... ;}. I've forgotten more about basketball than a lot of these Norts Spew guys are ever gonna learn.

And I know I'm never going to play again. Hell, I'm not likely to ever step on a court again, after how many thousands of games and practices and empty gyms. Its not something that gnaws on me, but there are times I long to go find an empty court and put up a few shots just for the feel of it, to lose myself in it again if only for a few minutes ... to be Perfectly Here, Perfectly Now, feeling the last soft touch of the ball's surface sitting on just two fingertips like a butterfly, then leaving on its way to the net, the sound of it settling through and falling to the court ... there are times than there is nothing more in the world I'd rather do, and its a very real sense of Loss I'm feeling.

I know, what difference does it make to an Old Fart ... yeah, well, lissen up Chump, you wanna step out here with this Old Fart, I'll still give you choices of how you wanna go down. Wanna just let me square you up and bury you with a painless rain of 3-balls? Or you prefer bruises with your beating and wanna do downtown, let me work you over for a while, show you what can be done with that off-arm ~ bet I can do my Mikan drills right over your top, and I don't care how tall you are or how many legs I got, you ain't got Enough of Nuthin to do much about it.

Well, at least that part of me ain't goin' anywhere.


= 8 Jan 09

FILLING PANDORA'S BOX

= The Lawyers, Guns & Money have started to arrive ...

Have they ever!

Michigan's new potlaw has an Administrative Rules process regarding how the Patient Registration & Identification are to be handled, and they tried to blow it by the Public Comment Period ~ notice buried on a Friday, hearing set for first day of business in obscure bureaucratic nook southwest of Lansing. We're digging out of a snowstorm, didn't pout out any sort of Call on the hearing, just made sure we had Our Peeps lined up to spend a morning taking these proposals down and apart, and generally letting folks know we haven't spent the last thirty years sitting on the couch wrapped around a bong watching Nickleodeon reruns (the way my Lifelong Alcoholic (now Demented) Father watches The Simpsons? That's another story ... ).

We have been filling Pandora's Box, we have, haven't we?

The Unveiling began today.


= 4 Jan 09