It Might Get Messy

This week, the world seems to have achieved a particularly wacky moment in history. I don’t know if anybody out there has fired up their Official Men In Black Weird-Shit-O-Meter, but this would be a good time to do it. Consider the internet news sources crème de la crop…or is that “crème”…or “crap”…. . Anyway. Consider things, including: 1) Bruce Jenner transformed into Caitlyn Jenner, got a hot magazine cover, and has her children call her “Dad”, 2) Larry Hogan, business guy and hardcore republican governor of Maryland, returned from a state-funded boondoggle in Japan raving about a multibillion dollar maglev commuter train between Baltimore and Washington, 3) the Muslim world, not screwed up enough by 15 centuries of overlay on landscapes defined by tribal ancestry and a century or so of maps fingerpainted by British and French diners deep into their after-dinner brandy finds the befuddled west (that would be Befuddled West, as in us and our European compatriots) managing to forge a powerful military union between otherwise diametrically opposed DAESH/ISIS/ISIL and Al Qaeda, particularly Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula, 4) republicans, dozens of ‘em, smell Hillary Clinton’s blood in the water and are circling like crazed, but not overly intelligent, sharks on a grey whale carcass…and the list goes on. We could play this game for hours. Instead, let’s consider the important stuff.

Like the fact that the U.S., nation renowned worldwide for systemic disinterest in soccer, put together what appears to be a generally-accepted-as-credible corruption case against the Federation of International Football Associations (FIFA). Note that FIFA does not limit its interest to soccer. It also governs organized “futsal” (an indoor game played on a small pitch with a dead ball) and “beach soccer” (which I can only presume is played under a dress code similar to that governing “beach volleyball”). 

Actually, it seemed at first that most of the world, raking in millions and millions of dollars from international football activities, were content to let FIFA walk. The backbreaker came when the tiny, incredibly wealthy nation of Qatar, a desert outpost of raw petroleum and high-end retailing, was awarded quintessential summertime fun of the quadrennial…(is that right? It happens every 4 years, not 4 times a year)…World Cup of Soccer. Summer temperatures in Qatar generally peg well north of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. And they don’t fluctuate much. If it’s summer and you’re in Qatar, it’s really, really hot. A completely insane place to play summertime football unless you a) get paid big bucks but b) don’t actually PLAY soccer at all. This would describe the white men in ties who run FIFA. 

So the U.S. Department of Justice busted FIFA for obvious corruption, which can be summed up simply as “pay (lots and lots of pay) to play”. The bidding process for award of the next couple of World Cups was characterized by under-the-table enrichment of individual FIFA executives in exchange for the Cup. I must admit I have not dug deep enough to determine whether FIFA rules and regulations actually outlaw such payments. But I’m guessing they don’t specifically address such things at all. If I were, say, FIFA President Sepp Blatter, I would first, before anything else, change my name to something that doesn’t sound so much like a rare and deadly parasitic worm. Then I would simply announce that the FIFA Cup process is driven by who gives more money and other valuable items (jewelry, destination travel, works of art, anything likely to bring bidding minima in the range of 6 figures and farther (further??) north on eBay) to FIFA leadership. I’d issue a simple, baldfaced press release explaining that a basic assumption of the World Cup bidding process is that countries willing to spend big bucks obtaining the Cup games are likely to spend bigger bucks making Cup activities just delightful for spectators, athletes, and team officials. This would ease the job of everyone involved in prosecution and defense in the World Court, or United Nations, or Switzerland, or wherever things like this go to trial. Think about it. Prosecutor’s got a list as long as a Gutenberg Bible of checks, cash, and jewelry collected by FIFA executives from Qatar federal government. Chief Prosecutor runs her hand through her hair to emphasize to the judge (or jury) her frustration, and then starts on the list: “did you not, Mr. Blatter…haven’t you changed your name yet?...umm, where was I…oh yeah. Did you not, Mr. Blatter, accept Cashier’s Check number 9917540 in the amount of 1.37 million dollars U.S., drawn on the Royal Bank of Qatar, on 3 April 2014 at a meeting in the bar of the Hotel d’Angleterre in Geneva, Switzerland?” And Sepp Blatter (his legal name change, to “Captain America”, is hung up in European Union bureaucracy in Brussels) says “Uhh…yeah.” Prosecutor runs down her list of thousands of checks and piles of cash, and each time whatever FIFA executive is on the stand simply acknowledges “yes”. By the end of the trial, the Chief Prosecutor has replaced her studious, no-nonsense, rigorously focused persona with that of a tank-topped, tramp-stamped, beer-swigging, weekend user of injectable narcotics who has left her husband and two young children to work as a caricature artist on the waterfront in Marseilles. 

Anyway. From the perspective of me and my cancers, it’s been another really good week. In fact, and completely unexpectedly, my health is clearly improving, rather than deteriorating, over time. Much as this delights me and Oncologist Dr. T, it is confusing the hell out of her. As she points out repeatedly, I remain riddled with malignancies throughout my respiratory system and in thoracic components of my body cavity. It is possible (although we have NOT collected data to verify) that my diaphragm is itself populated by cancerous loci. Regardless of the precise distribution of malignancies, in general I am stricken with cancers that, by virtue of their locations, “should” be rapidly claiming my remaining life. 

But, for whatever reason(s), my cancers are on vacation, and have been since my last chemotherapy infusion 7 months ago. I am continuously grateful to whatever god, gods, God, or naturally random processes have gifted me with this unexpected slice of life. If you remember back to when I was a total physical wreck (those of you who made the wonderful, life-affirming, unselfish journey to see me over Thanksgiving know what I mean by “wreck”), the docs provided me with an estimate of the value I might expect to wring from the devastation of the chemotherapy—3 or 4 relatively comfortable months. That was the payoff that Cathy, the kids, and I used to judge the benefits vs. costs of continuing to take the incredible pounding administered by the chemo. And here I sit in the real world, having bought not only at least twice the time the docs thought likely, but also the partial recession of such ugly symptoms as chronic pain, mucous-impaired breathing via tracheostomy, ongoing bleeding, panic attacks, depression, and intractable vomiting. 

So here I am, perched in my bed in a corner of the living room, reading, writing, working on guitar skills, taking photographs whenever I get outside to shuffle slowly around the house or down the path to the woods and the creek. I do find myself irrationally annoyed that the cancers claimed my abilities to eat, drink, and speak, 3 things of enormous importance to me. But I kick myself out of such blatant self-pity by thinking of people whose illnesses were so much more difficult, so much more devastating, than mine. People like Beau Biden, with a young family, living by his intellect and dying of brain cancer. Musicians like Charles Mingus and Jason Becker, living by their fingers on bass and guitars, dying of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (“Lou Gehrig’s disease”), robbed of their primary physical abilities and the art they loved. And zillions more, so many and so much worse off than I am.

Then, just to make sure I’m REALLY paying attention, there’s this story [http://tribune.com.pk/story/898882/three-killed-in-sargodha-gas-cylinder-blast/]. Two guys on a street in Pakistan, both wearing massive suicide vests. They get into an argument. Argument escalates to shouting. And then, when they’re really pissed off at each other, they both detonate their vests. 

Sounds like the ultimate trump (is that redundant?) in a formal, competitive debate. I wonder how many points you get per gram of C4?

Live ‘em while you got ‘em everybody. They’re precious and they’re perishable. Jason Becker knows it. I know it. And now you know it. And you’ve got time to do something about it. Let’s Rock and Roll!!!