Getting the chance to say what I think ...

I attended the funeral of a college friend last weekend. While I wasn't privileged enough to have been one of Bram Davidson best friends, he always treated me like one. He treated everyone like one. I sit here devastated for his family and his friends who knew and loved him the most.

What I heard the loss and sadness in everyone's words, it got me thinking about the special and important people in my own life, and how absolutely spoiled rotten I've been in my life to have so many beautiful friends and family around.

So rather than wait until I'm sitting devastated in church somewhere, wishing I had one more day to say the things I feel, I want to tell about some of the special people in my life.

This is my wonderful friend Corey Horob:

If ever a grin was to be loosely defined as 'sh*t eating', it would be Corey's. (I'm hoping not literally 'sh*t eating'. While I can see a few circumstances where Corey would end up in a position of sh*t eating, I highly doubt he'd be grinning while doing it.)

I can't see the other person in this photo, but I am inclined to believe he or she is helping him out of a jail or an institution.

Corey is one of those people who looks as good now, as he did the day I first met him. How is this possible? In the time that Corey and I have known each other, I have nearly doubled in size, lost at least 3/4 of my hair, and discovered the delicate indignity of man boobs, and generally overall --- gone to sh*t.

Meanwhile, Mr. English T-shirt here has developed strong deltoids, biceps, triceps, and a pair of amazing Extesnor Digitoriums! (I love being able to look up stuff on the Internet.)

I do question the inappropriate way he may have developed his right addular pollicis, but what man does in the privacy of his own home - while watching scrambled pornography - is his own business. (My wife is going to hate that line.)

To sum up Corey in a short paragraph would do both short paragraphs & Corey grave injustices. Corey has been a consistent and wonderful presence in my life, despite the fact I've lived in eight different towns in the last fifteen years.

Corey and I met in college. After the first five months of our friendship - we've never lived in the same town. Hell, we haven't even been in the same state since 1997.

I think not being around each other is the reason our friendship survives. Absence not only makes the heart grow fonder, it pretty much guarantees that you never get irritated by the way somebody chews their food. It also means it's harder for them to picture your ugly ass while talking over the phone, as well.

For lack of a less gay phrasing, Corey is like my partner - the Hope to my Crosby, the Lewis to my Martin ... the Crosby/Stills to my Nash & Young. (I'm running out of partnerships.)

Corey and I lived in a world of improv and ad-libbing and planned silliness. I remember one time, we went to breakfast at Perkins. I can't remember if it had been a late night or what, but we were quiet as we ordered and ate breakfast. In the middle, I got up and went to the bathroom.

When I came back, Corey whispers to me, "Whatever happens, your name is Jebediah --- so look sad, and just go with it.". Sure enough, about a minute later, three of the most maudlin looking waitresses I've ever seen, come over carrying a muffin with a candle in it.

They proceeded to sing 'Happy Birthday' to me in almost dirge-like fashion. I'm remembering the instructions of "looking sad" so I just sit there doing the best I can. I look across at Corey and he's got the most earnest look on his face, like he trying to say to everyone, "This is my friend who I love, and this is his birthday muffin.".

Turns out while I was gone, Corey had requested for our waitress that someone bring out a muffin with a candle in it, and sing his dear friend Jebediah 'Happy Birthday' because Jebediah had travelled a long way to see both of his parents -who were in an car accident - and it was poor lonely Jebediah's birthday!

God forgive him for that one! (I think if I'd had more time to think, I might told the waitresses that the "accident" was just a fender/bender, and that those insurance agency bastards were, "really giving it to my parents over the f*cking deductable.". Somehow, I think doing that would have made the story less funny though.)

We did stuff like that all the time. I would go around promising him that the next book store I was in, I was going to trip and take out a display of books.

Sure enough, we did it in the Columbia Mall in Grand Forks. I had made sure that my shoelace was loose in advance - which if you know me, isn't too hard, as my shoelaces always seem to be loose. After looking around the store, and giving Corey no advance warning, I fake-tripped and took out a large display of bargain books. I even took more down with me trying to get back up.

Corey's reaction was perfect. There he was, earnestly trying to help me up, giving everyone in store that look, like he was saying, "This is my friend, and even though he has taken out a row of discounted but valuable books on old cars and biblical quotations, he shall always remain my friend.".

I just pretended to look mortified and red-faced, which isn't really hard to do when a store full of book shoppers are staring out you.

We did help clean it most of it up, which seemed like the proper thing to do.

After working for many excellent years in morning radio, Corey has made his way to New York City, and now lives in a section of Harlem. (No joke.) If there ever was anybody who pull off being the only white guy around, it would be Corey. Anyone I've ever known who has met Corey, knows that he is literally a man of the people. He's the only person I know who can offer dissertations on farming equipment, computer technology, and liberal politics. He can talk to anyone on any subject for any length of time, unless of course, he has to go somewhere.

And we developed a non-subtle signal for when we wanted to leave somewhere. The undecipherable "Joe Jackson has no pants.". To hear it spoken, means it's time to go.

You can't stay long in any one place with Corey because it's always time to go on to the next place. Part of it is his metabolism. The late shift at the McDonald's in downtown Baghdad, doesn't turnover half as much as Corey can process food into energy. For as long as I've known him, he has been literally 'wafer thin'. (See Monty Python's The Meaning of Life for that one.)

I've seen him demolish breakfasts portioned for the morbidly obese. He has to be the skinniest human being ever to own a George Foreman grill. Even Ethiopians from the 1980's were calling him concerned about his inability to put on any weight.

The other part that makes Corey go so fast is the fact that he is so full of life. He truly has that "I'll sleep at the end" mentality. There's always one more laugh out there.

With Corey, you get a million of them. Corey can impersonate an arsenal of celebrities and politicians. My brother and I would make Corey run the gambit from Johnny Carson to Bill Clinton to Ed Sullivan. He is like the ultimate party favor.

His Harry Caray impression alone is so dead-on, especially when used in conjunction with Corey's story of an on-air call Corey had with the real Harry Caray - which ended with Caray saying, "Hey, I'm not feeling too good right now.". (This was only one or two days before Caray's untimely passing in 1998.) The sad way Corey says "Hey, I'm not feeling too good right now.", always breaks my heart.

One year Corey sent me a Christmas card with a picture of him and Bill Crosby on it. It said, "Hey, hey, hey ... have a Merry Christmas.".

Someday, I'll relay his version of how he asked George Carlin to speak at his chigh school graduation, and the beautiful friendship that developed between a boy and his idol.

He is also the kindest, most earnest and caring person I've ever know, and I'm glad he's here on the planet. Thanks for being my friend.

(No doubt, if Corey responds with a comment it will be one sentence long, and it involve the phrases "Hehehe" and "mofo". It will be poorly punctuated and it will be funny as hell.)

High Fever reminds son of his Dad and rock'n'roll

Holy crap - I am sick! I've been off work for 4 days with strep throat and a fever. I've been sweating constantly.

I can't help thinking that this would feel really good right now! (What a feeling!) Speaking of Flashdance, it always pissed me off that she let dancing hold back a promising career in welding! Did you know that there's a serious shortage of welders up the coast of Mississippi - apparently entry level wages are between $8-$10! Who's the "Maniac" now, smart guy?!

Flashdance had incredible reach. No B.S. - my Dad had the soundtrack! (This probably explains a lot about me.) His collection also included more "manly" fare like the soundtracks to The Jazz Singer and Woman In Red. If it was recorded for a movie - my Dad bought it. Not that my dad was all movie soundtracks. Between 1976 and 1982, we rocked out to such diverse artists as Roger Whittaker, Gordon Lightfoot, and Burton Cummings. (Basically, if you were a white guy with a moustache - you rocked old Ron Wood's world!)

Truth be told, I miss that music. Not 'cause I liked it - but 'cause Dad liked it. I don't think anybody else was listening to the Kingston Trio in 1978, but there we'd be, cruising down Highway 6 to Naicam with "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley" playing.

If it were winter, and if he was playing the soundtrack to Live and Let Die, he would drive my brother and I down Caskey Drive in Melfort, and he would pull a hard left into our driveway, taking out a row of plastic garbage cans.

We lost my Dad in 2002 to esophageal cancer. It's been five years, and I still grieve. My Dad was the best. He was a man with great moral character, he was always kind and welcoming to everyone, and he had a great sense of humor.

What he lacked in the rock'n'roll department, he more than made up in great musical memories.

Like the time that he and I drove to Brandon, Manitoba to meet up with my Mom. I was in college at the time. Dad was driving his beautiful new Toyota Celica - the house had been paid off and he was indulging in finding his youth again. It was early, and I was still kind of asleep.

As we pulled onto Ring Road in Regina, I heard that melody that used to be at the beginning of cassette tapes. Suddenly, it got really loud. This was interesting.

Then the opening chords of "My Woman From Tokyo" by Deep Purple came blasting out. This was loud. Like Brian Johnson from AC/DC loud. I lifted my head up and there was my 50 year old dad with one hand on the steering wheel, nodding his hand in time with the music, a hilarious semi-snarl across his face. F*ck you, Roger Whittaker!

My Dad was an early 60's guy at heart. He loved "Yakkety-Sax" and the American Graffiti soundtrack. He also loved guitar instrumental stuff - the Ventures and Duane Eddy.

I think this is what made music so great for me. Maybe it was all those soundtracks, but I learned quickly that life needed background music.

I've tried make the music special for my kids. They've been raised on everything from The Beach Boys to Kiss and everywhere in between. The two older kids especially enjoyed side two of Alice Cooper "Special Forces" album - "Skeletons in the Closet" and "You're a Movie" were their favorite. Even at a year old, Adam used to squeal out "Broken Dreeeeeammms" anytime the shimmering guitar intro for Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" would come on the radio.

Thanks, Dad. You did a nice job. I'm pretty sure they have Deep Purple in heaven. (I'm pretty sure that they have them in hell, too. Only, it's the version with David Coverdale!)

Well, I'll be darned!

I think I'm gonna give this a shot! I'm not technologist. Hell, last year I just updated my Billy Joel catalog to cassette tape! Two months ago, we finally got a car with a CD player in it. (Tiny steps.)

I figure that I see all the young kids doing it ... and dag-nab it if I'm gonna get left behind anymore. Maybe someday I'll be downloading songs and using Blue Tooth and watching things in high definition. But for now ... this is as close to it as I get.

Why?

Because I'm stuck in the 1970's.

I have a working knowledge of Paul Williams and Patty Hearst and Three Mile Island. I have a large majority of the back catalog of Harry Nilsson .... and I almost always dress in earth tones. I can talk about the '72 Munich Olympics and Charlie Finley and episodes of "Soap" and primal scream therapy.

My idea of fine art probably involves velvet paintings. I'm as likely to want carpeting on the walls as I would the floors. And if given a choice - polyester bests cotton every time.

I guess the only thing slightly off about my love of the Me Decade ... was the fact that I was born in it. While the rest of my peer group gets nostalgic for MTV and women's clothes with thick shoulder pads and Claire Peller saying, "Where's the Beef?" --- I'm happy with the arcane knowledge of Paul Lynde and Squeaky Fromme and those pill-box baseball hats the Pittsburgh Pirates had.

Why the 70's? I think it's because it's before everything started. Computers, VCRs, video games, corporate America, the Christian Coalition, AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz, hypodermics on the shores, China's under martial law, Rock 'n' Rolla cola wars ... actually, I didn't mind the Rock'n' Rolla Cola Wars. (My cousin fought in that. Two tours of duty. One in the mountains of RC Cola --- the other, an internment with Mr. Pibb.)

The 80's just turned ugly. Now hold on, you say? Anybody who remembers the other two Gibb brothers can't say that the 70's didn't have it's share of ugliness. Cocaine and David Berkowitz to name a couple. Right up there with Anita Bryant and anything starring Robby Benson.

But the 80's was like ten years of plastic and hair spray and Madonna. Fake, mean, hostile shit. Top Gun and Jerry Fallwell and TV's Bloopers & Practical Jokes. When I think of the 80's, I think of Len Bias and Pelle Lindburgh and Grenada and Keith Hernandez's moustache. I think of Sammy Hagar screwing up Van Halen and Brian Mulroney screwing up Canada. I think of the PMRC and wanting to punch Mary Lou Retton in the face. I think of being terrified after watching "The Day After" and sickened after reading about that town in Indiana with the kid with AIDS.

I think I stick with the 70's because that's where my favorite memories come from. Watching Star Wars in an empty theatre in Melfort, Saskatchewan. My Uncle Ivan teaching me to ride bike. The way my Dad breathed when he tied my shoes. Polaroid pictures and eight tracks and AM radio and the red haired girl in Kindergarten. It's my childhood friends and Tiger the dog and afternoon naps with my Mom.

My youngest son was born in 2003. Thirty years from now how is he going to remember this time? Is he gonna tell jokes about Mark Foley and OutKast? Will he remember that "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams" and "Stacey's Mom" were his favorite songs? Will he still own CDs and books and use dollar bills? Will they still sell cigarettes and food with trans-fat in it?

Who knows?