An Excerpt from the Journal of the Global Love Association

I just returned from five days in Portland. My uncle Al brought me out there where he just moved for a new gig. He's an oncologist. He's my uncologist.

One morning, I sat on his huge back porch and drank coffee and breathed the freshest air I've inhaled for years. Trees surrounded me. It was my last morning and I'd already read the four day old Sunday New York Times. So I found a magazine called JAMA in their kitchen. And what other title but this could grab my peaceful attention?

A Network Model of a Cooperative Genetic Landscape in Brain Tumors

I sipped the hot black caffeine and read the abstract, the results, the conclusions; so many big words. What did it mean? Are doctors good at Scrabble? Crossword puzzles?

Then I read this happy introduction: Malignant gliomas, with disproportionately high morbidity and mortality,¹ are among the most devastating of human tumors. Ah yes, good morning indeed, I remembered.

And I remembered a rule: if Karla were here, she wouldn't have let me pick up that journal in the first place.

Why? Cuz here's her formula:



and it's simple, really, once you add l+o+v+e.

Re: Last Night's Gig

It went great. Only two songs but I nailed 'em. For rock music, that is. And it was great to see Clem again. His hug was so tight I thought he was gonna break my lungs.

Even Greg came by and we caught up on gigs and gardens.

Almost makes me itchy to play that Tele some more.

That's it, just wanted to write it; just wanted to let you know. Just wanted to thank Miki for asking me to play those two old rock songs with him at Phyllis' last night. Cuz he's the one that reminded me it had been five years since I did such a thing I used to do all the time.

I've got a Gig Tonight

I used to wanna be rock star. I put reality on hold and went to Grunge University. Nothing, Billy Pilgrim, Agatha, and so many others, yes, these were the names of my bands that played everywhere in Chicago, a few places in the midwest, and even once at CBGBs in New York City. No one remembers these bands except those of us who played in them and now it's a new millennium.

One of the first gigs I ever played was at a dive called Phyllis' Musical Inn on Division St. It was a polka place in the '50s and Phyllis was the owner; her son, Clem, owns it now.

I was a kid. And I played there a million times.

I've played nowhere for the last five years, not since you know what came back, not since chemo entered my life, soon to be followed by radiation. Yeah, I've been playing, yeah, I've been recording, but playing in front of people? For some reason, I feel my anti-seizure meds don't allow such a thing.

Well, Miki, the guy who married Karla and me in our backyard has a gig with his band It's a Girl at Phyllis' tonight. He asked me the other day if I wanted to play a couple oldies with him before his show. My initial reaction was I doubt it, but I said yes. And I've been practicing my ass off.

I'll carry my Telecaster to my Saturn in about an hour and a half down to the place I've drunk dozens of gallons of all kinds of things over the last two decades. And I haven't been there in years. And all I have to do is play two songs.

I better not drink anything until the songs are over. And then I hope to celebrate.

Read Today's Trib Article about PJ

I walked to the library today and saw this front page article grabbing my attention from the Chicago Tribune metal box on the corner. If you're here, you should read it, too. And hope that PJ helps find a cure for all of us.

Here's to you, PJ.

A Roof is Like a Brain

We just had our roof done last week. Four layers ripped off and a new one placed. We had to. The inspector told us when we moved in: "you'll need to in a few years," and now seven years have passed. Last year we got some drips in the ceiling after rainstorms.

We got different prices, looked at different catalogs, talked to different salespeople. Similar, but not the same. And not cheap. But in the end, we knew we'd never know the final price until it was over. And we'll also never know how things will be after the next big storm until it hits; how the roof will be in three years, in five years, in ten. And would our house be different if we would have used another roofer?

A roof does not think, but it's on the top of the house. And though a brain does all that thinking, let's not forget it's an organ; it's tissue. On the top of the head. On the top of the body.

When this tumor returned some five years ago, I asked five doctors what I should do. I got six different opinions: chemo; radiation alone; radiation and chemo together; no, biopsy first; surgery; no, just wait another six months and let's see what happens.

While I wasn't happy having to make such a decision, I'm happy with the decisions we made.

So when I heard neighbors talking with each other out the window this morning about how they would have done our roof differently, how they didn't like the color, how they disagreed with the roofers' technique, and so on, I was confused. I waited and sipped my coffee. I went for a walk. Three miles. I stared at roof after roof after roof. And when I got to ours from across the street, I

thought ours was the most beautiful roof in the neighborhood. I was pleased with our decision.

Supreme Snort Slugs

a sonnet round in honor of Ump Sotomayor

Senators say that judges are like umpires
as if to imply
there are no liars
only those who know the rules
and command them among the fools
of the country who hired the hirers.

This patient says doctors, cancer doctors,
are more like the managers
who must decide the batting orders,
when to bring in the relievers,
and when to argue with the senators.

umpires differ. judges differ.
managers differ; doctors, too.
same evidence: it's always up to you*

*here's where i want to end with the patient. but don't forget the pharmaceutical industry, and the insurance one; or the slow motion on your tv. and history. and me.

Now this is a round, so on the word "you," go back to the beginning.

Chai, David, Lincoln to the second power

I woke up sore all right. And I woke up to the Polish guys doing their boomboomboom thing on our roof again. 7am on a Saturday. But what's a Saturday to a teacher on summer vacation?

I touched my toes with pain and a smile. I opened the blinds. Our plants were happy; Karla's stained glass windows reflected colors on the walls.

When the roof boss guy came and did his talktalktalk, I had to digdigdigdig into our checkbook. Let's not talk about that part. It's just money.

But wait. Yesterday I forgot to mention finding a dirty penny on a dirty garage floor while cleaning out the silly car box. I felt it was a lucky Lincoln, because for some reason Karla's a Lincoln lover.

Well, today as I suggested in yesterday's poem, I went up to the attic and cleaned it. Moved stuff here and there, threw things away, put stuff in the car for recycling, and sweptsweptswept like never before. Besides yesterday in the garage, that is.

And I found another Lincoln today. On the dirty attic floor; I swear. Not just that, but I found a red string bracelet with a star of David that I bought in Jerusalem hanging around a desk lamp that I'm about to give away. Karla has the red string with Chai on it that she takes to every MRI. (Rabbi Doug ain't a big fan of these things but don't tell mom.)

What does this mean?

That I should find another Lincoln asap. While cleaning somewhere else in the house? At a bar with friends? Just walking around tomorrow somewhere?

I'm not sure. The Lincoln lover of the house is still in Amsterdam. If she were here, she would tell me.