Breathe, breathe in the air

Breathe, breathe in the air. Don’t be afraid to care.

This simple lyric Pink Floyd fans know for sure. But how many actually understand this lifeforce and use it to its full power. How many of us stop and ponder the layer of oxygen engulfing out planet, from which we take sips every living minute.

To calm down we are told to breathe. Breathe deeply. Let it out slowly. Thanks for this oxygen. Under stress? Job killing you? Breathe, breathe in the air.

And that’s it. My morning meditation which works at least as well as my morning medication. Practice it today, right now.

Next week: Meditation for fish.

Cats are cool

Hey, I forgot to tell you.

We have a new animal living in our household, and a new human. Well, the human is not exactly new. She’s our grown-up daughter, one of three.

So Emily needed a place to stay for an undetermined amount of time, and she came packing cat.

Her name is Yuki.

I had some trepidation. at first, wondering how the new cat would get along with our dog. Gus is a small male golden doodle or labradoodle. (Sometimes we just call him psychodoodle).

But she’s welcome to stay as long as I can feed her. The daughter, that is. Yes, the cat, too.

Did I mention the dog is estimated to be 16 or 17 years old? And that’s in ‘people’ years. We rescued her in mid-to-late 2007, in a shelter in San Francisco one block away from the church my wife, Catherine, was working at the time. A shelter worker told us Gus was about 1-year- year old.

I still had some concerns about taking in a cat beyond the two animals’ relationship. Will she go to the bathroom in a litter box that will not stink? Will she meow all the time? Will she be a nightstalker, something to trip over when I get up at night?

The answer is she exceeds expectations. She’s affectionate but will quickly move when shooed. She already seems to know which furniture she can jump up on, and which she probably shouldn’t. (Maybe Gus told her all the rules.)

And surprise surprise, Gus hasn’t tried to eat Yuki or chase her even. Gus pretends like he is ignoring her. But Gus will go get his plastic bone and parade it in front of her, daring her to go for it.

Yawn. Says Yuki.

She isn’t interested.

Then Gus takes a lap or two around the house with a bark or two for good measure. I laugh, Catherine laughs, They make us feel young again.

If, for a moment.

It’s on: Mike Madness resumes after 2-year COVID hiatus

The 3-on-3 basketball tournament known as Mike Madness will be held at UAB Recreation Center on Aug. 20, 2022, starting at 9 a.m.

Applications to play, rules, and other useful stuff can be found at the Madness website www.mikemadness.org.

This marks the fourth tournament since 2017. Due to COVID it was put on hold in 2020 and 2021.

The tournaments have raised more than $30,000 for Lewy Body Dementia Association and on UAB medical research of this deadly disease.

I was diagnosed with Lewy body dementia in 2016. Lewy body dementia is a degenerative brain disease with no cure. It eventually kills you by killing your brain cells.

Friends, family and fellow Saturday morning hoopsters tossed around a fund-raising event, and it has gone from there. I feel due to the efforts such as this one, there is a growing understanding of the disease in the community. The degenerative brain disease, which resembles a combination of Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s diseases, has been misdiagnosed because of the similarities in symptoms. Notably, comedian Robin Williams’ wife, Susan Schneider Williams, blames a lack of a correct diagnosis for her husband’s death by suicide.

All are invited to a post-tournament celebration at Cahaba Brewing Co. and Taproom, 4500 5th Ave. South, Building C. There will be live music from the extraordinary Alabama rock band Les Nuby.

To find out about my story and learn more about the disease, please see my website: www.myvinylcountdown.com.

Oiling up the old machinery

Let’s see. I type one letter at a time as I am now doing. So far so good.

I have not been writing much lately. I am working on some other things. Certainly, I have not been typing like I did over the past five years, writing 678 reviews of each of my vinyl records, plus an uncounted number of non-musical reviews, features, Lewy body news, and basketball observations. My theory was that typing, or writing was the perfect exercise to address both the physical and mental aspects of the disease. I think it’s working.

I believe the physical muscle coordination of fingers and keyboard addresses the Parkinsonian aspect of Lewy body dementia. While the focus to make sense and remember what I’m writing — and have a point –exercises the cognitive diminishment portion of this debilitating disease..

I figure even if I am deluding myself on the typing’s effect on Lewy body dementia, it’s still worth doing. Typing, that is. I didn’t take that 11th grade typing class for nothing , working my way up to the 50 words per minute level.

I have to tell you a secret, though. Not many journalists know how to type.

They just develop a speedy hunt and peck system. They lean over the keyboards, like a praying mantis. Usually their face is nearly touching the keyboard because they have to see where the letters are.

I derive this from 40 years in newsrooms across the country watching people hunt and peck, hunt and peck, hunt some more and peck some more.

Now classically trained typists, such as myself, can make the untrained feel inadequate with our flurry of tap tap taps, and ding dong dings. Our fingers tell us where the words are. And yes typewriters used to ding , most notably when you hit the end of the sentence. (Not sure if they actually donged; I’ll just call poetic license on that.)

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

That’s a typing warm-up; the sentence has every letter of the alphabet. Now I have to confess, numbers on a typewriter which appear on one of the upper rows, slow me down as do the shifts for dollar signs, asterisks and hyphens. But it’s just a few milliseconds.

Back to typing, er, writing.


A grand child

Well, I have one now. Last week my oldest daughter of three delivered a strapping 9-pound, 2-ounce baby boy. That’s huge, when you consider, Hannah the Mom, is skinny as a rail.

The average weight for newborn males is 7-pounds-6 ounces and for a female it is 7-pounds-2-ounces, according to the Centers for Disease Control.

And the kid has more hair on his head than I do. (I will post a picture as soon as I remember how to put photos in.)

She and husband Tom Turner named the baby, Isaac Michael Turner. I cried a little when I heard my name. I had no idea they were even thinking of doing that. The Friday the 13th birth was pretty smooth, with five hours of labor. Meanwhile, my wife Catherine and I are anticipating another grandchild. My daughter, Claire, is pregnant with her first child, due in September.

I want to be there for them, forever. But I understand that my life may be shorter than I had hoped as I battle the fatal disease, Lewy body dementia. The average life expectancy of someone with LBD is between 4 and 8 years after diagnosis.

I’m just hoping I live long enough that they will remember me.

Higher ground

I’ve been taking some time off from posting here as I have another related project I need to finish.

The past few weeks have been memorable and miserable. Our basement took on water during the massive rainfall deluge one day recently. That was bad but then — possibly related although days apart — one of my shelfs collapsed. sending hundreds of albums crashing to the ground, which was covered by wet carpet from the aforementioned flood.

Miraculously, the other records landed on top of other records. And many had plastic over-sleeves.

The good news: minor water damage on three or four albums, nothing special was lost and it’s forcing me re-organize and make decisions about what to do with my slightly out of control collection, which I estimate is close to 750 now.

The culprit? Too many records, too much weight. So be careful now when you’re rearranging your storage system or display system. Records are heavy.

Meanwhile, keep checking this blog, read some of the older pieces. I’ll be back!!

Heard on the street. after two (or three?) years on COVID hiatus, Mike Madness the Lewy body fight for a cure fundraising 3-on- 3 tournament MAY be coming back. Still firming things up but this year, we are aiming for a mid August time slot. Location likely UAB.

‘It looks like a bomb went off.’ Helmets needed?

I recently stumbled across a year-old tornado story from AL.com quoting a man, Sam Moerbe, about the devastation wrought by a tornado hitting Fultondale Jan. 25, 2021.

‘It looks like a bomb went off,’ Moerbe said.

Reading that quote, I immediately thought of how many times as a reporter covering tornados have I’ve heard that description. (Also, ‘it sounded like a freight train.’)

But I also thought of Ukraine which is being bombed daily by the Russians.

I wondered if civilians, especially children, were/are using helmets while sheltering from bombs.

A few years ago I wrote a story for AL.com which helped sway the Centers for Disease Control to add helmets to their list of safety measures taken during a twister. This inquiry was an outgrowth of the devastating April 27, 2011, tornado outbreak. The storms persisted all day, spawning 62 tornadoes, leaving 250 dead.

Jefferson County (the only county at the time to do autopsies on the victims) reported 11 of the 21 killed in the county, died from head trauma. County medical examiner Robert Brissie, now deceased, said a good number of those 11 might have lived if they had been wearing a helmet. If you extrapolate that, admittedly small sample size, you can see the possibility of saving hundred, if not, thousands Here’s more from one of several stories I wrote:

  • A Pleasant Grove boy, wearing a softball helmet with a mask, was blown from his house soaring nearly as high as the telephone lines, his mother said. But he escaped serious injury although he hit his head on landing in the lot across the street. His doctor said the helmet probably saved his life.
  • A University of Alabama at Birmingham 50-year review of historical literature found numerous examples of anecdotal evidence that wearing a helmet saved lives during tornadoes.

There are military helmets that can be bought online but they are expensive and I’m unsure if they would fit a child. Alternatives include baseball helmets with face protector like the Pleasant Grove boy; bicycle helmets; football; motorcycle; and skateboard . Anything that might protect the head from debris of a bomb blast is better than none.

The United Nations said on Tuesday that 474 civilians have been killed during the invasion so far, with the agency saying it believes that the real figures are considerably higher.’

Among the dead are 29 children.,

I’ve seen numerous towns and neighborhoods devastated by tornadoes, and, yes, they often look like the scene of a bombing.

I’ve never heard the flipside of that quote, however. In other words, someone being interviewed about a bomb blast, saying: ‘It looks like a tornado hit.’

Rude awakening

I woke up this morning and felt like some music. Alexa, I yelled, play songs by R.E.M.

She did. First ‘Everybody Hurts’ and then ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know it.’

Ouch. Reality check.

Alexa I’ll even listen to ‘Shiny Happy People over those. And I don’t like ‘Shiny’ one bit. At least they are happy.

Alexa then — I kid you not — emanates with the opening of ‘Shiny.’ AAARGH.

I’m putting my head back under the pillow: ‘Off Alexa.’ I shout. ‘Alexa off!’

Saddest story ever

That this war could be the backdrop to my own death disturbs me greatly.

The horror is visual and visceral as brought in bytes and bits bounced off satellites. It really has me rattled.

I was diagnosed five years ago with Lewy body dementia, a degenerative brain disease characterized by memory loss and tremors.

I’m trembling right now. I feel the whole world is trembling. Not in fear but rage, and sorrow.

For some reason I got this ‘legendary’ Ernest Hemingway story stuck in my mind. Challenged to write the shortest story ever, Hemingway apparently came up with:

For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

Legend has it, though Snopes doubts it — Hemingway jotted those six words down on a beer napkin and walked out with $10 from each member of the group.

Baby shoes, kids-sized shoes, adult-sized shoes. There’ll be closets full of these shoes in Russia and Ukraine — some never to be worn again.

I’m thousands of miles away but I can’t shake the shakes and the disbelief. And it makes me so sad on many levels. I feel like I’m leaving a world for my daughters that is so messed up.

It’s always been like this, you say? Wars, plagues, exploitation, greed and discrimination. Greed? Did I mention greed? Maybe I’m the guy who keeps beating his head against the wall expecting a better result. Some tiny shred of evidence progress is being made in human history.

Instead, we see and hear, through our gadgets, teenagers lining up to get their very own Kalashnikov and an ill-fitted helmet. We see brigades of men and women bustling in a room where they pour gasoline into beer bottles and stuff it with a cloth. A Molotov cocktail.

We see daughters and sons and mothers crying for their fathers at the train station as evacuation was not allowed for men over 18.

If challenged, I, too, can come up with a six-word story.

For sale, broken heart, never mended.