A losing battle worth fighting

I’ve briefly glossed over before on this blog that my mother has stage 4 breast cancer. She was diagnosed five years ago and the doctors weren’t sure she’d last this long. To her credit, she proved them wrong using the same persistence and stubbornness that has driven me crazy for 23 years. 

Her doctors found several new tumors in her chest back in November. That’s part of the reason I left San Francisco to move back home.

Two weeks ago her doctors found some more. This time they are around her heart.

The chances of successful treatment are slim and none. Normal radiation treatment is too dangerous to use so close to the heart. My mother’s doctors are considering open heart surgery, but it is unknown how successful that will prove.

By their estimate, she might hold on for another few years. But the bottom line is this will kill her. Her cancer will win.

Somehow my mother seems to be handling this better than I. I’ve spent the last five years preparing for this moment, and now that it is finally approaching I’m still not ready.

I’m not an emotional man, or at least not an expressive one. I’m all bottled up inside. I cried, however, when I got this news. I openly wept. This was worse than any physical pain I’ve ever endured, more heart wrenching than any single moment in my life. My mother has just a few years left, all the while enduring a slow painful death, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I still haven’t fully recovered. Some days are worse than others, but overall it’s almost like I’m numb – like I’m in shock. I definitely haven’t fully processed it all.

I started this blog because I needed something to reignite my passion for writing. Jobless, moneyless, and questioning what I want to do next, this blog was meant to provide some relief for myself and hopefully a few friends and family. I’ve tried to keep it light and entertaining as I do with everything in life.

But I’m not always that person. I have finally reached my breaking point. Right now I really need an outlet to express myself, so bear with me as I use this blog for something a little heavier.

My mother is a tremendous inspiration to me. Problem is she will never believe that. We fight like nobody’s business. She constantly pokes and prods into my life, like any mother does, until I reach a breaking point and snap back at her, which can lead to pretty ugly verbal barrages on both sides.

Still, I love her and look up to her. Maybe she doesn't always believe that, but I can make the rest of you believe.

She has endured incurable disease and more financial stress than you can shake a stick at, but through it all she perseveres. My mother has managed to raise three children, build her dream house, and just started her own small jewelry design business while dealing with more physical and emotional pain in the last five years than I hope to go through my whole life. And all while the economy collapsed around us, pulling my family down the drain with it.

Along the way she’s made extremely stupid, ridiculous decisions. Before and since her diagnosis, my mother has thrown money away like it grows on trees; trying to live above our means. But she’s only human. So while the unaffordable house, multiple TVs, and more pets than we can handle drive me insane, I still love her because without her I'd have nothing. Technically, I wouldn't even exist. I wouldn't be here to write this blog post (I guess I can still be a little light and entertaining).

My mother is a strong woman. Stubborn, nosy, controlling, and wasteful – yes. She’s not a saint; she doesn’t have to be. She’s just my mother. The woman who raised me, fed me, clothed me, and took me back in after my post-college plans fell apart.

She continues to teach me how to suffer and endure through life’s hard times. Even in her weak moments, when she breaks and can’t handle anymore, she is eventually able to shore up her strength of will and move on.

If she can force the smile or put on the game face, then I guess I can too.

Old Moldy

Some people have cool cars. Porsches, BMWs, Ferraris, a VW bug with flames on it.

Some people have sexy names for their cars. Love Machine, The Beast, Sex on Wheels.

I have a 1995 Nissan Quest. I call it Old Moldy.

There are many advantages to owning a minivan. Lots of space for passengers or cargo. It’s good to be the friend who can fit lots of people or stuff into his car. Since my family doesn’t own a truck, my minivan has to act as the heavy lifter for picking up new furniture or goat food (yes, we own goats. Don’t ask).

Yes, owning a minivan has its advantages. But owning a nearly 20-year-old minivan comes with many disadvantages, too.

The front windshield has a crack along the bottom. The driver’s side window can’t roll down. The wiper on the back windshield is falling apart. The windows will sometimes fog up from the inside.

The front right turn signal hasn’t worked for years and one of the back taillights is currently smashed.

It has no radio or CD player. I tried adding one of those portable radio tuners you can attach to the car, but it died.

Old Moldy smells bad because my parents often use it to haul garbage to the dump, as well as hay and grain for the goats (I said don’t ask! I’ll save it for another blog). Plus, my cousin’s gym shorts once hung out in the back for at least a year before they were found and removed.

There’s an apple juice stain on the ceiling from the previous owners. It’s been there for about 15 years.

Any sustained period of driving over 55 MPH is not good for Old Moldy’s engine. You have maybe an hour before it starts wearing down. I don’t like to risk it unless I have to. Old Moldy pretty much stays in town.

Green fungus of some kind grows on the outside.

I once discovered a small wasp nest on the side mirror. I grabbed the hose, set the sprayer to “jet,” and after staring face-to-face with the wasp sitting atop his or her nest, I opened fire with the hose. It was the most intense showdown of my life. 

Another time it was infested with small spiders that made webs all around the front windshield.

It has broken down more times that I can remember. The first time, most notably, in the middle of nowhere – deep in the heart of Eastern Washington. Thankfully a rest stop was nearby. My father and I had to push Old Moldy up a hill in the hot sun to get there, but it was nearby (we burned our hands because the sun had heated up Old Moldy after a full day of driving).

The last time Old Moldy broke down was the night of the Super Bowl. Already disheartened by the loss, I was driving my girlfriend home when the heater suddenly stopped and the headlights dimmed to almost nothing (the heater being one of the few things that still works well, so I was very displeased). Luckily we were only half a mile from my house, and I managed to drive it back home in the dark. 

My stepfather later checked the engine and found the alternator belt missing. Not broken or damaged in any way – simply gone. Vanished.

And oh yes…the mold. Twice in the last four years I’ve returned from long stays elsewhere to find mold growing in the middle or back seats. That’s where the name originates from.

It was my good friend and persistent antagonist “Puma,” who came up with the name after the first time I discovered mold in the car. I was home from college and on my way to visit him when I noticed a peculiar smell in the car, and noticed mold growing in the seats right behind me. Naturally I drove to his house anyway and showed him.

And thus Old Moldy was born.

So it is that any conversation between Puma and I now inevitably turns to Old Moldy. It’s one of many things he gives me grief about.

Luckily I now have a weapon of my own to use against him. Unless Puma wants the story of “The Fruit Fly Infestation” to go public, he won’t say anything about Old Moldy again.

For while Old Moldy is a great, and at times expensive, hassle, I can’t help but love the old girl. It’s served me well these past six years. Reasonably well…relatively well…ok, not that well. But I still love her! Besides, Old Moldy was a gift from some friends. My father drove it all the way up from San Francisco for my 17^th birthday after the previous owners, longtime friends of him and I, gave it up.

Not to mention I’m basically stuck with Old Moldy since there is no way my family or I can afford replacing it with something nicer. I learn to live with it.

So you can keep your fancy cars that actually work properly. I’m going to stick with my garbage hauling, insect infested, rancid smelling, mold growing minivan.

At least until I find a job that requires me to drive on a daily basis or move out of town. Otherwise I might be in trouble.

Bike lane to Hell

There is a danger lurking on our nation’s highways. OK, not highways but boulevards, avenues, and streets. A mobile threat to law-abiding citizens everywhere. OK, maybe it’s only a West Coast thing – I don’t travel much so I don’t know for sure. Point is: people are being put at risk and I know who the culprit is.

Bike riders.

Not bikers. Get any images you might have of rogue bands of greasy long-haired ZZ-Top lookalikes or post-apocalyptic leather clad maniacs motoring down the highway on their choppers out of your head. I’m talking about normal bicycles and the Pearl Izumi clad, safety helmet wearing, back blinker carrying, average Joes and Janes who terrorize my commute every day.

I know what I’m about to say isn’t popular. Everyone likes to stick up to for bike riders, commend them for their dedication to hard work and exercise and promote their smog-free mode of transportation.

Well I’m done being a sheep munching the grain of public opinion. I’m here to tell the truth, to open your eyes to what’s really going on!

Bike riders are evil.

Sure, they look innocent enough. The way they peddle slowly along the side of the road, such tiny and unimposing figures as us real Americans cruise by in our Hummers. And that’s just the problem: they might be small in comparison to our vehicles, but they have the advantage.

Everyone is afraid to hit a bicyclist. I see it every day in “Seattle,” which as I’ve mentioned before isn’t really Seattle. I see the cars moving over to accommodate these two-wheeled pansies, ensuring they have enough breathing room. I see traffic slowing down to make sure bicyclists aren’t in any danger. I do it myself! I’m as much to blame as any of you!

Therein lays their power. Bicyclists know they own the road, and they aren’t afraid to abuse that power.

Each and every one of us knows what would happen if we ever struck a bike rider with our car. Instant ticket to jail! No judge or jury is going to listen to the poor, defenseless motorist who accidentally nudged the fragile, even more defenseless bicyclist. Look at those things - one strong gust of wind could send them right over; let alone a little love tap from a bumper. 

What leaves nothing but maybe a small dent in another fellow’s car sends a bicyclist to the emergency room. Who do you think is going to receive all the blame for that? Not the bicyclist.

I know that, you know that, and they know that. And they use it to their advantage.

I’ve seen bike riders pedaling right down the middle of the road going half the speed limit - less if they're going uphill. Do they move aside for their larger, four-wheeled fellow travelers? No! We have to do all the work to avoid killing them while they get to continue on like nothing is happening! Meanwhile, cars are frantically swerving to avoid hitting the rider(s) and oncoming traffic in an attempt to go around and go about their daily business; to simply complete their usual commute. Bike riders are turning our towns and cities into death traps!

I’ve seen bike riders plow right through stop signs and the occasional red light. The rules of the road don’t apply to them, folks. They own the roads. Maybe not literally, since roads are generally funded and built by government, but bike riders certainly get away with a lot on America’s roadways.

But I have seen far worse things than all that (not to say “All That” was a bad TV show. I rather liked it as a child).

In San Francisco (real San Francisco, not “San Francisco.” When I’m living in San Francisco, I’m really in San Francisco. Not like how I live in “Seattle.” Got it?) bike riders always travel in packs. I’ve seen them anywhere from packs of 3-5 to mega packs of 10-12. Drivers have no chance against those odds. I’ve seen packs of bike riders completely take over the streets of San Francisco (cue the music!).

I’ve seen drivers pulled from their vehicles by pack members and beaten within an inch of their lives. I’ve seen cars swarmed by larger packs to the point where they are completely obscured from sight. And once the pack has dispersed and moved on, all that’s left is the hollow frame of the vehicle and maybe a few bones of the passengers – picked clean by the bike riders.

Do you know who invented the bicycle? Hitler! Look it up if you don’t believe me. You’ll probably find the bicycle originated before Hitler was born, which shows you just how deep the bicycle conspiracy runs.

Do you know where else bicycles are popular? China! That’s right, Communist China! (Well, sort of communist…just a little bit). How does it feel supporting the country that practically owns America at this point? (There's no joke here. We are in so much debt.)

Spread the word, my friends. It’s time to speak-up against bicyclists everywhere! But be on your guard. Bike riders are everywhere. They are our neighbors, our leaders, even law enforcement! 

You might even have a bicyclist living in your own home.

Look out, there’s a bicyclist behind you right now! Whew! It’s gone. That was a close one.

Be constantly vigilant, my fellow drivers. Or else you might one day wake up to find a steering wheel or engine in your bed. 

Drivers – united we stand! Well, we sit actually while using our feet on the brake and accelerator. But you get the idea.

I like that old time rock n roll! ... and some other stuff

I once described on this blog that music didn’t really mean much to me when I was a kid. That began to change around the age of 13, but before that I didn’t waste time listening to music. It wasn’t high on my list of priorities.

Now music is an integral part of my life. Music is my number one choice when I want to relax or unwind. At times I wish I had learned an instrument. But then I look at the misery my sisters are enduring learning piano and cello, and I reconsider.

My loyalty to certain artists and genres of music earns me some playful ridicule from my friends and family, but at least they recognize I’m passionate about the things I like.

I decided to use today’s blog to talk about ten of my favorite songs I enjoy listening to. Any day, every day. (Disclaimer: I’ve removed any Bruce Springsteen songs from this list, because otherwise he would take up about seven spots on it. I want to prove that Springsteen is not the only thing I listen to…just the vast majority).

“I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers

Because there are some things worth traveling a long, long way for. Even if you have to walk all 500 miles.

“Roll Over Beethoven” by Chuck Berry

A musical love letter to the power and inspiration of old school rock from one of the Founding Fathers of rock n roll. Beethoven and Tchaikovsky don’t stand a chance against the guitar rhythms of Chuck Berry. And who hasn’t sat by the radio wishing for their favorite song to come on? (That’s a rhetorical question, I realize most kids these days are constantly plugged into their mp3’s)

“Blowin’ in the Wind” by Bob Dylan

One of the all-time great folk songs in American history. Bob Dylan, in a little over two and a half minutes and using just a guitar and harmonica, perfectly encapsulates what the Civil Rights Movement was all about. A song with more social and spiritual significance than maybe any other.

“Hurricane J” by The Hold Steady

While Springsteen sits atop my Music Mountain, The Hold Steady has a base camp not too far down. The tale told in this song gives me an oddly familiar feeling. Anytime I see a friend or family member make poor decisions about who they associate with or choose to date, I think of this song.

“Devil’s Right Hand” by Johnny Cash

Although not originally done by Cash, his rollicking yet dark interpretation makes this one of my all-time favorites. That sick guitar riff, repeated over and over, has to be one of the best things these ears have ever been blessed to hear. And the story, while short and simple, is darkly entertaining.

“Hold On, I’m Comin’” by Sam & Dave

In my imaginary alternate timeline where I’m a successful closer for the San Francisco Giants, this is my music whenever I enter the game.

Any song by Sam Cooke

The man had a voice! What else can be said? What else needs to be said? “Chain Gang,” “Just For You,” “Meet Me at Mary’s Place,” “Havin’ a Party, “A Change is Gonna Come.” No soul or R&B singer can top those.

“Red at Night” by The Gaslight Anthem

Whenever I’m feeling downhearted, this is one of my go-to songs. About hiding the pain and making the best of things – enjoying life as best you can. Maybe you can convince not only yourself, but others, that everything is all right.

“I Fought the Law” by The Clash

This Bobby Fuller song needed the attitude ramped up. It was a song made to be covered by a good punk band. The Clash, arguably the best in that category, delivered with this hit from their debut album. A song for when I’m feeling angry or a bit rebellious.

“Howlin’ For You” by The Black Keys

That drum beat alone makes this song for me. And the music video is incredible!

Honorable mentions: “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones, “Strangers in the Night” by Frank Sinatra, “Drive” and “45” by The Gaslight Anthem, “Massive Nights,” “Banging Camp,” “Sequestered in Memphis” by The Hold Steady.