WARNING ALL PIGS: Beware of the Baby Flu!

“Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.”
-- William Shakespeare 1564-1616: “Macbeth (1606)

“No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.”
-- Edmund Burke 1729-97: “On the Sublime and Beautiful” (1757)

PET SCAN FEVER

The PET scan has a CT component it. Hence, the need for drinking a Barium beverage, and having one’s blood filtered through a lead-lined machine that introduces a radioactive sugar that permeates every cell in the body. After being put in a comfortable recliner conveniently accessible to the worst of mid-day cable television, a hypodermic port is installed in the arm of choice, immediately after which a straw and styrofoam cup are produced. All right, that’s enough of this claptrap…

I’m talking about me. So I drink the barium and settle in for the 35 minute wait while the malt settles in. I pick out a LARGE PRINT Readers Digest, go right to the “It Pays to Increase Your Word Power” section, and promptly score in the 18-20 range, which pretty much puts me in the genius category. I then move to a late nineties Psychology Today with a feature story on why people’s fingers like holes.

Time elapses, the nurse returns and inserts a catheter into the port in my arm, through which the blood flows and is adulterated with the radioactive sugar. An hour later, she's back to escort me into the scanning room, where I am asked to recline on a thin, pallet-like bed. A triangular pillow is then placed under my knees, after which an assisting nurse asks me to stretch my arms over my head and cross them at the wrists. A cocoon-like shroud, having sort of a cottony, canvas texture, is then wrapped tightly around me, after the fashion of a mummy or weird, adult swaddle. I’m told to relax and be still. Yeah, right, like I can do that. The test takes about 20-30 minutes.

The lights are dimmed, and an eerie, soft, whirring sound begins as my pallet is conveyed into a culvert-like tube about 12 feet long. I’m on my back and peering up at the inner lining of the tube, which is marked by a narrow, horizontal row of colored lights. The diagnostic begins in a very medical-science-fiction-futuristic way.

Remember the Twilight Zone with Earl Holliman, “Where Is Everybody?” It’s the episode where potential astronauts are tested for their responses to sensory deprivation. If you can’t remember that, recall the photos you’ve seen of the detainees at Guantanamo being escorted around the yard (see photo at left). Notice they are wearing earmuff-like-hat-helmets, oversized mittens that extend to the forearm, and thickly padded boots. What you’re seeing in these photos are men being deprived of their senses -- of sight, of hearing, and as much as possible, of touch. In the 1950s the CIA retained the services of a Professor D. O. Hebb. Dr. Hebb had found that human beings become psychotic within 24-48 hours when subjected to sensory deprivation (see B/W photo). If they are left this way for more than a week, their minds are irreparably damaged. Back to the scan…

I stared up at the soft, colored lights and gradually became sleepily hypnotized as my body slowly inched in and out of the tube. “That’s not sensory deprivation,” you say. “If it were, there would be no lights, no sensations of movement and such.” Right, you are, I’m sure. But the feeling seems akin to what it’s like to be isolated from one’s senses. Think of “2001 a Space Odyssey,” or “Planet of the Apes,” or “Alien,” and the pods in which the astronauts recline in hyper-sleep.

I experienced a feeling, or state – is there a word for this - of having my senses, in a way, minimalized, followed by a slow, hypnotic drift into a kind of twilight, semi-consciousness where time seemed to suspend itself. After what might have been ten minutes, or two hours -- I lost all sense of time – the lights came up, and I was conveyed out of the tube and into a state of fully conscious reality. Mind you, I was given no medications prior to, or after, the scan.

Whether it be a 3 month, 6 month, or yearly exam, one is always anxious about these things, and I hope it bodes well that this was the least anxious I’ve been yet, going into and coming out of the clinic. But the mind is a fickle thing. It can, at once, conjure up the rosiest outcomes while contemplating the grimmest of possibilities. Questions better left alone, inevitably invade the psyche. If the tests showed the presence of cancer only after its painful symptoms became too much to deny, might they not also serve to detect the pestilence in an otherwise a-symptomatic subject, namely, me? If the reason for regular screenings is early detection, might these “regular” scans reveal the contagion in spite of my feeling well? Is my skin rash a foreshadowing of what’s to come? Yikes, help, and holy shit!

Stay Tuned (in every sense of the word), I get the results on Tuesday.

Peace - Randy

How about a little fire, Scarecrow?

“Human history becomes more a race between education and catastrophe.”
-- H.G. Wells 1866-1946: “The Outline of History” (1920)

One of the highlights of the Ann Arbor summer is the http://www.annarborsummerfestival.org/ . Besides showcasing the appearances of big time performers like Diana Krall, and Los Lobos, the period between Friday, June 12, and Sunday, July 12, also features a component called Top of the Park, a free outdoor venue that features a variety of local and outstate groups.

FUFAR has been awarded the honor of both commencing the festivities and opening for a way cool ensemble of young dudes, NOMO, who are simply excellent. Also, as is a tradition at TOP, the mighty, mighty George Bedard and the Kingpins will close the festival on July 12th.

Some quick asides.

Mr. Mcgee, you know, the guy in the raspberry beret, is doing well, and, since he will be playing the kazoo, I personally can’t wait to test his wind on “With A Little Help From My Friends” (which will be a group sing-a-long).


Why the photos?

A constant in the political narrative of this blog has been the theme of torture. Not surprisingly, now that the Bush-Cheney regime is behind us, this issue has come to the fore. The Obaman can talk all he wants about letting bygones be bygones, but the chickens have come home to roost. This ain’t about him; and his historical stature, no matter how lofty it may be, will be but a footnote to this shamefull and appalling chapter in American history. As Frank Rich (NYT 4/26/09) puts it, “”It won’t vanish into a memory hole any more than Andersonville, WWII interment camps or My Lai.”

The pathetic myth that resides in the collective cultural memory, and one perpetuated by romanticized Hollyood fables like “24” and “Rules of Engagement,” is that our policy of torture was really a well intentioned, albeit morally suspect, attempt to save us from a horde of Arab assassins and another 9/11. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Neo-con justification for torture was this: it provided a means to establish a connection between Al Qaeda and Iraq, and therefore as a way to sell the war, and had nothing remotely to do with ensuring domestic security in any local sense.

I’ll say much more about this later.

-- Randyman

Trick or Treat?

“You can’t pray a lie.”
-- Mark Twain 1835-1910: “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885)

While driving my car one day, I had my arm positioned in such a way that it was illuminated by the sun. It looked old and weathered, reminding me of the arms of old men I had seen. It looked like the scaly, mottled skin on the arms of the grotesque transformer woman in “The Shining.” I felt a kind of disassociation, as if it weren't my arm. Like when you’re a kid and you stare at something so long you become mesmerized by the strangeness of the thing. It was the sunlight, that hard illuminator of truths reminiscent of pimpled reflections in harsh, incandescent high school lavatories. I moved it out of the sun. It looked somewhat more normal; more in keeping with my delusions on aging; more like the appendage of someone familiar, if not myself. The hobo at top right asked me to write her a story.

So there it was.

Do you know her?

That’s not enough.

Here’s some more.

You said a student told you that one could be de-Baptized. Does the ritual then begin with the anti-supplicant under water? Would practicing at holding one’s breath be a way of preparing for the ceremony? Would this mean my soul has been re-stained with Original Sin? Or that I can no longer enter the kingdom of heaven? Might I embrace, rather than renounce, Satan, and all his works and pomps? Could there be a de-Baptisimal snorkel for us older blasphemers? Does one’s name go with it? Might I finally pick a name that befits me, like Gorton or Winky.

A man named Curt, or was it Kurt, alluded to Winky, or was it Skippy. Pink lipstick and green apples. That’s your only hint. Okay, one more. Coal bins and flannel. Here’s the last one:

Louie and Skippy
Sittin in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes Louie
With a collie carriage.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, de-Baptism.

Does this mean Jesus could be de-crucified, the nails removed, the thorns uncrowned? I was always told to be Christ-like. Yes, you must be fruitful and multiply; but above all things, be Christ-like.

But, how to be Christ-like?

Thanks to the grace of that lovely little tramp at top right, I’ve seen the light. It was she that saved me from the Sin I am. It was she, The Anti-Jezebel of Coital Bliss, that brought me to the light of the “World Christianship Ministries.” Praise God! It’s as easy as filling out the handy-dandy Ordination Application. First, select a title by checking one of the following boxes: Reverend, Minister, Pastor, Evangelist, Chaplain, Apostle, Missionary, Elder, Deacon, Preacher, Bishop, or Prophet.

Once the Grace came over me, and I had been re-Baptized, it was downright hard to humble myself enough to pick a title for my certificate. Call me a hog, but I checked 2 boxes, Prophet and Missionary. Having purchased the deluxe package, which included the choice of a laminated certificate, I decided to go with the Zurich Caligraphic script.

Friends, how much is your soul worth? With WCM you get 4, count ‘em, 4 exciting clergy packages.

Clergy Package #1 includes the OC (Ordination Certificate) $32, Title Certificate $27, Pocket Ordination Card (Laminated in plastic) $15, Legal Status $5, Marriage Certificates 5 for $7, Baptism Certificates 5 for $7, Marriage Laws In Your State $3, Preparing Your First Sermon $2, Ceremonies For Marriage/Baptism/Funerals $5, Ways Your Ministry Can Raise Money $2, and “CLERGY” Car Dashboard Sign $6. Think about it. For a measly $85 you can be a Doctor of Divinity!

Oops, not really, actually, if you want to be a DD, or even more exalted, a Pastoral Counselor, you’ve gotta select Clergy Package#4 $225.

I hate to leave,
But I gotta go.
This drivel has been an excuse
To escape,
A veritable distraction,
As it were,
If you will,
From water extraction.

RT

I Itch, Therefore I Am: Confessions of a Scratchaholic

Did God who gave us flowers and
Trees,
Also provide the allergies?

E. Y. Harburg 1898-1981: “A Nose is a Nose is a Nose” (1965)

In a summer blog, I discussed a New Yorker story by Atul Gawande about itching. It spoke of woman who had itched through her skull to her brain.
“One morning, after she was awakened by her bedside alarm, she sat up and, she recalled, ‘this fluid came down my face, this greenish liquid.’ She pressed a square of gauze to her head and went to see her doctor again. M. showed the doctor the fluid on the dressing. The doctor looked closely at the wound. She shined a light on it and in M.’s eyes. Then she walked out of the room and called an ambulance. Only in the Emergency Department at Massachusetts General Hospital, after the doctors started swarming, and one told her she needed surgery now, did M. learn what had happened. She had scratched through her skull during the night—and all the way into her brain.”

While the story interested me as it pertained to BIID, it now interests me in that it pertains to me. For you see, I itch.

When I mentioned this to my band mates, S. informed me that she had also had a skin problem. I asked if it had itched and how badly. “Itch would be the wrong word,” she said. “It was as if gouging myself to the bone would be wholly inadequate to my relentless need to scratch.” “It was,” she said, “an urge so irresistible as to negate all willpower.”

In the 4/7/09 New York Times, Benedict Carey writes: “Scientists argue that itching is most likely related to grooming, and evolved to protect animals against some toxic plants, as well as insects, along with the diseases they can transmit, like malaria, yellow fever and river blindness. But the biology of itch has been a mystery, and neglected for years by researchers, who have been far more focused on pain.

Some 50 diseases leave people in a misery of itching which usually cannot be treated. Studies among kidney disease patients and psychiatric inpatients have found that itch is among the top complaints. And when it is severe it keeps people up at night, often worsening their condition.”

Fearing the sudden appearance of small, raised red welts had something to do with cancer or liver problems, I contacted my trusted physician. The doc thought it looked like folliculitis, an infection of the hair follicles. The follicle is the tiny pouch each hair grows out of. Where there’s hair, there’s the possibility of folliculitis, although it is most common to the face, scalp, and areas rubbed by clothing, such as the thighs and groin. But she insisted that I see the dermatologist that afternoon just to be sure. After the usual interrogation by a resident or two, the skin doc comes in, looks me over, and declares it a simple case of dermatitis - nothing to do with my liver or lymphoma. This from the Mayo Clinic site: “Dermatitis is a general term that describes an inflammation of the skin. There are different types of dermatitis, including seborrheic dermatitis and atopic dermatitis (eczema). Though the disorder can have many causes and occur in many forms, it usually involves swollen, reddened and itchy skin.”

Cool, no problem, so I’ve got dermatitis. As French would say, “let’s guzzle! The doc prescribes a corticosteroid cream, clobetasol propionate, an antihistamine, cetirizine hydrochloride (Zyrtec), and assures me my troubles will soon be over. Should my condition persist for longer than 3 weeks, however, she tells me to notify U-M Dermatology and they’ll re-examine me. Well, as is so often the case, the symptoms temporarily ebbed, and I assumed my skin would clear. It didn’t.

At first, yes, the symptoms flared down (If things can flare up, then can’t they flare down? And yes, I do recognize the phrase is oxymoronic), and I thought there was improvement; but as with many of the maladies that come with age, it persisted.

I knew what I had to do – google it.

After getting on the internet, I was sure it was Lichen Planus.

After calling U-M dermatology back, fervently hoping my phone call will be in within the time frame whereby I don’t have to go through that dreaded referral process of having my Primary Care Physician contact them first, an appointment is scheduled for the next day. Cool. The same skin doc looks at me again and firmly assures me that, yes, they know what Lichen Planus is, and, no, this ain’t it. They now admit, however, that these things can last a while, if not become chronic. Oh boy!

Now who am I to second guess the experts. So I get some more ointment (I like that word, just say it, ointment, it sounds like what it is, oooointment), stock up on Zyrtec (24 hour otc allergy relief) and have at it again. Well, it’s stable right now, but I’m reasonably sure that they were wrong and I’m right. What’s described below is exactly what I saw when I examine myself. If you google this condition you’ll see photos. I haven’t gone back for a third visit, but note the last sentence of the paragraph below: “While the typical appearance of LP makes the disease somewhat easy to identify, a skin biopsy may be needed to confirm the diagnosis.”

According to the American academy of Dermatology: “Lichen Planus of the skin is characterized by reddish-purple, flat-topped bumps that may be very itchy. Some may have a white lacy appearance called Wickham's Striae. They can be anywhere on the body, but seem to favor the inside of the wrists and ankles. The disease can also occur on the lower back, neck, legs, genitals, and in rare cases, the scalp and nails. LP on the legs is usually much darker in appearance. There may be thick patches (hypertrophic LP) especially on the shins. Blisters are rare except in special cases called bullous LP. While the typical appearance of LP makes the disease somewhat easy to identify, a skin biopsy may be needed to confirm the diagnosis.”

Here’s the good news, if you want to call it that. The condition typically goes away, although it can last for a couple of years. And get this, the treatment is exactly the same as the plan I’ve been on, steroid cream and antihistamines. Oh well, such is life.

Here’s a cool piece on itching I found on google scholar (just move right at the top of the screen where it says, Web, Images etc, to “More,” and scroll down to “Scholar”).

Seventh Age Itch

J A. HUNTER

Professor of Dermatology,

Royal Infirmary,Edinburgh EH

"Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."' Shakespeare knew that blunting of the senses was one of the hallmarks of old age, but there is one exception-itch. All too often it appears or is exaggerated in the elderly. Pruritus is synonymous with itch but when used as a diagnostic term is applied to patients whose itch is unaccompanied by any visible primary skin disease.

Many such elderly patients have little to see on their skins, but excluding a primary skin disorder is not as easy as it might seem since scratching may have caused more than scratch marks."Prurigo" is an ill defined term which describes the excoriated pink papules which are often seen on itchy skin and which seem to be due to scratching.

Lichenification-thickened skin looking like Morocco leather-is also due to prolonged scratching and rubbing. Similarly, purpura, broken hairs,and pigmentation may be secondary to repeated trauma. On the other side of the coin, even the use of a lens will not prevent trained doctors with intact sensory faculties from falling into some common traps.

All of us can tell embarrassing stories about missing scabies in clean people, forgetting to ask about infested pets, overlooking underclothes crawling with lice, omitting to check for contact with fibreglass, disregarding minor eczema, and failing to appreciate the existence of conditions such as winter itch and aquagenic pruritus.

Even when these have been considered, however, many elderly patients still have no recognizable skin disease responsible for their itching. Between 16% and 50%of patients investigated for pruritus have an underlying systemic disease.

Well established causes are obstructive jaundice, chronic renal failure, pregnancy, thyroid disease, lymphoma, carcinomatosis, iron deficiency anaemia, intestinal parasites, and diabetes.' Rarer causes include polycythaemia, haemochromatosis, brain tumours (especially those infiltrating the floor of the fourth ventricle), and drugs such as cocaine, morphine, and chloroquine.

It follows that if a cause for the pruritus is still not evident aftera good history and examination of the skin, then a detailed physical examination and some screening tests are needed. Investigations should include testing the urine for sugar and protein, a complete blood count and sedimentation rate, blood urea and liver function tests, thyroid function tests,examination of the stools for occult blood and parasites, and a chest radiograph.

If these give no answer xerosis or mild asteatotic eczema should be considered again but a hard core of patients remain in whom no cause can be found. We must either accept that with advancing age the incidence of idiopathic pruritus becomes higher or recognise the existence of an entity,"senile pruritus," attributable perhaps to age associated degenerative changes in peripheral nerve endings. If this diagnosis is made the patient should be kept under review as an underlying cause may show up later.

When a cause is found its treatment may cure the associated itch-though in chronic renal failure and hepatobiliary disease the management of pruritus may be far from satisfactory. In the absence of a demonstrable cause then the patient should be treated symptomatically. Extremes of temperature and rough underclothing should be avoided. Adding an oil to the bath water will prevent the skin from drying out too much after bathing. Cooling applications include 05% menthol in aqueous cream. Crotamiton or amildly potent topical steroid may also be useful. Systemic antihistamines, particularly trimeprazine and hydroxyzine, are worth trying; their effect is probably due to their sedative action.

Unfortunately, these non-specific measures are often disappointing. Although for reasons of euphony Shakespeare could not have added "avec itch" to his list of changing sensory faculties, many patients and doctors know only too well that itch may be the final indignity.”

Thank you, Dr. Hunter.

That’s All Folks! - Randy

MCGOOSTOCK '09 IS COMING AND WE WANT YOU!

"If people don't want to come out to the ball park, nobody's going to stop 'em."
-- Yogi Berra 1925--

Yesterdays post was an acrostic of sorts (hence the allusion to a riddle). Did anyone get it?







Randy Tessier, a lecturer in LSA and unit

chair for the Lecturer's Employee Organization, performs with the band FUBAR at the LEO informational rally Thursday in Regents Plaza. In February LEO filed a formal grievance against the university over the 2 percent salary increase Ann Arbor campus union members received in September 2008, saying the raise violated the collective bargaining agreement. LEO wants U-M to issue an additional 2.1 percent increase retroactively to the 900 affected LEO members on the Ann Arbor campus. The university says the raise was consistent with the language of the contract that expires in May 2010. The current grievance is moving through a three-step process that culminates in binding arbitration. On Wednesday the union asked the university to move the process into the arbitration phase. (Photo by Jillian Bogater)

The photo and story above are from The University of Michigan Record, a U-M publication.

Dear fellow Yooper football fans:

The Bears went out and got Jay Cutler, what have the Packers done? Yes, Cutler’s a cry baby, but letting go of an A+ quarterback on a team with the worst defense in the universe is not the way to go. It’s going to be a long year in Denver.

Here’s my advice to the Bears, try and acquire Plaxico Burress at all costs! The Giants made a big mistake in letting him go. Anyone who doubts this need only look at the Giants performance without him. To a man, his teamates have nothing but good things to say about him.

The Giants may be thinking he’s going to jail, which I seriously doubt, considering New York State has loosened up it’s Draconian sentencing laws. Besides, as bone-headed as shooting yourself in the leg may be, I don’t think it deserves jail time.

Also, the idea that moral character has anything to do with playing ability is just flawed thinking. I’ll take a team with Joe Namath, O. J. Simpson, Ray Lewis, Terrell Owens, and Randy Moss any time.

-- Ty Cobb

A Short Riddle: Reading, Logic, & Time

"I always pass on good advice, It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself."

-- Oscar Wilde 1854-1900: "An Ideal Husband" (1895)

Rather than bore you with a noirish story that tries too hard, allow me to attempt a riddling spin that consternates the truth.

As you may or may not know, I am a world class blessing- counter. Now, blessing counting is a peculiar art, and I say "art" purposely, as the word "skill" places less emphasis on creativity than craft.

Deciding that improvised attention to the surrounding world, rather than a traditional faith in past experience, is the hallmark of blessing counting, the clever blessing-counter is always at the ready should an opportunity for gratitude present itself.

You're probably asking why I write this, what sense is being made here, and who cares? These are fair questions, which I'll get to later. Even if you figure out what's going through my head, which is always looking for a distraction from that senses dulling task of reading bad writing, please humor a cybernetic friend by continuing to read this.

Say, you were me, would you not want me to support your pathetic desire for approval, for validation, for that desperate habit of attention-seeking that attends the kind of world-class insecurity foundational to professional blessing-seekers. Scrutinize this carefully, as if it were your good deed for the day. Is it not puzzling, or silly, or did you quit reading a while back?

Either you're with us or against us -- once a blessing-counter, always a blessing counter. Intuition, not logic, coats the rim of the half-full glass. Read this as a parable on the wisdom of procrastination, and you'll learn to count your blessings.

-- Randy Tessier

Fay ce que vouldras!

“Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”

-- Bible: Leviticus, see also St. Matthew

ACADEMIC MATTERS
Last week we had an in-class discussion about reproductive rights (abortion, contraception, abstinence, and such). Over the course of the conversation the topic turned to male responsibility in the sexual scheme of things. While it was generally agreed that men should be aware of the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases and unplanned pregnancies, it was also agreed that, ultimately, the woman has more to lose from a lack of vigilance. Insofar as we leave disease out of the equation, unprotected sex affects no change in the biological makeup of the male body. As the saying goes, if men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament. After bantering back and forth for a time, the students asked my opinion. Big mistake.
Lance Armstrong! Be like Lance! That’s what I say.

After allowing for the quizzical looks I so enjoy, I Ward Churchilled the little darlings with some outside the box advice.

“Fellas,” I said, “you should consider getting vasectomized.”

Now, being a a part of a contemporary college cohort that suffers a surfeit of over entitlement and dearth of intelligence, I had to explain to a number of them, mostly knucklehead freshman baseball players, just what a vasectomy is.

“Boys, it’s when they snip the little tubes that run from your scrotum -- that’s balls, to you -- to your penis. You know what that is, right? Your dick. These little tubes, the vas deferens, carry the sperm that fertilizes the egg, that sticky cake batter substance that makes little babies and then gives them to the stork.”

A basketball player’s hand shot up. “Well if they do that, what comes out when the male comes?

“Good question, Hermoine. You see, the sperm actually swims around in semen, and that liquid, which you may or may not have seen, is as the pond to the minnow.”

A foosball player had a question. That’s right, U-M has a club foosball team.

“Well, Randy, does this affect male performance, and will we still be able to be virile and have orgasms?”

“Zach,” I said, “you’ll still be able to hit the ceiling.”

A soccer player asks, “so what’s this have to do with Lance Armstrong, and why would guys want to do this?”

“Think about this, Courtney. Lance had cancer of the scrotum. So what did he do? Prior to undergoing treatment, radiation and chemotherapy, that would render him sterile, he banked some frozen sperm to use later. Lancie now has at least two children, as far as I know.”

“Also, boys and girls, so long as you’re both healthy, no more delays when the urge overwhelms you. You can indulge your passions at your leisure, with no precautions necessary. That’s what I call livin large.”

“Now, how many of you guys would consider a vasectomy?”

I think this was too much for them, but I tried.

The subject then turned to homosexuality. It was one of those rare cases where a student actually knew something about current events. Igor informed me that, horror of horrors, same-sex marriage was now legal in Iowa!

“Satan’s-Sex-Farms,” I says. “What next?!”

“Randy,” says Rocky, “Why do these homo’s choose to be perverts?”

“Rocky,” I ask, “Do you remember when you first had an erection around the time of middle school? Did you choose to have your penis get hard? I mean, did you choose the object of your arousal? Did you say, that’s a woman, so please penis, get hard.”

Well, you get my point. One effective teaching method is to use examples from the students’ own experience to shed light on larger social issues.

MUSIC
As most of you know, I don’t like to brag. But last night, George Bedard & The Kingpins played the kind of gig most musicians only dream of. My forty years of experience as one of the top musicians in the tri-county area, if not the universe, finally paid off. That’s right, read the check and weep, we played a Holiday Inn.

 But not just any old Holiday Inn. No sir! This was the “Holiday Inn – NEAR THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN.” What better place to play George’s surf version of “Girl From Ipanema.”

Speaking of girls from Rio, there was a convention of sorts going on last night at the Inn. It was called the “Lavender Event.”

" Spring Dance 2009

Saturday April 4th
8pm - 1am
Where: Holiday Inn Near the University of Michigan (smoke-free)

3600 Plymouth Rd.Ann Arbor, MI 734.769.9800

Take a break in your busy schedule to smell the flowers dance the night away in a women only space with DJ Jenas she spins all your favorite tunes

$5.00 Cover at the door"

I hadn’t seen this many lesbians in one place since playing with Trees at Mr. Flood’s Party in the late Seventies. Just when I thought being macho made me a chick-magnet, I was getting hit on by women who thought I was a woman. That’s one joystick they ain’t lookin for.

This is also the same weekend the “Pow Wow” is in town. So what we had last night was an audience, in part, made up of dykes and Indians. Okay, Mcgee,so those names are politically incorrect, I’m sorry. In the words of Charlie Potatos, “so what, I’m an Indian.” Which reminds me of a retort delivered at the Big Boy in 1968 by Phil Gair. According to Sudsy, a trashy northern greaseball assailed Phil with the insult that he “looked like a girl.” To which Phil responded, “Whatsamatter pal, you don’t like girls.”

So, I’m at the bar, and these two raven-haired dudes with locks to their waists compliment me on the jams (this sentence sounds so gay).

So I ask, “where you guys from?”

“We’re from Oklahoma. Here on professional business.”

I say, “no you’re not, you’re Indians, in town for the Pow Wow.”

I then asked them about the rift between U-M and the Native American community that caused them to move the Pow Wow from Crisler Arena to an elementary school in nearby Saline, a downgrade in venue that has significantly affected attendance and publicity. The problem has to do with the continued presence of a particular campus organization called Michigamua. Here’s somewhat of an explanation of just what Michigamua is from a Michigan Daily article published on December 3rd, 2003.

“The secret society, Michigamua, and its use of Native American symbols in its initiation ceremonies and activities, has outraged many members of the campus community. Melissa Lopez Pope, Native American activist and University alum, said she and others have stepped forward over the years to protest the group’s stereotypical use of drums, loincloths, headdresses and the taking on of ‘Indian names.’
Native American students and Michigamua members have gone to the negotiating table multiple times to discuss these improprieties,Pope said, but Michigamua violated agreements. While she said they no longer hold offensive initiation rituals on the Diag, issues such as the name of the group still remain. ‘It got to a point where it was made very clear that what they would never give up was their name, she said, referring to past conversations with members of Michigamua. Many Native Americans see the group’s name as disrespectful and as just another ‘pseudo-relation’ to the culture.”

After talking about the absolute necessity of having the Pow Wow return to Crisler, I gave these guys my e-mail, and offered to assist them in raising the Ann Arbor community’s awareness of why the Pow Wow moved, and how important it is that we protest the University’s position on this issue.

That’s All Folks! – Randy “The Anti-Glenn Beck” Tessier

Friday, April 3rd, 6:15 - 8:30 FUBAR at The Heidelberg Club Above

Subject: Ethnographic Study

Welcome home, Kell (See Photo)!

From: Randall Tessier

Date: Apr 3, 2009 12:43 pm

Message:

Dear Students:

As an exercise in ethnographic observation, some of you might want to attend a curious cultural event in downton Ann Arbor tonight. One of the oddities of baby boomer culture, and there are many, concerns their rituals surrounding music. Much like the contemporary music you’re accustomed to, they embrace pagan rythmic cadences centered around a shamanic figure whose trance-like intonations seek to open the listener to the spirit within. Professor R. Louis Tessier will be lecturing on American Music 1965-1985. WHERE: The Heidelberg Club Above on Main Street in Ann Arbor. WHEN: 6:15 - 8:30. Refreshments will be served.

Dear All:

As an exercise in ethnographic observation, some of you might want to attend a curious cultural event in downton Ann arbor tonight. One of the oddities of baby boomer culture, and there are many, concerns their rituals surrounding music. Much like the contemporary music you’re accustomed to, they embrace pagan rythmic cadences centered around a shamanic figure whose trance-like intonations seek to open the listener to the spirit within. What’s different about this, now antiquated, movement, is the attempt to simulate altered states of consciousness at a time when cultural attitudes toward individual expression were much more circumscribed. No doubt this circumscription had much to do with the persistence of the 1950’s social, political, and moral conformism, a conservative Zeitgeist the 1960’s would radically displace.

Extended free-form sections of songs like Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride,” Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” The Doors “Light My Fire,” and the like, were all meant to SIMULATE rather than ENHANCE the drug experience. No, it wasn’t because we Hippie Wannabes and Pseudo Beatniks would rather have taken our trips vicariously. In truth, since the demand far outstripped the supply, many of us affected an attitude of psychedelic awareness without having ever been high. Recalling my days on K.I. Sawyer air Force Base, I remember reading “Eye” magazine, and then ratting my hair, donning lensless granny glasses, tearing holes in my jeans, and walking around the deserted streets of Gwinn Michigan trying to be hip.

That drugs were scarce at a time when the exotic attraction of tuning in, turning on, and dropping out, was socially sought after, only made it more imperative that music BE, rather than IMPROVE, the drug experience. Put differently, as a social manifestation of the cultural moment, or, in Jungian terms, as an expression of the collective unconscious, the music sought to provide an escape from a morally repressive social order. You see, all drugs, including organic substances, were simply less available at a time when the Draconian drug laws, now unravelling in the twilight of a failed war on drugs, were firmly in place and fervently enforced.

In light of a prison system overflowing with petty drug dealers and harmless pot smokers, and the soaring costs of maintaining a maxed-out prison system, the need for a public rethinking is at hand.

What has this moral obssession cost us? This unenforceable prohibition has empowered and emboldened our enemies. The Taliban reaps the wealth of Afghanistan’s poppy harvest, and America’s epidemic drug addiction feeds their terroristic aims. Mexican Cartels, bloated with a stream of cash and guns supplied by an instatiable United States demand, have made Phoenix the number one U.S. city in kidnappings, and Atlanta isn’t far behind.

Which brings me back to tonight’s gig. We’re going to start with a song by Oni Werth, “Half Staff Blues.” The content concerns the random waste and carnage that inevitably follows wheh human beings are intent on killing one another. Next comes Procul Harum’s Power Failure. “ This one gives Andy a chance to flex his Rick Wakeman chops (I know that’s a mixed metaphor). “Deep Water” is a 50s R&B number by The Rivingtons. “Little Floater” is by NRBQ. Get out the trumpet, Dave, and by the way, Dave, open the pod bay door, will ya? The trumpet will blow on Love’s “Alone Again, Or.” “Not A Machine” is a new original by Andy Adamson. Let me see, who did “Thin Line Between Love and Hate”? Oh yeah, the…ah…ah…I don’t know…Persuaders! Ohw ysas m’I spliiln? I like to do Bob Dylan’s “Pledging My Time.” Remember The Fortunes “Here Comes That Rainy Day Feeling Again”? We do it. Then a song by Television followed by the set one finale, The Foundation’s “Build Me Up Buttercup.”

Joe Strummer’s “Johnny Appleseed” gets us rolling (It was the theme to some TV show, “John From Cincinnati,” I think). “Article of Faith,” by me, is next. Joan Jett, “Bad Reputation,” follows. Barbara Lewis’s “Hello Stranger” is next. Then we’re gonna do Sly’s, “Sing A Simple Song.” Now a slow one, Al Green’s beautiful, “Lay It Down.” “Testify,” by “Parliament,” anyone? Then some Jackie Wilson, what else, “Higher and Higher.” We’re coming down the home stretch. The aforementioned “Psychotic Reaction,” by The Count Five, then gives way to Wanda Jackson’s “Let’s Have a Party,” and we’re done.


Best - RT