For Thursday, March 2, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 786 words



The old and the rested


I learned something about myself last weekend. I’m old. I hate to admit it, and relatively speaking at 52, I’m not that doggone old, but still, I’m old.
We went to a blues concert last Friday, the legendary Buddy Guy at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Susan was there, as was Gino and his date for the evening, Gloria. Thousands showed up. Together we filled the cavernous venue to the back walls. Buddy ran out, shiny bald in bib overalls, celebrating his upcoming 70th birthday, and tore up the night air with guitar riffs and old favorites.
At the Fillmore there are no chairs in the audience arena. It’s just a gigantic room with eight chandeliers and a stage. People must stand all night, huddled tightly together in a musical elevator to the stars.
The music started at 10 p.m. and by 11:30 p.m. I needed to sit myself down. I loved every song. I enjoyed Buddy’s stories about growing up without electricity and flipping his first light switch at the age of 17, but my feet ached. My knees ached. Buddy wasn’t playing dancehall music. If I were dancing, I’d have been all right. Buddy was playing mostly slow, contemplative numbers, and we were packed in like overseas chicken.
Finally, the music became no longer pleasurable. I took Susan by the hand and said, “I’m done.” I nodded toward the door and she nodded back. We told Gino and Gloria good-bye, figuring they would stay to the last song, but they followed us.
Upstairs we found chairs and fell into them. “Thank God somebody said something,” sighed Gloria. “My feet are killing me. I thought I was the only one suffering, so I kept my mouth shut.” She peeled off her shoes and put her feet on Gino. Everyone’s feet hurt. We listened to two more songs and left. We walked down the street, passing the Boom Boom Room without even going in, and drove home. I slept in the car.
Then Saturday night came – Emily’s party. Gino and I were invited to his 25-year-old niece’s birthday party at Eli’s Mile High Club in North Oakland on MLK Way. Eli’s is a tiny blues club with chairs and tables, so we accepted the invitation. Susan stayed home on the couch.
The first hour went fine. We arrived early, grabbed front seats, and ordered cocktails. A young, very young Paul Delucca Blues Band from Santa Cruz was setting up to play. “Now, this is more like it,” I said. Gino agreed. We clinked our glasses.
Then the music started. It was good, good and loud, extremely loud, and faster than a rugby player’s heartbeat. “What kind of blues is this?” asked Gino. Paul had apparently confused blues with hard rock. He was so good at playing guitar with swift intensity, that that’s what Paul did, song after song after song, and yelled the lyrics over the noise. “I’m too old for this, too,” I said.
We had to get up and move to the farthest corner of the nightclub, back around the corner behind the bar near the Mrs. Pacman machine.
Emily and two dozen friends showed up. Gino and I mingled and met everyone, Stephanie, Eric, Anabelle, Gina, Christina, Maggie, Ahmet, Mike, Joe, Bill, and on. We traded stories. Talked about careers, hometowns, life in California. More friends kept pouring in. Beautiful, smart, gregarious Emily has a lot of friends.
Apparently, no one called Eli’s in advance with a head count because the crowd overwhelmed the solo bartender. She couldn’t keep up with the three-thick throng of customers.
Gino and I tried for a half-hour to buy drinks with no luck. We gave up. We found ourselves standing on the fringe of the young crowd with our glasses completely empty. The kids were chattering up a storm, flirting, joshing, making new friends, establishing future contacts, emerging into life. Then there was Gino and me, two old guys who just wanted a cocktail, a chair, and some easy listening. “Let’s go somewhere else,” said Gino. We slipped out unnoticed. The night was young.
We drove up Shattuck to the Thalassa bar with its 21 pool tables. It too was jam packed with young people, five thick at the bar like suckling pups.
“We don’t belong here,” said Gino. “We have nothing to offer.” We left and drove to Club Mallard in Albany. It was packed with younguns. Younguns were everywhere.
“Where are the old-people bars?” asked Gino.
“Eh. I don’t know. I’ve never gone to them. I was young when I lived in Berkeley.”
“Well, we better start going to them, because we’re old. Now, let’s go home and watch the news.”

For Thursday, February 23, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 770 words


Ah, frigate


Whew. I just finished booking a cruise to celebrate out 20th wedding anniversary. Last week I wrote of picking foiled cruises and earning bruises. I tried to reserve under the radar to surprise Susan, but broke down and told her before locking in the fees. Lucky I did. She didn’t like my choices and challenged me to try harder and surprise her again later, before locking in the fees.
It’s like any Christmas or birthday present. People tell family, friends and Santa what they want as a gift, then they want to be surprised with it on the big day. They want a colorful package sealed with ribbons and bows, and they want to know what’s inside.
If I were to ask for a dog, but not specify the breed, age, and attitude, I’m likely to get a one-eyed schnauzer with a feral past a bad cough. I can respect a woman’s need to say to her husband, “Honey, surprise me this year by giving me what I want.”
So I went back into research mode. I scoured the Internet, visited travel agencies, called cruise lines direct, spoke to agents, interviewed friends who’ve floated, collected recommendations. I’m exhausted. I need a vacation.
OK. I have to share one unique voyage venue I found. I didn’t select it, but it was tempting. I’m talking about the slow boat to China. Taking a freighter cruise.
I’d never considered freighter cruises until I logged into my fee-based Consumer Reports website and read an article about them in the preface to their special “How to plan a cruise,” advice section. They sounded interesting, so I checked out freighterworld.com. Wow.
Freighters like the ones we see drifting through Benicia bay may have up to a dozen rooms for paying travelers. I didn’t know that. Many have a pool, sauna, recreation room, ping pong tables, sun deck, lending book and video library, all the basics for relaxation, peace, quiet, and solitude. Food is included. The cost is approximately $100 a day and some of these voyages last for months.
The Reederie F. Laeisz GmbH line has eight sister ships that float regularly from Long Beach to Oakland then across the Pacific to Tokyo, Osaka, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Sri Lanka, up the Suez Canal, around Spain to Le Havre, France, through the English Channel to Hamburg, Germany, and finally to Rotterdam, The Netherlands, where they turn around and retrace their steps. The entire trip is 84 days long. The cost is $8,736. That is a true blue dyed-in-the-wool no-doubt-about-it get-away vacation.
A trip like that would be perfect if one were writing a book, or newly married and deeply, deeply in love, or just retiring and wanting to do something monumental, or too old and seasoned by life to be thrilled by pleasure cruise casinos and cabaret shows, or living with a wild spirit and a tight budget, or trying to learn Japanese, or escaping a hectic lifestyle, or someone who just loves the open sea.
One website shows passenger photos of former trips, often in clusters of four to six senior couples, happy together picnicking, playing cards, hanging out.
If 84 days is too short, you can take a trip around the world on the Andrew Weir or the Rickmers-Linie in 124 days for $13,500. It stops at over a dozen ports, including Tahiti, Fiji, New Zealand, Solomon Islands, Papua New Guinea, Australia, Malaysia and on and on. There are also many trips lasting two to three weeks. These would provide a taste test.
Ah, well. A freighter cruise is not for me now. “Honey, guess where we’re going? The rainforests of Papua. We’ll be back by Halloween.” I don’t think so. However, I’m intrigued by the whole concept of barge world travel. Someday, maybe.
I booked the Royal Caribbean’s Vision of the Seas tour to the Mexican Riviera for seven days this spring. I was able to barter a discount fare on the phone than was not mentioned on the website, $1,900 with airfare.
We wanted a balcony, but that was an extra $1,200, and the ship is lined in sundecks, so we settled for an ocean view. Why, I could book passage on a Polynesian frigate for the price of a balcony.
So, anyhow, this will be my first Mexican cruise. If anyone reading this has been on this particular cruise and has advise for us of things to do, not do, enjoy, not enjoy, approach, avoid, eat, drink not eat, drink, and has no intention of selling me a time-share in Cabo, send me an email, please. I’m an empty vessel. gibbz@pacbell.net

For Thursday, February 16, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 780 words



The female mind


I’ll never understand the female mind. I don’t even try. I just marvel at it and shake my head. Thank goodness something in this repetitive, mundane life of ours remains unpredictable.
Out of a million possible examples, I’ll pick this one: Ten years ago I wanted to plan a romantic get-away for our tenth wedding anniversary. I said, “Honey, what do you want to do? We could drive up the coast to a bed-and-breakfast, maybe Mendocino, or go to the mountains, find a small town, rent a room. Or fly somewhere. What do you think?”
Instead of telling me what she thought, she gave me a piece of her mind. First she admonished me for being unromantic, then began to train me on the art of woman wooing. She explained it like this.
“Honey, when you want to do something romantic, don’t tell me about it. Surprise me. Be the man. Plan the trip yourself. Make the reservations. Plot the course, then spring it on me. Wave tickets and say, ‘Guess where we’re going?’ That’s romantic. I don’t want to sit and negotiate all the terms. Just sweep me off my feet.”
I took that advice to heart, ten years later. A month ago, I began planning a romantic get-away for our upcoming 20th anniversary. I decided we would take our first sea cruise. Oowee, baby. I kept it a big secret. Hush. Hush. I researched in private. First I drove to Costco and poured over their members’ vacation brochure, chock full of options and cruise lines. None of their bargains fit my timeframe. I surfed cruise-line websites, critique groups, and Consumer Reports. I read and read.
Finally, I settled on a Mexican six-day voyage on a Carnival Cruise out of San Diego. We’d visit Mazatlan, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo and come home. I took a virtual ship tour on the Internet. Looked at cabin, nightclub, and cabaret photos. Inspected decks. Hours I spent, days, a month.
Finally, the day came for me to book the journey. The house was empty. I logged onto Expedia, Travelocity, one of those websites, and selected our itinerary from flight to finish. Ultimately, I reached the page of no return where I had to enter a credit card number and click “Confirm.”
Just at that moment, Susan came home. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said as she breezed through the house. “Board meeting tonight. Gotta go.”
My feet turned cold. She was in the next room. Before I clicked and cost myself a couple thousand dollars, I said, “Eh. Hon. Got a minute?” I thought I ought to run it past her just in case, you know, whatever. I minimized the screen. I figured I would surprise her with a pop-up screen, one step removed from waving tickets.
“What do you want? I only have a minute.” She came into my den.
“You know what year this is? Right? Of course, you do. Well, guess what we’re going to do, baby. I’m taking you on a Mexican cruise! Surprise! Yipee!” I popped up the itinerary screen.
She looked at it long. She grimaced, pushed her lips up under her nose, and said, “Oh. Hmm. Really? Carnival? Our kids took that line. Didn’t like the food. I’m not so sure.” Then she ran out the door.
Geez, oh, man. Lucky I asked her opinion. She completely forgot to give me the How-unromantic-of-you-to-tell-me lecture.
Back to the drawing board for me. I phoned our kids. Friends of theirs liked Royal Caribbean. They liked the Cayman Islands. I researched two more days and settled on a 6-day cruise out of Florida. I got back on the same travel website, selected everything anew, and, before hitting the “Confirm” button, called singingly, “Susan, darling, come up here, please. I have something to show you.” This trip was an extra thousand, but I read up on all the ports of call, and it looked like a blast.
“Yes. What, Honey?” she asked, at my side.
“Surprise!” I said and popped up the new, improved itinerary screen. “Here is where we’re going.” I smiled, mouth open.
She looked at it long. Chewed her lip. “Florida, eh? We have to fly all the way to Florida? That’s an extra thousand dollars and twelve hours in the air. Can’t we depart out of California and put the airfare toward a cabin upgrade? Let me talk to my friend, Barry. He knows all about cruises. I’ll ask him to recommend something. Don’t make any decisions until you hear back from me.” She slid out the door like Morticia, down the hall, and back to frittering with whatever she was doing before I surprised her.

For Thursday, February 9, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 783 words



Odds on odd


I believe in good luck. It is possible to be in the right place at the right time. I never was optimistic enough to believe it could happen twice in two hours, but I am now.
This is no earth-shaking story of me buying the winning numbers to the power-ball lottery and then finding in my change one of the 40 existing 1943 copper pennies. Though, that’s not a bad run of luck.
This is a homeowner’s tale about saving my house, a tale to make insurance agents chew their lips in anxious relief.
Gino and I were installing new floor tile in a seldom-used downstairs bathroom. We had just poured liquid floor leveler and I was standing around uselessly by the door watching Gino sprawled on his hands and knees spreading the mud around with a trowel.
From my unique vantage point of leaning against the door jamb holding a cup of coffee, I spotted an odd thing. In the center of my bathroom ceiling, a drop of water formed. It wobbled for a second, then dripped down into the floor leveler. It was the first drop to fall. Then another drop fell. And another.
“What the…?” I put my finger into the next collecting drop and it ran down my hand and puddled up along my wristband. “Where is this coming from?”
“Where is what coming from?” asked Gino, looking up. “Oh. You have a leak. What’s overhead?”
“Eh. The refrigerator.”
“Well, then, your refrigerator is probably leaking.” Gino is matter-of-fact about the obvious. He got up. We went upstairs. The refrigerator looked fine. No water on the kitchen floor. No tell-tale sign that anything was leaking, unless one was fortunate enough to be downstairs in the seldom-used bathroom.
Gino rolled the refrigerator out of its cubby. Fssssssst! Behind the ‘fridge, water was spewing forcefully from the coupling on the rubber ice-maker hose. It had just popped its gasket. Gino turned off the water and the leak was fixed.
“You are so lucky,” said Gino. “If we hadn’t been working tonight, that could have leaked for days. Your ceiling would have collapsed. Your framing would be damaged.”
“I saw the first drop,” I said.
“Geez, oh, man.” Gino laughed as he wiped up the water in the narrow cubby, while I stood there. We bought replacement steel flex-hose at the hardware store. Gino installed it. We tore away a bit of water-damaged hard cardboard at the bottom of the ‘fridge to fit in the higher-gauge hose. Problem solved.
We cleaned up for the night and rented a movie. The kids came over. The whole family moved to the living room with snacks and beverages. We turned out the kitchen light.
Normally, I don’t get up once I settle into my psychiatrist-couch lounge. It’s my segue to sleep and then to bed. However, this night I did get up, early. I remembered that I had bought some Odwallas at 2 for $4. When I opened the refrigerator, I noticed that the door was hot to the touch. Not warm. Hot. The center frame between the doors was hotter.
“Yeo, Gino. Come here. Check this out. Something’s wrong.”
“What now? I’m watching the movie,” he said as he was coming.
“My refrigerator is about to burn up.” He felt it and pulled back.
“It sure is.” He rolled the ‘fridge away from the wall again and yanked the plug. Heat radiated up from the motor and condenser like an over-fired barbecue. “Hm. I don’t know what happened. This may be too much for me to fix.”
“Maybe you pulled a wire by accident,” I volunteered.
He gave me his purse-lipped, crinkly eyed Gino look. “I didn’t pull a wire.”
The wife, kids, and I were standing there thinking aloud, “Well, I guess we better start eating. We’ll eat until morning and then call Sears.”
All this while, Gino is behind the refrigerator with a flashlight, removing the cardboard paneling at the bottom. “Oh, man! Geez, oh, man.”
“What, what, what?”
“I found your problem. Look for yourself.”
I bent down and peered into the back of the refrigerator. Inside, with its back legs in the air, was a former mouse, his head stuck firmly in the fan. He was jammed in there pretty tight. I needed needle-nosed pliers to extract him. We plugged the refrigerator back in. It purred coolly to life, fan spinning. Another disaster diverted.
“You are so lucky you bought those Odwallas,” said Gino. “I’ve seen refrigerators catch on fire and burn down the kitchen.”
“That mouse must have just crawled in there through the bigger hole we made.”
“He must have,” agreed Gino. “What are the odds of that?”

For Thursday, Feb 2, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 785 words


Beauty and Beast 2


Last week I was explaining why I would never take my outspoken feminist girlfriend, Janet, back to visit the rural roots of my Pennsylvania home town. I drew that conclusion after observing her in a close encounter with a crazy man in Modesto who was way too similar to the kinds of guys I grew up with. It became apparent that day that if I ever took Janet to meet my childhood friends, it could be bad for her health.
When we left off, Janet had just confronted Mark, a barrel-chested biker who lived in my Modesto studio apartment building. Eight single guys lived in eight studio apartments, one building, McHenry Blvd. near J Street. It was Janet’s premiere visit to my home after a month of dating, and I hadn’t introduced her yet.
As I explained last week, I’d left Janet lying in my Murphy bed while I went down the hall to a party that she didn’t want to attend. Why a woman wouldn’t want to go to a party peopled by eight lonely, desperate guys is beyond me.
I’d taken a bowl of my homemade chili with me, leaving gallons of it on my stovetop. Mad Mark, with his wild hair, flowing beard, tattoos and bullet holes, seeing the chili, moseyed down the hall to help himself, without telling me. That’s the way we lived, wandering in and out of each other’s apartments.
He encountered Janet in my bed, made a few rude, lewd comments to her, and continued to the kitchen, ignoring Janet’s ordering him to “Get out or I’ll call the police.”
When he returned to the party, he said, “You better go check on your old lady, man. She’s freakin’ out,” I dropped everything and ran to find Janet wrapped in my sheet, visibly shaken, on the phone to the Modesto police. I convinced her to hang up.
So there we were, on the edge of my bed. Janet was angry, offended, humiliated, insulted. “Let me call the police. No one has the right to barge in here and talk to me the way he did. How dare he.”
I tried to explain. “Janet. He didn’t know you were here. That’s how we live. He just walks into my apartment. I walk into his. It’s like a frat house.”
“I don’t care. I told him to leave and he ignored me.”
“He just wanted chili, then he came back to the party.”
“That’s not the point. I told him to get out and he swore at me. I have the right to have him arrested.”
“Jannie, please. Mark’s a good guy once you get to know him. He’s just obnoxious and vulgar. We accept him like that. He’s our friend. Geez, I live with him. I can’t have you calling the cops. How would I face him after that? It would make my living situation very ugly.”
“He has no right to talk to me that way. You should step in and defend me.”
Just then Mark opened the door wide and stepped in. “Hey, how’s your old lady?” he yelled. “Did she calm down?”
“Get out of here, you $%%#&!!” said delicate, petite Janet, my lovely outspoken feminist sweetheart. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Calm down, chickie. Don’t get your shorts in a bind.”
“Don’t you talk to me that way.”
“I’ll talk to you any $#@%* way I want.”
“Get out of here.”
“I’ll go when I’m ready.”
During this exchange, I was directly in the middle. With my left hand, I was trying to console Janet. With my right hand, I was waving Mark out the door. It proved no use. They kept yelling. Finally, Mark flipped. He took a big step closer and whipped out a butterfly knife, which he deftly flicked open.
“Listen, b____. I’ll cut your throat out if you don’t shut up.”
Janet finally, miraculously, stopped yelling. I stood up and faced Mark. “Mark. Please. Put that away and go outside. Give me a break, will you?”
“Your old lady needs to learn how to control her tongue,” said Mark. He put his blade away and left. I shut the door.
We talked and talked about the right and wrong of my behavior, Mark’s behavior, Janet’s behavior, the best thing to do versus the right thing to do. We bickered over that incident for the three long, wonderful years we were together. We fought and resolved many other quarrels, but never, ever, to this very day, have we ever resolved what should have been done differently on that fateful day.
Her feisty temper was a trait that made me love her. It’s also the main reason I could never take her home.

For Thursday, January 26, 2006 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 743 words



Beauty and the Beast


Let me tell you a story about my old girlfriend, Janet. I mentioned her briefly in a recent column, stating that I wouldn’t invite her to visit my Pennsylvania hometown because she was (is?) an outspoken feminist and I feared for her safety in my backwater hometown of traditional chauvinists and lumbering woodsmen. Let me share the experience that convinced me Janet needed to stay out of Ridgway, PA.
I met Janet shortly after moving to California, Modesto, 1978. Fresh out of Penn State with a BA in English, I landed a job as an O operator with AT&T. My shift consisted of three guys and 90 women, so it was easy to be eligible. I fell hard for Janet on first sight. She was beautiful and delicate and bright.
Wanting to do things right, I asked her out to a Saturday Disney matinee. I wanted our first date to be friendly, harmless, and non-threatening. It was. We began dating. I waited a good month before inviting her to my tiny studio apartment for consummation.
My studio with its Murphy bed was one of eight in the J Street building, all identical, all inhabited by single, lonely, misfit guys like myself. Over my many months there, we all had become friends, meeting in the halls, stopping by each others’ apartments for coffee or beer. One guy in particular, Mark, on the first floor, was a huge dude, a wild haired, long-bearded, bug-eyed biker with leather jacket, a bullet hole in his chest the size of a dime and an exit wound on his back the size of a dinner plate. He liked to steal tombstones and had several in his apartment serving as end tables.
Down the hall from me on the second floor was another guy, Allen, a decent chap with a great stereo system. When we partied, we usually did so at Allen’s.
The day before I decided to invite Janet to my apartment, I cooked up a huge batch of chili. Single guys do that – make five gallons of chili and eat it for a week.
So, the big romantic Saturday was a successful episode of afternoon delight. Janet and I spent the day in the Murphy bed, talking and not talking. All was right with the world. I warmed my chili and we ate and ate.
Late that afternoon I heard music pulsating through the rear wall. Oh, that’s right! Allen was having a party. I asked Janet if she would like to go next door. “No,” she said. She was comfortable. Did she mind if I went for an hour or so? “No,” she didn’t mind.
I fixed myself another bowl of chili and walked down to Allen’s. We all hung out, talking, sipping beers, listening to tunes. Mad Mark showed up and the party’s pace picked up considerably. Then he said to me, “Man, where’d you get the chili?”
I said, “I just made five gallons of it.” He nodded. My attention shifted to something else. I didn’t think about it anymore. About fifteen minutes later, Mark stepped up to me with a bowl of chili in his hand and said, “Man. You better check on your old lady. She’s freakin’ out.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Got me. I just went in and helped myself to some chili.”
I dropped my bowl and raced down the hall. I burst into the room to find Janet wrapped in a sheet, sitting on the edge of the bed, trembling, on the phone saying, “Get me the police!”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! What are you doing? You can’t call the police on Mark. Come on. I live with the guy. Hang up. Tell me what happened.”
I quickly helped her press down the receiver.
Here’s what happened. Mark threw my door open and waltzed in without knocking, expecting an empty apartment. He saw Janet under the covers and said, “Hey, chickie!” That’s not something one says to an outspoken feminist. Then he did the unthinkable. He grabbed the lower hem of the sheet and flapped it like he was trying to lift it for a quick peek.
Janet screamed at him. “Get out of here. Go away. Leave me alone.”
Mark said, “Ah, relax, chickie. I’m just here for some chili.” He then went into my kitchen.
Janet kept screaming at him to “Get out. Get out or I’ll call the police.”
Mark, the lumbering beast that he is, ignored her. And so.

To be continued…

For Thursday, January 19, 2005 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 771 words


What counts?


The Supreme Court ruled 6-3 in support of Oregon’s assisted-suicide law. This means that Oregon doctors can continue to assist any terminally ill patients with less that six months to live end their suffering on their own terms.
There are many sides to this controversy, just as there are many sides to other life-and-death issues like abortion and capital punishment. Seldom is any debate on these issues ever won or lost. They just rage on in perpetuity.
So, opponents, don’t get all worked up and start writing letters that put me in my place when I say I am happy as a bobtailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. When my turn comes, I just might drive up there. It’s only ten-hours round trip.
Bravo, Oregon! Good for you. I favor physician-assisted suicide for terminally ill patients in chronic pain, and I personally respect states’ rights to vote on important laws that protect their citizenry. The people of Oregon want this assisted-suicide law, and that is fine by me. If folks don’t like it, they can move out of state, or simply not participate in the practice when their own number comes up.
People generally stick to their original convictions, either due to upbringing, politics, religion, race, unique personal experiences, or some combination thereof. So, I won’t debate the decision. I’d either be preaching to the choir or wasting my breath.
I’ve yet to see a discussion where a pro-lifer or a pro-choicer has ever slapped himself in the head, and said, “My gosh. You’re right. I never looked at it that way. I’m changing my opinion.” That’s because these particular opinions are special. They are bonded to moral convictions, which are not easily changed. A person may change his mind on whether or not he likes George Clooney as an actor, or whether he goes out to eat for Chinese New Year or not.
Studies by the Pew Research Center conducted in 1975, 1990, and 2005 show little change in percentages on a wide variety of life-and-death issues. Terry Schiavos and Jack Kevorkians create blips on the screen, but people in general go on disagreeing.
Currently, 46-percent of 1,500 Americans surveyed favor physician-assisted suicide, and 45-percent disapprove. The breakdown of voters makes the results more interesting. Only 30-percent of white evangelical Protestants were in favor, but 60-percent of white mainstream Protestants favored assisted suicide. Catholics were 40-percent in favor and 50-percent against. Only 34-percent of Republicans were in favor, but 52-percent of Democrats favored physicians’ assistance.
Here is one other interesting detail in the voter breakdown. Everyone was asked another question: if they thought about end-of-life issues a great deal, some, or not much? Those who thought about it a great deal voted 57-percent in favor. Those who thought about life and death issues seldom or not at all voted 35-percent in favor.
Faith in modern medicine seems to have had some minor influence in people’s decisions. In 1990 28-percent of those surveyed said that if they had an illness with no hope of improvement and great pain they would want the doctors to do all they could to keep them alive. In 2005 it went up six points: 34-percent said “save me if you can.”
In 1990 59-percent said “DNR. Pull the plug.” In 2005, that number had shrunk to 53-percent. Also, in 2005 39-percent of whites want to live to be 100, while 65-percent of blacks hope to see triple-digit living. This, too, is a modest increase from 1990.
Most, 70-percent, favor Right-to-Die laws and don’t mind if people in pain end their own suffering. This number hasn’t changed much in 15 years. However, neither have the distinctions: 60-percent believe in right to die if incurable and in great pain; if incurable but not in great pain – 53-percent; if life has become a burden due to illness – 33-percent; if patient has become a burden to family – 29-percent.
Seventy-percent don’t mind if the sick end their own suffering; 55-percent don’t mind if a spouse or loved-one pulls the plug; and 46-percent agree that the doctor can help if the patient requests it.
This tells me that our hope in modern medicine is growing stronger. Families carry the most weight in these decisions, but doctors are trusted and included. We all want to go on living as long as the living is good. However, when we know it’s over, we have the courage and willingness meet our fate head on, and seek professional help.
These numbers make as much sense as any others. I guess the only number that really matters is the one that is up.
.

For Thursday, January 12, 2005 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 776 words


Key out


What makes one person succeed in life while another fails? I don’t know. What is the measure of success? I don’t know. What I mean to say is that I can’t speak for everyone. That would require research and clinical studies. I can, however, speak for myself.
I survived a wild, wooly childhood. I grew up surrounded by not only the good things – which are subjects for another time – but the bad, as well.
I grew up surrounded by drugs and death by drugs, alcohol and death by alcohol, crime and death by crime, violence, spousal abuse, child abuse, and all the other ugly things that can happen to anyone with bad luck. I climbed out of that environment and went off to college. I have worked hard all my life and will continue past today to lead a happy, successful life with wife and children and grandchildren.
How did I do it? How did I escape my upbringing? What stopped me from mixing into the madness and disappearing? For me, it was as easy as 1 + 1 =2.
This New Year’s Eve we were sitting in our living room, my wife, Susan, my friend, Gino, and couple of other local folks bringing in 2006. Somehow, the conversation got around to childhoods, growing up, and me.
My wife has heard all the stories, and began to share a few. I sat quietly on the couch and listened to the chatter. Everyone else had sipped perhaps a wee bit more champagne that I had sipped, which made them more talkative.
Gino sat forward at one point and exclaimed in an amazed tone like someone who had just seen David Copperfield levitate a whale. “How did he do it?”
Gino was best man at my Ridgway wedding in July 1986. He only remembers that he was terrified the entire time, something about a guy with a big knife needing a ride home. His girlfriend was afraid to leave her motel room.
Last year Gino got another taste of my home town when we spent several weeks there fixing my mother’s house. He got invited to my family reunion. After 31 years of friendship, he finally met my whole family and many more of my surviving friends.
Once I had a girlfriend after I moved to California, Janet. We dated three years and were deep into our relationship. I recall deciding at that time to make my first return visit to Ridgway since running off to college and California. I had not been home in seven years. When I started calling airlines, I never once, not even for a second, entertained the idea of inviting Janet to join me. In fact, I struggled over a diplomatic way of telling her, “No way. You’re not going. Not gonna happen.”
Understand I acted that way, not because I was embarrassed about my roots, but because I was afraid for Janet. I feared she would get beaten up. Janet was a fearless feminist with a big mouth and an axe to grind. I doubt she’d have survived 24 hours in my neck of the woods without someone slapping the cultured objectivity right off her face.
Anyhow, back to the central thread. Since our recent trips, Gino has been on my case. “I never really knew you until now. All those years we were friends, and I never knew what you had gone through.” He’d give me his familiar slack-jawed stare. “How did you get out of there?”
So that was the topic on New Years, except no one was asking me. They were philosophizing amongst themselves. “Maybe it was this.” “Maybe it was that.” “Maybe it was something he read in a book.”
Finally, after listening to them concoct the mechanisms of my motivation in one convoluted theory after another, I felt I had to put an end to it. I sat up and raised my hand, which is how one gets a word in edgewise in a room full of teachers.
“It was none of that,” I said. “It wasn’t any anti-drug or anti-alcohol campaigns. It wasn’t from any profound heart-to-heart talks with respected elders or teachers, or proverbs from a paperback. It wasn’t brought on by any of my near-death experiences. My escape was as simple as one plus one.
“In short, I had hope. Hope alone saved me. I knew I was smart. I was unafraid of hard work. I was curious and I wanted things. I knew that’s what it took to make a life – being able to see the future. That alone was my key out. I don’t know if it would work for others.

For Thursday, Jan 5, 2005 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 778 words


In the dog house


I bought a dog kennel. It’s out in the middle of the Nevada desert. I believe in the three cardinal rules of real estate – location, location, location. What better place to pen up dogs so they can’t run around than out in the middle of nowhere?
My new business is a small cinderblock structure consisting of a 10 x 40-foot office and ten kennels, five on each side. The gray building sits in the front right corner of a .6 acre piece of property. The place has water, electricity, septic. It even has a few dogs.
It also has a built-in tenant, Michael, who has lived in the office and single-handedly run ARF, the non-profit Animal Rescue Foundation, over the last decade.
He is sanctioned to take in stray wolves. Not every shelter can say that. Michael had a wolf when I first met him. He kept her about a month before a tribe of Native Alaskans adopted her and released her into their outback.
Why did I buy a dog kennel? In Nevada? In the desert? That’s a story that ties together multiple threads of influence and need into a great harmonic, or perhaps moronic, convergence. I have my neck out, my head in the chopping block, my butt on the line, my feet in wet cement, my fingers in a vice, and my thumbs on the red and green buttons. In other words, I’m taking a risk. I’m also helping out an old man.
If you’ve been following, you know I also have a small mini-storage business out in the middle of the Nevada desert on an adjacent .6-acre parcel. Michael is my manager. I hired him last year when I bought the 34-garage business from an elderly couple who live in the California foothills. The old man broke his hip and couldn’t take care of the place anymore.
When I drive out there to work on the place -- spreading blacktop, digging French drains -- I spend plenty of time at Michael’s kennels. He helps me. He loans me hoses, water, electricity; he fixes broken doors. Then we sit in his office to escape the heat and drink bottled water. I visit with the dogs and cats.
On one spring visit he told me, “I’m worried. The owners have the land up for sale. What if someone buys it and runs me off?”
“That would suck,” I replied. “You’re the wolf whisperer. These dogs need you, and you need them. And I need you. Who would run my business?” Michael shrugged and fired up another unfiltered Camel.
“How much do they want for it?” I asked.
“Fifty-five thousand. But they said they’d sell it to me for twenty-five thousand.”
“Why don’t you buy it?”
“I don’t have twenty-five thousand dollars. Besides, I don’t want to own property. I don’t want the taxes and the paperwork and the b. s.”
I chewed on this awhile. For months I chewed. I chewed and chewed. Then I took a real estate attorney out to dinner. We chewed and chewed. Then we talked about dog kennels. I wanted to know if there was a way I could loan an old hermit who lives in the desert with dogs and feral cats $25,000 and feel safe about it. I would then use the property for collateral. He said, “You bet.” Then on a napkin he wrote the general language of a few legal contracts I would need written.
I spoke with Michael. “How about if I loan you the money, you buy the property, then deed the property over to me and I’ll forgive the loan? Then I’ll be your landlord and I won’t run you off and I’ll lower your rent, to boot.”
“It sounds like a good idea to me,” said Michael.
“What would the owners think of our arrangement?”
“They’ll be fine with it. They already told me I could do whatever I wanted with the property once I owned it. The old lady, the deceased owner, was a dog lover. She built this kennel. Then I took it over.”
I hired a Nevada lawyer. Explained the situation. I paid him $200 to write up a promissory note, deed of trust, and a few other documents. Michael and I visited a title company office last fall and opened an escrow. With my loan he bought the land, and now this month he will deed the land over to me.
I promised Michael he could live there as long as he wants. I will help him with his worn-out signs, drum up business. When he goes, I’ll try and rent the kennel again. If no one bites, I’ll build more storage units.