Everybody hates a sequel, yet here I am sequeling, or really giving an update. My Kidney disease, or Harold as I call it, has gotten worse. So much worse that I need a transplant, and within the next couple of months if I am to avoid Dialysis, which I am trying to avoid like a cabinet appointee is the IRS.

My levels got worse last fall after I made “Unconvention” a documentary about the RNC. They stabilized briefly and then got worse, and worse quickly. At the beginning of February (2009) I went to the Mayo for a second opinion. That’s when they told me.

The transplant list that they always talk about in medical shows really is a list- but unlike on TV the wait is about seven years. Hence why we have started the call for a “donor Kidney” basically friend or family who can give me one. (Oddly enough the U just published a study about Kidney donors and how it doesn’t have an effect on there lifespan or health http://tinyurl.com/awgybe Nowadays the donor doesn’t even get much of a scar , they use lazars, all very sci-fi). My other option is Dialysis, which is 3 times a week 4 hours a day. And your zonked on the day in-between. People on Dialysis can collect disability because its akin to being handicapped.

A transplant lasts 10-15 years then I get to do it all over again (God willing new Stem Cell research will have made this whole process much easier by then), so the reality is I might need Dialysis then. Given its ability to destroy your veins, I want to wait as long as possible before going on it, don’t get me wrong I’d be very happy never going on it If I could.

The whole process is surreal, and scary, not to mention weird , and did I say scary? It’s like your in school, and the class gets divided into 2 groups: healthy and sick, suddenly your in a much smaller group on the other side of the room, and your friends are all on the other side, and your now riding the short bus. Nobody wants to ride the short bus.

I don’t expect everyone I know to immediately drop everything and call but I get asked so I want to include it in this note. I don’t want anyone to feel obligated or coerced in any way. To be honest this whole process is surreal, but not in a cool Daliesque way, more like an Escher drawing, lots of stairs, lots of doors, no map.

If you do want to find out about donating your kidney you can call 612 625 7010, Margaret and Cathy are the donor coordinators, they do a 20 minute telephone interview getting some history and looking for any flags. If that goes well they send you a pack to bring to your doctor (or set you up at the U to draw blood, then they see if it matches to mine. (Apparently blood type isn’t as big a deal as it once was ). If you do donate, my insurance covers the medical costs, there are also some grants available to cover time away from work, or travel if necessary. The whole thing is anonymous to me until the end, so I don’t know who called or their progress. Margaret and Cathy can give you a lot more answers then that, but that’s gist of it.

As for other stuff, what I need is friendship, and a hell of a lot of distraction. I am one who often gets trapped in my own head, so anything that gets me out of it is a plus. Not every, or for that matter any, conversation needs to be about Harold. He is after all kind of a prick.

I do have insurance thanks to my partnership in Miyagi (keep me healthy get a haircut- hmm possibly the worst slogan ever) So right now we are ok, of course that may change as the whole thing unfolds.

The most amazing part of this is that as I feel at my lowest- I am amazed by the response of my accumulated friends and acquaintance. I am incredibly fortunate because I have gotten to be a part of so many different and amazing communities, so many great people some who have shown remarkable kindness. From people I have known all my life, and people I barely know. Giving someone a kidney isn’t like loaning them a sweater, the fact that it’s even considered is in itself an extraordinary and humbling experience.

Please do feel free to pass this along to those that might find it of interest, and I will leave you oh dear and gentle reader a few promises, ones that I am counting on you to help me keep.
1. I will survive: Gloria Gaynor has nothing on me. If I made it through my lifetime movie of the week worthy childhood, there is no way I am gonna get punked by kidney disease.
2. I am going to kick this diseases ass: sure I might need a transplant, but I am going to continuing to be me, making ridiculously big art, crazy records and pithy commentary about whatever the hell I feel like
3. Better Faster Stronger: I look at this as a rebuilding, almost being reborn but without the religious connations. It worked for the Six Million Dollar Man, why not me?

Your pal,

c

Dear Britney,

Hi, you don’t know me, I come from a different place, you might call it “fly over country” but the politically correct term is “Not Hollywood” . Anyways I couldn’t help but notice …hmm how to put this politely…that you have had some serious problems. If I were to be real honest here you have fallen into what professionals call the “Holy #$*% what the @#&* is she thinking” area. It seems like you have some people giving you some bad advice, maybe your mom needs to spend less time at Sky bar with Lindsay Lohan’s mom- just a thought. So anywho, as a resident of the rest of the world (ie; not Hollywood) I thought that I might write you a note and ask: Holy #$*% what the @#&* are you thinking?

Seriously, you have accomplished the impossible, and no I am not talking about clawing your way up the Mouseketeer ladder from nowheresville to international pop stardom- Annette Funicello beat you to that one. No, I am referring to making Kevin Federline a sympathetic figure. Seriously, K-fed is now the rational sane one. This is a grown man who refers to himself as K-fed. Something is seriously topsy turvy when this happens.

See today for a while the top story on the AP newswire … Think of it as the way Ramada Perez is sort of a feeder for People magazine, only about stuff that actually matters…. So as I was saying the top story was: you showed up for a scheduled appointment. That’s right, you made international news for showing up to a meeting you were scheduled for. That’s nature’s way of telling you that things have veered off into Michael Jackson territory. Especially given it was the celebraplotiaton smorgsboard of mysterious celebrity death what with Heath Ledger and all.

It seems like it was just yesterday you were dancing around in a school uniform, telling us that oops, you had done it again. Yeah about that, did you ever read that book Lolita, no? Well ok, maybe the movie, oh yeah it’s old black and white…maybe the new one with Jeremy Irons, no? Well, that s ok I didn’t see that one either. Anyway it’s about an adult man that becomes sexually obsessed with a very young teenage girl , eventually consummating that relationship and pretty much ruining the lives of all parties involved. Yeah about that, the way I figure it Lolita is…you know, you, and Humbert Humbert -that’s the adult- well, that’s sadly America. Sure it started out mildy pervy but in a slightly charming way, but pretty quickly it got into hardcore perversion, like buying-used-underwear-on-EBay territory. Then just like in the book , once you weren’t shiny and new, America loses interest and leaves you to falling apart. OK, you didn’t wind up with a coal miner, but lets face it, with K-Fed… well if not for your money it could be his next career move .

What about that kiss with Madonna? Remember when that was the big controversy- poor Christina Aguilera, she kissed Madonna too, its just that it didn’t surprise anyone. Now she is the good one. We should have noticed when you were telling everyone you were a “Slave 4 U” and cavorting around in rubber. Just a desperate call for help. We would have helped , but your antics created jobs: it kept all the LA paparazzi busy, built TMZ.com and Perez Hilton, after the Great Nicole Richie drought of 2007 there was a danger of drought killing off celeb obsessed culture. Frankly, you couldn’t have given a bigger bump to that industry if you dangled your kids out the window at Neverland .

Now I know they hound you at your every turn, you can’t go to get your beloved coffee without having an army of Nikon ninjas following you. But have you ever thought about not encouraging them, maybe not changing outfits every hour? They follow you because you are bound to do something stupid. Maybe the answer is to spend a night at home. You could have a party at your house; heck, go crazy, no paparazzi. In fact you could go around in a unmarked limo, a technique that worked for years for celebrities . The point is, try not to be an open book. Besides, mystery helps with persona. Just ask Liz Taylor, you’d like her, she made some bad choices too.

Thing is, I get that pop stardom makes you goofy, attention is this really awesome drug that once it permeates every fiber of your being you’re hooked. You need it like a junkie needs smack or Rosie O’Donnell needs Ring Dings. Problem is the audience gets hooked too, and America is hooked on you. Not in a good way, like because of a your music (hey did you know you have a new record out…no?, well don’t worry neither does most of the world) and your film career , well, that was sort of one time thing like the Sonny and Cher Movie- every rock star gets one. You were famous for being a musician, then you were famous for being famous, now you’re famous for being messed up. That didn’t do any good in the career department for Frances Farmer or Claudine Longet.

Sure you spent some time with Dr. Phil, and I saw Dr. Drew talk about you on TV. .Just a thought on that: Stay Away from doctors who use their first name only, its pretentious and friendly- plus it sounds weird like Officer Bob, or Reverend Skippy. Maybe you need to see a doctor who isn’t trying to make a deal for a reality show with Fox. A doctor who is treating you because they want to help, and get paid of course, but no book deal, no appearance on Access Hollywood.

Thing is there is nothing wrong with you that can’t be fixed, but it won’t get fixed dancing on a table at Ghostbar in Vegas. It’s that long dark tea time of the soul, where it s just you and you. Thing is, Brit, you have kids, and its not just about you anymore –its about them too. They need you not to be the glorious disaster that you are, and be their mom. The good news here is you don’t need to be a great mom, no one is expecting you to become one with your inner June Allyson , heck you don’t even need to be a good mom. You just need to be a mom. Think about the kids first and the rest will sort itself out.

Your pal,

Chris

PS: Sorry about exploiting you.

PPS: Oh and for God sake keep your panties on; nobody needs to see that.

Editor’s note: Hello oh dear and gentle reader, presented for your consideration:”It’s Raining in Warroad”, a break from our more traditional pithy fare. This is a Prose piece written for the Future Perfect Series we did at the Bryant Lake Bowl. This might be my favorite from that whole run of stuff, sadly the documentation for it sucks so its lost to the ages.

As to why to run it today, that has to do with Thanksgiving, several years after 9-11, and nowhere near its anniversary’s it seemed worth looking at. I am thankful not to have to live that day again, I will be more thankful when my countries government gets out of a war against people who had nothing to do with it.
PS: the Mick Fleetwood thing is a true story
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It’s Raining in Warroad
I think the thing that I haven’t gotten used to yet is the plane flying overhead. Even as we speak somewhere up above f-16 with their stinger missiles armed and at the ready are there protecting us… or watching us depending on whose column you read. Me I don’t subscribe to either side… it just spooks me

The whole plane thing was different but the plane stopping was the weirdest. Not because I fly a lot. But I live not far from the airport not close enough to be soundproofed but close enough that the takeoffs can rattle the windows at 5:00 AM, their noise is the back ground soundtrack of my day. I hear it often and always, and then it wasn’t there. Hours upon hours of relative silence, the kind of thing referred to in bad mystery novels as eerie silence. Broken only by the occasional thunder like whoosh of a jet, a jet that you wish was carrying smiling grandparents back from Florida, the sound of military jets, and life becomes a lot like an after-school special about the apocalypse the kind they made you watch during the 70’s.

And there I sat…shaking at the sound of silence… in a constant din of CNN. There’s this idea that we seem to have as a society, like having a lot of facts about something will sometimes help you cope, but it’s a lie, just another one of the list, the idea of being informed as a positive action in a situation that your ignorance would provide the same results. And all you can do is…

The Morning of Sept 11 my phone rang …now I know we all have a “where were you when the towers got hit story” it’s our generations” where were you when Kennedy was shot”. But this is my story, so I’ll tell it like I know it. Because that’s the only way you can tell a story. The phone rang at 8:10 am and as far as I can tell a phone call before 9 AM is almost never good news. No one ever rings you up in the early morning to tell you they are bringing donuts to your front door. I answered in horror to hear the least serious person I know tell me with a graven voice usually reserved to tell little children that there Puppy had went to the sky to live with Grandma.

At first I thought it was a joke. Of course one view of the TV screen that just a few hours earlier had comforted me with the Happy images of James Garner as a wacky Texas Oil man was now changing how my life, everyone’s life would change. But no one got that yet.

When I was kid I was home, sick on January 28 1986, the Day the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up. I wish that I had felt emotionally destroyed… I wasn’t, it really didn’t effect me, I saw it happen Live in front of me but I didn’t get it. I mean I felt bad that people had died but that’s about where it stopped. I just wanted cartoons to come back on.

Sept 11, 2001 at 8:15 AM Central Standard Time I got it,

The giant sense of loss hit me not just this horrifying act but all the horrifying acts ever, the challenger explosion the idea of battles in world war one, where 4000 people would die and the realization that the last 1000 to die in that battle had to walk over the bodies of the previous 3000…they had to know… and I had to think that must have gone into battle knowing , and I think, no I know that would have driven me insane. How could it not 1000 insane soldiers marching over their brothers to die.

I thought about a castle in England that I had been to where they let you into this pit or dungeon I guess they put prisoners in but they wouldn’t give you any light because the proprietors said it was too gruesome you could see the marks the inmates made in the wall to mark there time. Me I had my own flash light …bad idea they weren’t lying …I really wish they had been.

The Spanish inquisition became very real. Indian massacres, I remembered the Alamo. .. It all made me sick. Not the nausea of Sartre, I know that one well enough, no this was a whole other kind of sick. I got the cruelty of nicknaming the buck-toothed guy named Jim: bucky beaver in the second grade. I got it all

I stare in disbelief clutching my wife, as I watch the second plane, wondering if anyone saw the first plane hit in that building and thought, not that much of it and kept working, I sat sad eyed and slack-jawed calling everyone I knew in New York, to receive nothing but busy signals… sure they live in Brooklyn and never find themselves near the twin towers, but best to be safe. I guess when the plane hit the pentagon it was a little different, although I remember My High School social studies teacher had said that it was really impossible for that to happen, so many missiles, and soldiers watching the skies, and I …well I believed him. It’s that thing we all have that belief. Someone tells us it’s ok so we take them at there word. Even though common sense tells us otherwise. It’s what allows people to smoke, they know it will shorten their life but they do it anyway. It the little lies we tell to make ourselves feel comfortable in our skin.

Meanwhile people are dying and there soot everywhere. Peter Jennings is theorizing that the heat must have been so intense as just to evaporate people. All this tragedy, Manhattan a sea of soot and ash, and that everyone there is breathing dead people, and I start to imagine that smell…

I read once, that in every breath we take that there is at least one molecule that’s been breathed in ad out by every person and thing that’s ever lived. Jesus, Hitler, Buddha, J Edgar Hoover and Sammy Davis jr. and now add to that the ashes of a couple thousand people who died because they went to work.

And I look at my wife, Now if you don’t have that certain someone, who really is that certain someone, and it’s ok if you don’t cause most people seem to miss that train. In favor of more convenient ones, you won’t know what I am talking about; I thought about losing her I held her so tight it hurt and we sat there a collapsing building flickering on our TV half a continent away from where it happened.

I was shocked about how selfish it made me feel. Not that this would happen here in America, that was just time, rather how different everything would be… I was right within a month thousands of layoffs and a new sense of patriotism and paranoia.

That’s sort of the funny thing isn’t it everything is different …kind of as much as exactly it is the same … it’s always amazing what you can adjust to in time, I think that explains people who live in abusive relationships, they just get used to it and once your used to it you can deal with just about anything…

When I was 16, I was in my first bomb threat, I was 16 and in London on a high school trip, I was the only guy, me and 13 girls, not the bliss that my adolescent brain thought that it would be. I spent a lot of time just on my own, and being 16 I had to hit all the cultural highlights like the worlds largest department store ” Harrods” Terribly unhip in retrospect but what are you going to do, and as I was walking through the men’s gloves and umbrellas when I heard a loud alarm bell, followed by lots of swat looking police officers with dogs and shields and guns storming in, as I stared wondering if was going to die amongst a sea of Burberry.

I locked eyes with a late 50’s bushy bearded giant , that looked not unlike some sort of Tolkien creature, in that moment I saw on his face what I have to imagine was the same look on mine: panic, fear, and a strange sort of acceptance. This was just a new reality to be dealt with just like the introduction of a new umbrella into an otherwise rainy English landscape. It was only as I joined the throng heading towards the exit that I realized my bearded man was Mick Fleetwood, you know the guy from Fleetwood Mac. The funny thing is I hated Fleetwood Mac.

4000 people dead maybe, man that sucks… I know I should have something more profound, something that underlies the senseless brutality of it all, but what the hell can I say that 10,000 guys who write for the New York Times have said before. It sucks and not because it was Americans.

Mass death anywhere sucks, hell one death sucks, even if you didn’t like them very much. That’s why I would make a rotten god, because I hate loss, anyone anywhere.

I become obsessive about trying to stay in touch with old friends, because I don’t want to lose them …that part of myself… its those selfish motivations again. I go back to my old neighborhoods ones that I haven’t lived in for ages just to visit the convince store clerks… for some reason they always remember me. And it’s the little things they remember not my name, or what I do. It’s that I drink Coke and not Pepsi, that I prefer the cheap novelty candy to the more standard chocolate bars. They say the genius is in the details; the say the devil is in the details too…. Just who are they anyway, cause that’s pretty damn confusing. But I do think they matter because it really is the little things that we sort of…look foreword to at the end of the day, your more likely to reflect on dinner then on the profundity of your paper work.

See nothing is permanent, nothing it all changes eventually. In school they tell us the world will eventually lose it’s life in like 30 billion years. It still makes me sad, that in 30 billion years no one will be around to know what coke tasted like in green glass bottles. What cherry blossom trees look like in full bloom, they won’t know how beautiful my wife’s face looks in the morning before the make up and hair. And that kills me inside. It doesn’t matter that by that time the Moorlocks, or apes will overrun mankind or what have you.

The great pyramids, the redwoods of California, Chicago they are all just temporary. All our monuments and memorials will be lost in time like whether or not the guy who cleaned the floors of the 53 floor of the east tower of the world trade center preferred danish or donuts in the morning

I wish that I had something great to leave you with some parting shot of hope and light, but I have to return to that day… The day, after hours of Peter Jennings telling me that he just didn’t know, and the squawking voice of the radio offering only the familiarity of weather reports of distant but close places as a source of comfort. I had to leave and go outside, I am by nature not a nature boy. Nothing against the great outdoors I just prefer concrete to dirt… I just needed to walk, and I noticed that the trees didn’t know what was going on, and the squirrels were just doing what they do… gathering nuts for winter … life just did what it does, and I walked to a dairy queen and eat an Ice cream cone, because sometimes that’s all you really can do.