Journey Into Sound

“Wow, look at that girl in the tub, she’s got no bikini!” I said jubilantly as I pointed at the photo in the paper sleeve which unfolded from the cassette tape holder. My 7-year-old eyes were wide open with delight, possibly my first attraction to the opposite sex.

So I thought.

My brother, eleven years my age, along with a couple of his accomplices burst out in laughter as they gave me a daunting reality check.

“That’s not a girl, it’s a guy! That’s C.C. DeVille, the lead guitarist of Poison!”

My face crumpled up like a brown paper bag. I took a closer look at the photo, squinting and adjusting my focus as couldn’t I make the distinction between the sexes. Why the hell was he wearing makeup and why was his hair long and tussled the way it was? These questions infiltrated my young, inquiring mind as the melodic guitars of Poison’s “Fallen Angel” filled his room.

I was too young to comprehend the feeling of embarrassment during this situation, but one thing was for certain: Music was my first taste of what it was like to be in love.

As a child growing up in the mid 1980s, we had a substantial assortment of music players scattered around our apartment. We had a record player, a few AM-FM radios, a rusting and overused 8-track player, and a couple of Boom Boxes. Anyone remember Betamaxes?
Damn right we had that too! Should have saved those if we knew it would make a comeback 20 years later along with neon colored apparel…

I have fond memories of sitting in our living room next to my Dad some afternoons and watching him sort through his vinyl collection of The Beatles I watched as the Fab Four’s faces quickly transformed from squeaky-clean gentleman to un-groomed Hippies.

It was like Michael J. Fox watching himself in the mirror becoming a wolf in Teen Wolf. He had them stacked up as I watched them tumble down like vinyl blocks and sounded like a deck of playing cards shuffling.

I would have been a Beatles fan at a very young age, but my heart took a gamble on the first song I ever heard on a set of speakers, which was Dream by the Everly Brothers.

My refuge was always sitting in the dining room with the lights off and listening to our 8-track player. I was still too young to attend preschool and I spent most quiet afternoons here.

I considered this my Xanadu.

We didn’t have many of those gigantic tapes resembling prehistoric stone tablets, but the one that got the most play was a blue cartridge with “The Everly Brothers” etched on it. I really loved their song “Dream”, and to this day it is still my favorite song of all time. I heard it enough times, and after countless hours of playback, the over-gluttonous machine ate the tape and it was stuck in its mouth.

Thankfully, I never got tired of it. However, the film became warped to the point where the Everly Brothers started sounding satanic like Freddy Krueger.

One would not usually associate Freddy Krueger with the Beach Boys, but when I was about 3-years-old my brother played a sinister trick on me. Nightmare on Elm Street had just come out and the song that I really enjoyed at the time was Cocomo. It was just such a serene song that always put me in a state of bliss.

Being the prankster he was, my brother thought he’d get a kick out of scaring the shit out of me. So right before the song came on, he decided to do a Freddy Krueger voice impersonation directed at me.

He said: “James… guess who this is! It’s Freddy Krueger!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Then the tape made that sound warp noise that it does when it goes back into its original form after being taped over, and picked off with “…we’ll get their fast and then we’ll take it slow! That’s where I wanna go…”

That’ll tend to psychologically mess with a young child’s brain that’s still in development.
I was 3, so I was easily scared by things; spiders, dreams of dead relatives trying to take me away and most oddly, ancient Egyptians.

Yeah, tell me about it…

I think it might have been caused by a ceramic bust of Queen Nefertiti that would stare straight at me whenever I walked into the storage room. I was so scared of ancient Egyptians that when Walk Like an Egyptian by The Bangles came on MTV or the radio, I would absolutely cower in fear!

Then again, I don’t think anything was more frightening than my obsession of singing songs by The Supremes in the shower.

At some point in my toddler phase, I developed some strange ritual of placing a radio in the bathroom and blasting music as I took a shower. Many genres of music were covered during those 20 minutes in the bathtub; 60s Pop, 50s Rock n’ Roll, 80s stadium rock stuff… It just made for a relaxing experience.

One song that would always be in the mix was “Can’t Hurry Love” by The Supremes. Whether the music was good or bad or if my sexuality was in check at this point was totally subjective, but every night I was belting out at the top of my lungs, “YOU CAN’T HURRY LOVE, NO! YOU JUST HAVE TO WAIT! OHHHH…”

Of course, being the gullible child I was, I left the door open during this. Sure, there were times I set the smoke alarm off because I loved taking hot showers.

One time my brother, having timed the situation very well, placed his hand through the opening of the door with a small tape recorder and caught my performance on tape. After I was through with my shower, I walked out of the bath and found my brother and his friends laughing hysterically. When I stepped foot in his room, he rewound the tape and played it back to me in my utmost horror.

But perhaps I have saved my best for last.

My earliest and most sacred memory of music goes back to when I was very young; maybe between a few months to two years old. I remember being draped across my Dad’s hulking shoulders like a monkey. We were standing in between the dim dining room and the kitchen, where my Mom was making dinner. As we moved further in I was at eye level with the bright, round bulb of the lamp which seemed like I was going closer towards the sun. It suspended from the ceiling with a kaleidoscopic, glass shade.

As my dad bounced me up and down his shoulder, he sang to me in a deep, godly voice:
“Heeeeee’s got the whoooooole world, in his haaaaaands, he’s got the whooooole wooooooorld in hands…”

Looking back on it, I don’t know why I found it soothing, considering I realize now that he sounded like Darth Vader singing me a lullaby.

Or Mufasa from the Lion King depending how you look at it. Same person.

It must have been the combination of ultra-low vocal tones and the vibration from his diaphragm that relaxed me.

Now at 28 and a musician/songwriter for the last seven years, that is one thing that I fail to use when I sing: my diaphragm. But I think of all the singers who are successful in their careers who sound like they don’t. Mike Ness, Bob Dylan, Joey Ramone, Bruce Springsteen… You know, guys I admire who look and sound like they are holding in the need to drop a deuce when they sing.
But things might be worse; I could easily have become an alcoholic. Whenever I had a toothache as kid, my dad would dab a Q-Tip in a bottle of whiskey until it numbed the pain and I would eventually pass out. I grew a taste for it and would purposely rot my teeth out on candy just as an excuse to get drunk.

Nothing beats the feeling that music can provide for the soul. I’d say that you have to be dead to be completely numb to its wondrous powers, but then I just thought about Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" and “The Monster Mash” and decided to keep my mouth shut.

Signing off…

A Recipe For Hate: Sports Rivalries and The Decaying of American Culture

Sports rivalries are both fun and dangerous. There is always a big hype around them; the teams always pull out the red sharpie and circle the dates on their calendar and the fans are always into it. Most of the time it's just all for fun and territorial bragging rights.

It's a primitive social event that can really bring our primal instincts to the forefront.

And that's where it can be a problem.

At the beginning of the month, I was invited to watch a Chicago Cubs game at Wrigley Field in which they squared off against the Houston Astros. I've been a huge supporter of the Cubs for a long time, and we were in the midst of another losing season. Naturally, I had a humorously cynical attitude towards my beloved home team, but I still was interested in soaking up the culture and atmosphere of the ballpark with my friends and fans alike.

What I saw as I waltzed onto Addison St from the Red Line stop completely dumbfounded me (look at the photos of the green and blue shirts below, the red shirt I found browsing the net). I was literally at a loss for words. Is this actually allowed? Since when is it okay at any point in time to don such an atrocious fashion statement?

You may feel that I am over-reacting to something that was meant as a "good nature ribbing", but when the need to take it to the next level below and use the degradation of an ethnicity or gender group in a light to fuel a point is destitute and utterly futile. What point is being made wearing these shirts at the ballpark; a place in which families and friends commune to have fun, watch a game, and eat ice cream and hot dogs?

Imagine wearing one of these shirts and sitting next to a family of heritage who works hard to make a living doing jobs that you feel you are too good for and telling them to "relax, it means nothing."

But then I realize this is perfectly legal (unfortunately.) Banning such merchandise would be violating the vendor's and person's freedom of speech. But this still doesn't justify any means of making it right, though "right" is subjective. What this shows is that we are long ways from being decent human beings. It's 2010, but there is still subliminal bigotry looming behind the commercial scenes of American Culture.

What we are planting and harvesting from this is more hate. The little kid you are sitting across from who eyes that shirt could one day grow to be on the news for a hate crime because he or she felt it was okay to belittle someone due to their orientation or race.

For the reckless adult, it only adds wood to the fire. They are primitive by nature, and tend to always gravitate towards the negative pole.

As a sports fan, it saddens and embarrasses me to see such things around, people doing bad things to each other not just physical and verbal, but visually as well. It dehumanizes us as a whole and we digress as a superior species in the animal chain.

Sadly, it's not a linear by a cyclical process that has no end.

But it is possible to change and enlighten minds.

New Beginnings?

It's 1:36AM Central time. As if anyone could care, because time waits for no one. It marches on and on.

But it does matter for some of us; especially those who have an ounce of creative blood in them. We lay in bed, tossing and turning, cursing ourselves for not being able to fall asleep. Things run through our hearts and minds like ticker tape in the form on color, words, pictures or sounds.

Congratulations. What you may be experiencing (if it hasn't hit you yet) is a masterpiece creating itself before you. Whether it be a song, essay or painting you can't see it coming, but you can watch it unfold.

And ohhhh, the satisfaction that you get when it hits you. Or when you realize the good you've done.

That's how much of my mid to now late 20's has been. Its been an ongoing journey of new beginnings and Renaissance era. I can say this about my life as both a writer, musician, person and student of the world. There's a certain point you become aware that you need to do this and that, or you can't be this way anymore.

Then you realize you're just wasting your time and thought setting rules for yourself that you end up breaking. You learn something new every year about the world and yourself that you never knew before.

That's what you can rely on: experience, not empty promises.

I've been 28 for a little over a month now, and I kept reminding myself before my birthday that "I'll wake up on July 18th, and nothing will be different. I'm going to be the same person, the day is going to unfold. Nothing drastic."

It's not like I expected myself to look in the mirror and suddenly see some older person in the reflection. I've looked 18 for the past 10 years and I've been 5'7" for the past 14 years!

And I was right. Nothing did change. I woke up late from sleeping late the night before, had a wonderful dinner with my family and my best friend. And that was it; another day come and gone.

I can't tell you exactly when it happened during the next couple of weeks, but something did change in me. I never paid attention to the whole "something important happens to you every 7 years" spiel that some people say, but when I look at it, my life did have some drastic changes during each of the seven years.

When I was seven, Nintendo changed my life. It gave me no real friends and countless hours in front of the T.V. burning my eyes out. However, I still have close to perfect vision and don't need glasses.

When I was 14 I got into punk music, which would later on be very influential to my life. I got into bands like Rancid, The Offspring and Face to Face. Me and a few friends would sing song's off of Green Day's "Insomniac" album in class. I almost joined a punk band as well, since I had a friend who played drums and one who was getting into guitar. He was taking lessons, while I was watching a recording of Green Day's '94 Aragon show and mimicking Billie Joe's panic attack twitches and buzzsaw downstrokes on his guitar.

My favorite memory of this was reenacting the entire show in the laundry room of my parent's apartment. I knew all the songs by heart and hammered through them on my brother's amp and guitar.

Of course, I was too shy and timid to do it, so that never happened. Who knows what would have happened if we did form the band and I ended up singing and playing guitar?

Fast forward to seven years later when I became 21. I started my first band. In the punk community, or I guess in any rock music circle, I'd be considered a late bloomer. Kids then and now start early... like 13-14.

Like I would have.

I thought to myself, "Fuck it. I have the passion, I have the drive. I want to do this."

Whatever that is. You can say you have those things, but realize later on that you lacked something more important than those.

Direction.

At 21, I had all these hopes and dreams. I wanted my band to be famous. I wanted to make a difference in the world. I wanted to go on tour, chase the girl of my dreams, and hopefully I'll get her to notice me.

Those kind of lofty, pointless, yet charming dreams. Things you say, things that sound good and important. But at that age, you have no idea what it means.

Everything is a game, and you can dream about it and that's where you'll come out the winner. So, you say screw the real world.

I also became politically charged. I was very unaware and could care less at a younger age, but then I realized that I was an adult now, and this stuff affects my life. I didn't vote when I was 18.

I took many things for granted.

Things tended to slow down when I hit the mid point at 25. It became more of a mid 20s crisis era for me. I failed a lot, and went through times that I never wanted to go through and had thoughts that I never wanted to think.

You feel like either you are working against the jaws of a trash compactor or wondering why the world is against you. Why is life guiding you towards misery? And if you can make it through this period, steer the boat away from the storm, then you're good. I came so close to drowning and letting myself go without a fight.

Then ration kicked me in the groin.

However, I have not reached the point in the story where the Ancient Mariner looks into the sea and finds the serpents beautiful yet (a quick reference to those of you who enjoy Samuel Taylor Coleridge).

By my mid 20s, I already knew that music was a part of my life and it was not going to go away as some phase. I've loved it since I was a kid, and when I started playing in a band, it just clicked. There was a lot of internal struggle. There were immature people who cared more about themselves and getting laid than writing good music, or people who were just there.

I'm no angel either. I had more of this mentality of being some sort of guitar hero in the punk scene and writing impossible stuff hellbent to blow every band out of the water. I was bitter and angry. I didn't like how all the bands had the same moves, clothing, hair-cuts, whiny-voices... and their fans annoyed me just as equally. I drifted more and more from what really mattered, which was good songwriting.

After I turned 25, one thing that I have noticed is that out of the blue, with no reason or rhyme, I started going back and listening to older, defining bands such as the Clash, Husker Du, Social Distortion, the Ramones, the Beatles... just older bands.

I don't know why I did. I mean, it's not my first time discovering them or listening to them like a wide-eyed teenager. But even then it wasn't clear to me what it even meant for me to be listening to them.

More and more I realize that it has come to shape and define who I am now at 28. These bands are not flashy in any way... what stand out are their flawless songwriting. Their lyrics tell a story, have a motive, tell truths. They are time capsules to the world around them from their era.

Kind of like history books, but written by the actual observers. Some of their observations still hold true today.

I look at Joe Strummer, and see how much the world really meant to him. How much he wanted change and did something about it. He wasn't perfect; he went through the bad before he found the good. And even when he was already an important figure, a true icon in Punk, he still was learning and had so much humility in him. He was the kind of guy who would stand outside after a show and make sure he didn't miss an autograph.

Then I look at newer bands like the Gaslight Anthem. The lyrics are not political, but they are poetic, honest, and beautiful. Their music is simple, catchy and filled with melodies. And though I've only seen them through video, they look like they love what they do and they care about their fans. They don't seem them as dollar signs; they see them as friends who come to have a good time.

And that's how it should be. And I ask myself, 'Why can't I have that?"

Then I realize, I can.

If I let myself and follow my heart.

What's changed in me now at 28 is that those things they were said at 21, the passion, the drive, etc., it has a direction and a vision.

I don't want to end up being some kind of 28 year old, man-child. I want to age, grow older gracefully.

I want to contribute something positive in society instead leaving a mess behind or causing one. To know that something good benefited from it and it can inspire people to do something good too. I want to write music that hopefully if I end up getting married (of live in girlfriend, whatever) someday and have kids will make my family proud. I want these songs to mean as much to people as the songs my heroes wrote meant to me. It can't be forced though, and I'm still learning what it means to be a good songwriter and work with the heart and mind in unison.

So I'm trading in all of my flash on guitar for a more solid foundation and stronger sense of feeling. The right ringing of a chord can sonically and emotionally crush a 3 minute hammer on solo.

I want to take care of myself so I can live a long and happy life. I want to write honest, meaningful essays and stories that will either make someone think, laugh, cry, or want to reach through the page and kick my ass. I want to listen to peoples stories and really care about them.

But by doing this I will not sacrifice my quirkiness and my ability to laugh, love and and cause playful havoc. My goal is to live life to the fullest and have a more concrete direction.

I think about the people in my life who've come and gone, and who've come back for some reason to be stronger friends to me who I look upon as brothers and sisters. I'm thankful that those who left are gone, and I don't see that changing. They are the most non-judgmental, intelligent and unique people that I'm proud to know.

And I see my friend Jade entering the phase I went through at 25, and I hope its a smoother ride for her.

These are my thoughts. It's now 3:12 and I'm pretty damn sleepy.

Good Night.

-Jimmy

"Here's Lookin' at you, Kid."

Sorry I've been away for so long. I meant to write and tell you, but I was caught up living life.

How was the world while I was gone? A lot of people in Chicago think that it is the world, and everything else revolves around them. Hipsters and Yuppies seem to think this, and they are All-Knowing.

I was away in Northern California for a week at the end of June, and I hate to say this Chicago, but I fell in love. The Spanish roofs, the bright sun, the laid back atmosphere. For once, I really felt like I was welcomed and that I belonged. I didn't feel like a pair of eyes were watching me; judging me because I didn't dress like a Banana Republic Mannequin.

Instead, I got warm smiles and even "hellos" from complete strangers. The one Starbucks by Bianchi Rd had a really cute Punk Rock girl who didn't look like she was dressed up by Hot Topic and wanted to slit her wrists. She smiled too, as she handed me my Green Tea Frappucino.

It was hella good.

Highway 101 was a nice ride. Now I know the greatness Mike Ness speaks about.

The journey to the East Bay was wonderful. The traffic was pretty gruesome at 2PM when we hit the Berkeley area. My heart lit up when I saw the Gilman Street exit like William Wordsworth gets orgasms whenever he fantasizes about nature. Because I have the greatest cousins in the world, we took a stopover at 924 Gilman Street: Ground Zero for the Bay Area Punk Scene. No shows that night, but if I were religious, I'd compare this feeling to setting foot in Jerusalem.

I haven't been the same since.

The East Bay was absolutely stunning. 21 years since I've set foot on it; and I can't say I remembered much. That didn't matter because I was able to make room and absorb new memories to take back with me to Chicago. Fisherman's Wharf, Pier 39, The Wax Museum... just a little spec of the city which left me wanting more.

San Francisco, we have unfinished business. I also was very unsuccessfully in my quest for the beautiful Emily Whitehurst. After all, she's the ass-kick-off-the-couch for me to start a band. Oh to be 21 again.

I'm liking 28 just fine. She too has aged gracefully.

Her middle name is Grace. Fuck, I sound like a stalker.

My soundtrack didn't wander much, but was completely necessary. There was something about my iTunes shuffling through Rancid, Green Day, Op Ivy and Social Distortion that made it all the more perfect. Obviously, these are California bands, but to be driving around town with these bands blasting through your headphones, the feeling can't be described. Though I've never tried smoking a cigarette, bong or a blunt, it was probably a feeling equivalent to that first hit.

Nirvana.

So Chicago, though I still have some love and respect for you; your wonderful architecture, lake, hard-working citizens (yes, there are these despite the abundance of douchebags), Northern California has stolen my heart.

Though I have not set foot in Southern California this time around, and that's where I hear things get really fake and weird.

And that San Diego cops are the most racist cops out there. But their nights are goregous.

Can't we all just get along?

But don't worry, I'm not leaving just yet. Oh, one thing I noticed that you two have in common is that no matter where you go in the US, Wal-Mart is a sponge for each city's White Trash. For once during the trip, I thought I was back home.

Human Kaleidoscope

Meniere’s disease is an inner ear disorder that can cause a colorful, smorgasbord of events: episodes of vertigo (which are usually severe, by the way), ringing or humming in the ears (also known as tinnitus), feelings of pressure or fullness in one ear, and fluctuating hearing loss. Unfortunately, you aren’t given a choice; you either experience one, two, or all three of these events simultaneously.

A Day in the life of Meniere’s Disease

Meniere's disease normally begins like this: You could be sitting at your desk working and suddenly it feels like a small, Teflon balloon has inflated in your left ear. But that’s not all; it also feels like there is a little bit of water moving around inside it. With a slight tilt in your head, you feel the water shift from its location, changing the pressure in the ear. It becomes a nuisance, but it also becomes a game. You try and poke at it hoping that the balloon will pop, but it seems unbreakable. Then, it deflates. The feeling doesn’t disappear but intensifies.

First Impressions Leave Lasting Ones

During the summer of 1997, I had my first bout of Meniere’s disease. It was a year in which my friends dragged me to the movie theater to watch blockbuster hits like “Face-Off” with Nicolas Cage, and “She’s The One”, in which one of my friends went through great trouble to convince the front office that we were old enough to see it (we were only 16 and it was rated R.) To his dismay and defeat, Jennifer Aniston was not naked in the film and I had just wasted $7.50.

Then it happened. We were in the middle of watching “Con-Air” at the Lincoln Village Theater in Lincolnwood, Illinois, when something didn’t feel right. I felt my pupils dilating, which made it feel like my eyeballs were shrinking and expanding, and they seemed to have trouble focusing. My vision kept zoning out from being clear to blurry, the screen switched from being what is was to a pixilated, abstract smudge to my eyes. I tried looking around the room, and there was a delayed reaction. By the time my head had fully turned to the right, it took a few seconds for my vision to catch up. I decided to close my eyes for a while and just listen to the film. I thought that maybe if I rested my eyes, it would eventually go away and I would be fine. I knew what a migraine headache was, and although I never experienced one, I assumed this was what was occurring.

I was wrong and experiencing this while sitting down was only the start of my troubles. The real fun started as I stood up from my seat. My legs felt like mere toothpicks trying to hold up an apple. It was as though all the weight shifted from all parts of my body to my head and gravity was jerking it down as I uncontrollably tripped over the back of a seat and somersaulted to the next row. My friends carried me on their shoulders to the lobby and left me in a corner by the exit so that one of them could get the car.

It is not a Migraine!

Two glaring similarities between a Migraine headache and Meniere’s disease are that both can make a person feel nauseous and increases a person’s sensitivity to light. Sufferers, in turn, become darkness-craving Vampires that seek a nice quiet, dark room with a bed to rest in.

When my friends carried me from the dark theater room to the bright lobby, my head started to spin violently and both of my eyes became kaleidoscopes. I felt like vomiting and it only slowed down when my eyes were shut. Not only this, but my legs were flimsy and I couldn’t even stand without using a friend as a crutch.

A migraine headache does not cause an episode of vertigo, but a throbbing headache and sometimes blurred vision depending on the strength of the headache. Also, tinnitus does not precede or accompany a migraine. These can last anywhere from 4 to 72 hours. A Meniere’s attack has a similar duration, but can sometimes last longer.

Just When You Thought it was Safe…

Meniere’s disease is like having a revolving door of annoying neighbors in your life. They come and they go; and while they are present, can make your life a living hell. And just when you think they’re gone for good, it turns out that they were just on vacation.

The episodes can arrive in clusters: which are that several attacks might occur within a short period of time. However, years may pass before another episode begins. Between the acute attacks, most people are free of symptoms or mild imbalance and tinnitus.

My first attack lasted for a week, but did not completely go away until a month after. It was not until the fourth day after the incident where the spinning motions ended. However, for the next several days, there was still a delayed reaction in sight when I turned my head. The symptoms decreased day by day.

My second bout did not occur until June 2003, a whopping 6 years later. It came back with a vengeance and was much severe; I had to take a week off of work because I could not see straight and driving off the side of a bridge was not worth my life and $8.75 an hour. Halfway through the week, I was able to pinball myself through the walls of my parent’s house onto the couch where I was able to enjoy semi-spinning episodes of Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I wasn’t able to do anything physically engaging, and there was usually nothing to do around 11am.

Since then, I have lost count of the number of attacks I’ve had. Some have been severe, and some have been mild. The mild ones only last a few hours and usually after a nap, the strength of the attack decreases. With focus and concentration, one can walk in baby steps towards their destinations. However, driving is still out of the question.

There Are No Answers (Yet.)

I didn’t approach my doctor until 2005. Despite the vicious attacks I encountered, my parents and I shrugged it off and thought it was just a mild case of Migraine headaches. My father had a history with migraines, and our symptoms were similar. However, he didn’t experience the vertigo episodes that I had.

When I visited my doctor, he saw no signs of health problems. He checked my inner ear canals and saw no signs of wear and tear. No inflammations, whatsoever. I did not smoke, I’ve never done any drugs, and I hadn’t had any alcohol for two years. I was at a very healthy weight of 150 lbs, which was what I should have been for my age and height. I ate a healthy balance of meat, fruit and vegetables. So how could somebody as health as me be a target for such a disease?

Science (or God), maybe for the reasons of keeping life fun and interesting, have kept medical experts scratching their heads as to what the underlying cause of this mysterious disease is. Through the years, more hypotheses have developed; however, none of them have been conclusive enough.

You are a Victim

Think of it this way: You are at the school playground hiding behind a tree. You hear the voice of the class bully call out your as you look for a better place to escape to. In the end, it’s useless to run but you hold on to every thought and possibly that somehow you’ll find a way to break free. After scanning the playground, you find a large pipe that you can crawl into in hopes of being safe.

Then it happens: The pipe starts to move, steadily picking up speed. You want to crawl out, but you can’t. The force of gravity wraps you up like a cocoon and has you at its mercy.

It’s not only the physical trauma that Meniere’s disease inflicts that makes it dangerous, but the psychological effects it can have on a person. Many studies have documented that patients with Meniere's disease tend to have more psychological disability than the normal population, possibly including depression and/or anxiety, in reaction to their disease. It may be necessary to take antidepressants or anti-anxiety drugs, under the supervision of an appropriate health care professional.

In 2006, I had frequent and severe bouts of Meniere’s disease. Within a two month span, I remember having at least four attacks. After one complete episode, there were times that a second one would strike within a few hours. I felt powerless and at the same time, I felt like I lost control of my life and future.

As an active musician, one of my biggest concerns having an episode during a gig, especially with the frequency rate it attacked around this time period. Would this be something I could get used to and fight off while I’m moving around onstage? Would I even be able to perform sitting down and face away from the crowd? I tested these questions out at home during an attack and failed. My arms were too weak to strum, and even in a seated position, my mind was so disoriented that I couldn’t compute what chords to play or what was next in the sequence. I thought about quitting my band, and I felt my dreams slipping away. My parents had suggested become a songwriter for other artists, but the thought of having Hannah Montana singing and performing my songs put me into a larger tailspin.

I also thought about how this would affect my career after I graduate. How long would it take for me to get fired from a job because I couldn’t come in? It would definitely put me in every company’s Black List. I already had attendance problems in class, and I had to explain to my teachers what was going on.

Luckily, I have been fortunate enough to have a good support group consisting of family, friends and co-workers who understood. Believe it or not, this is the most important thing that a sufferer of Meniere’s disease can have.

Support Groups

Ask anyone these days, whether it is your best friend or a completely random stranger, and they will tell you “You can find everything on the Internet.” This is absolutely true. If you type in “Meniere’s Disease support groups” in the Google search bar, you will find numerous chat boards and websites dedicated to supporting people who deal with this disease.

One of these support groups can be found at MDJuction.com. There are 30 members (as it stands), and its occupants range from people who deal with Meniere’s disease to people who have family that deal with it and share their stories. A very popular topic of discussion is that “Meclizine is Bonine.” This is very important to a person dealing with Meniere’s because Meclizine is a drug that a doctor could only prescribe. Now, it is easily accessible and can be found in an aisle at your local pharmacy.

Unfortunately, even these websites are not immune to soliciting messages and immature posts from unruly visitors. Sticking out like sore thumbs are headlines that read “Watch my booty shake” and “Mature Lady looking for Older Gentleman”, posts that belong in a Craigslist personal ads section.

Keeping the Situation Under Control

In this present day and age, Meniere’s disease still has no cure. As I had already explained, treatment that was once deemed as “prescription only” is now sold over-the-counter. Meclizine, an antihistamine used in treating the disease, has been recently added to Benadryl motion-sickness products. It is also sold in a deliciously fruity-flavored, chewable form called Bonine, which is my current weapon of choice. It can be taken before an episode to prevent one from coming, or it can be taken during or after. Doing this would either limit the duration and strength of the attack, or by taking it after, would quicken the recovery time. Another drug called Calan, which is a calcium blocker, can also be used in between episodes of vertigo.

Another alternative is ear surgery, but this is not a procedure done frequently, especially in young people. Meniere’s Disease is much more traumatic around the 50-70 age group, and surgery might be necessary to relieve this.

Eat Smart and lay off the Pretzels and Coffee

What a person eats largely affects the frequency and symptoms of Meniere’s Disease. Having a consistent diet (and not skipping) meals is a good place to start. Any drastic change in the body’s metabolism can trigger the disease.

Avoiding foods or fluids that have a high salt content is very important because high salt intake results in fluctuations in the inner ear fluid pressure and may increase the symptoms. A diet high in fresh fruits, vegetables and whole grains, and low in canned, frozen or processed foods is suggested. Also, a 1,000 mg sodium intake diet is usually recommended. So cut down on the Rold Gold and sink your teeth into a nice, juicy apple.

Caffeine is another thing to avoid because it has stimulant properties that may make the symptoms worse. Caffeine also may make tinnitus louder. Large amounts of caffeine may trigger a migraine headache, which would add extra adventure for thrill-seekers. Helmet not included.

In the beginning, it was extremely hard for me to commit to this because caffeinated products were the end all, be all of my existence. Limiting my consumption of coffee and chocolate was just as bad as watching your best friend walk away with the person you’ve had the longest crush on. However, by doing this, my bouts of the disease have become less frequent and I’ve only had three episodes within the last two years.

My God

Although I can’t recall the exact date that the matter took place, I do remember this: I was eating lunch at the Inner Circle located on the second floor of UIC Student Center East. I had an hour and a half of break time before heading to my Journalism class, so I figured that I would grab a quick slice of pizza and review my notes. This was quite a challenge, for my A.D.D. threshold was pushed to its limitations. The combination of obnoxiously loud cafeteria delinquents and bad karaoke contestants up front spouting out alien phonetics foreign to the human ear had worn out the skin of my eardrums.

I envied those around me who were immune to this plague with their iPods handy. Over the weekend, I had accidentally left mine in the front seat of my friend’s car. Yesterday, she sent me taunting text messages telling me how much she enjoyed being able to listen to music in her car again. I felt like Samson when Delilah cut off his hair: my force field that shielded me away from the awkward encounters of the world had momentarily been shut down and I was prone to assault.

Jesus, someone tell me that no one will notice…

I glanced over at the entrance and saw a guy holding a clipboard and wearing a red polo shirt with the name of his church on the right hand corner. He paused momentarily and scanned the room in all directions, hunting his victim like the ferocious bird of prey he was. As his head quickly swiveled towards my direction, my eyes plunged down at my book and I pulled out my phone while pretending to be in the middle of a conversation. Maybe if I acted out a believable dialogue about the homework assignment, this guy will pass me up and torture some other poor schmuck. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to me and asked me a question, interrupting the conversation I was having with myself over the phone.

Shit.

“Do you believe Christianity is the one true religion?” he asked me. I continued to play along with my made-up phone conversation and signaled to him that it would just be a second before I dropped my call and was willing to speak to him.

“I’m sorry, what was your question?” I asked as I smiled and folded up my phone.

“Do you believe Christianity is the one true religion?”

“Honestly, I don’t. I believe the world is composed of many different religions, and I don’t believe that one of them is superior over the other.”

He paused for a few seconds to try and comprehend what I just said. By the stumped look on his face, I could tell that he was either dumbfounded by my answer or was upset with it. He attempted to launch a guilt-ridden counterattack on me by asking me rhetorical questions and trying to make me feel unsure of my beliefs. In making me feel like a lost soul without a purpose, he could brainwash me into his beliefs. I don’t give in so easily and I even if you have me drawn and quartered by a horse-driven chariot you couldn’t get me to say “Uncle.”

This game of tic-tac-toe had been at a stalemate for over twenty minutes. For every “x” that he would throw down, I’d put down an “o” in front of it. I wasn’t looking to prevail as the winner of this debate, but hell, I wasn’t going to lose and let this guy force-feed his beliefs to me and tell me what to do. Besides, isn’t this the reason why Catholics and Protestants, Israelis and Palestinians, Republicans and Jihads, have been at war with each other? They are at constant battle over whose interpretation of the Bible or Koran is right. One says Jesus is the Son of God and the other sees him as a Prophet. Some depict his appearance as haggard and nomadic (considering he did a lot of traveling with his disciples) and others see him as this well dressed man with long brown hair, a beard and blue eyes (even though he is from the Mediterranean.) I’m guessing that depending on the demographic, the image of Jesus is best represented by the nationality of the people. So he is pretty much a box of Crayola crayons. The point is that everyone has a different view of who “God” is.

To some people, "God" appears on their grilled cheese sandwich or as a stain on the wall.

I admit that as I have grown older, my views have slowly transformed. I grew up in a bi-partisan household in which my mother is a Catholic and my father is a Protestant and is also a Mason. I was baptized as a Protestant, but I grew up going to both churches and learning the differences between the two, which believe me, are not very different. They both worship the same god, but one claims that confessions with Priests and Penance will be your ticket to Heaven and the other focuses on a more direct relationship with God but accepts donations. However, my parents never told me one was better than the other or that if I didn’t read the Bible I would go to Hell.

We went to church almost every Sunday when I was young, but as I progressed towards my adolescence, it slowly started to decline. This is not to say that my family became less religious, but maybe this allowed me to have a freethinker’s approach when I became an adult.

On many occasions, I have attempted to read the Bible. What scare me are the many people who build concrete walls around themselves and live in accordance to it. I believe that it’s their own personal choice and if it gives them a sense of purpose and meaning for their lives, I wholeheartedly respect that. When it gets past the point where they feel they have the power to pass judgment on people for their beliefs, that’s where it gets scary.

The other day I saw this painted on a bus stop bench: “The Fear of God is the Beginning of Knowledge.” Why? Shouldn’t we love our gods instead of fear them? After all, they are the ones we confide in and trust during unavoidable moments of darkness. If fear were the vehicle that drives our motivation to worship our gods, then I’d rather park it and walk through the unknown searching for answers. Isn’t this how we go about answering the meaning of life after all? Each passing day presents us with a new puzzle piece that we never knew about life and ourselves, and the puzzle is finally complete when we die. Or in some cases, it isn’t.

This is not to say that I am a Nihilist. I feel that my beliefs are split up into two categories: I am “culturally” Protestant, but “spiritually” Agnostic. Therefore, I am an "Agnostant." I was raised and baptized as a Protestant, and I do adopt their belief in a direct relationship with God. However, I don’t know what my god looks like and I question the Bible’s precision and validity of what is written. There are so many versions that I’m sure that something was added or deleted through the march of time.

If I am certain about something, it’s this:

1.) My God allows same sex marriages. It believes all men and women were created equal, and not just in a written document.

2.) My God doesn’t support war, and It doesn’t approve to Its name being used for the glorification of violence acts against humanity. If someone were to call out Its name before slaughtering people because they don’t agree with them or they want something for their own personal greed, It will turn Its back on them and let them perish.

3.) My God hasn’t labeled me a Sinner at birth. My God is positive. When I have done something wrong, my conscience and morals tell me. My God only offers the comfort, strength and understanding to encourage me to be a better person.

My God is not any better than your God. It does not carry the title of claiming It is the one true God. It welcomes and respects all beliefs.

Scene Killer: Reflections on the Mass-Murder of The Chicago Rock Music Community

“...they made me aware just how momentous music is, and why we should care.”
-Tsunami Bomb


Face it, Chi-Town. Rock music is brain dead for the most part.

A mere, lifeless vegetable.

However, comparing rock music today to the mighty vegetable is a flagrant insult to a vegetable itself! Vegetables have a variety of colors, forms and flavors; some good, some ok, and some bad. But they all have the capability of being beneficial to a person’s well being in the long run.

I can’t speak the same of the latter.

The act of producing sounds from instruments and capturing them into hi-fi or lo-fi recording is alive and well. It’s as accessible, legal and as easy to do as over-the-internet Prostitution.

Ask Eliot Spitzer.

However, the spirit and the art itself have flat-lined. Not one single, rhythmic beat to save themselves.

When this tragic episode happened is highly debatable. I remember a few years back when you could look around and still find an honest, decent musician with the heart and the open mind to create something original. Even if it was in a specific genre, at least they were willing to stretch the boundaries of that sound and try something different.

Then again, I was never a conventional thinker.

Nowadays, I can’t flip through ads without seeing a good 90% of the titles containing the words “Brutal Metal”. But this, by no means, is mentioned as a mushroom stamp of a shot at this prehistoric tribute to the discovery of music. I applause them for their extensive knowledge of cavespeak, neanderthalic grunts and playing steel strings like three elastic rubber bands on a wooden log through modern age amplification. However, not many of us speak or understand this exclusive language. At least they’re nice enough to print out the lyrics in English inside the sleeve. Unless their point is to spread the word out and educate the masses about it.

Kind of like what the Europeans did when they wanted to spread Christianity to different parts of the world. But less carnage.

Where were you when the fun had started?

Where the hell was I? I unfortunately didn’t get the memo.

Quite frankly, music has always been a product. And in the past, music has done a great job of selling itself. But now, it’s like being blindfolded to take the Pepsi Taste Challenge and someone urinating in both cups.

Record companies have become restless and hired Gepetto to stick his hand up the ass of Lars Ulrich to bitch about piracy and how it’s taking away from the business. The answer is simple: Don’t make us spend our hard-earned cash on garbage.

Many bands today choose to play their cards and present their catchiest (and sometimes only good) tune. And I agree, it’s a very wise decision.

But due to the growing number of music fans having shorter attention spans (especially for crap), they’ve had to check themselves into clinics because they’ve developed Carpel Tunnel on their thumbs from constantly pressing the “fast forward” button on their iPods.
Steve Jobst, being the genius businessman he is, knew of this. Which is why iPods need to get replaced every so often.

Besides, bands get their income from largely from touring. Newer bands rely solely on image, stage acrobats, the “whine” and the “jellyfish” prance because they all sound like carbon copies of themselves. A lot of them do flying roundhouse kicks that would make Chuck Norris blush and 1080 degree spin moves that would make figure skaters hand back their gold medals. It’s quite the spectacle and someone should please hand me a scorecard with a 10 on it if it were the Olympics. But last time I checked, I was a concert venue and I came to hear and listen to a band.
And someone please give the vocalist some Tylenol Sinus and a back brace. I think he’s being forced to sing through his nose and he seems to be walking like an invertebrate.

This kind of sad excuse for “Emo” has makes real Emo music want to commit genocide. My condolences to Robert Smith and Ian McKaye.

Some may ask why I think so highly of New Jersey’s The Gaslight Anthem. Sure they remind us of Bruce Springsteen and that New Jersey rock sound.

They also make us reminisce on how good music was and still is. They make us smile and think back to the better moments of our lives.

Shit, I’d rather pop in a Bon Jovi album and dance in front of my mirror. I’m sure John Wayne Bobbit feels more sensation than what’s being played now.

The veteran bands in community that have been left for dead and are clinging to life survive by intra-city incest and count on playing the same venues in the same places in the same city. They are the type of bands that cling to each other like osmosis and won’t go outside of the circle. And if a member were to leave the circle, his or her choices are only limited to other bands within this Pink Sock of a community. They are oblivious to the outside world and the possible talent around them.

Who said I wanted to fit in?

But I’m proud of the some of the historic bands that have influenced some of the successful bands to come out of Chicago. I salute you, Naked Raygun, 88 Fingers Louie and The Smoking Popes. Had you not existed we wouldn’t have Alkaline Trio and Rise Against, bands that still matter. However, Alkaline Trio is now a California-based band.

Very smart decision.

There’s only one time I wouldn’t mind seeing the same lineup in one venue. It’s called a legitimate tour, and I’d be a fan representing a different state other than Illinois and a different city not called Chicago.

In finding the bands that do matter you’d have to go deep into Dante’s Inferno, the community’s seven layers of Hell. You’ll find some of the best raw talent there is, regardless of the genre. These bands never make it out because they don’t have the support, know-how, money, and are being overshadowed by the dark, methane cloud farted out of the more popular bands’ asses.
Then, there are those who just don’t give a shit and would rather play dive-bars the rest of their lives. They are the best of the best.

And that’s also a scene killer.

Stay classy and effin’ fashionable,
Jimmy