KICKS CHANGE

“Some get a kick from cocaine I'm sure that if I took even one sniff That would bore me terrific'ly too Yet I get a kick out of you.” In 1934, Cole Porter wrote these lyrics for the Broadway musical, “Anything Goes.” It was sung by Ethel Merman. 2 years later, the film version was released with a new lyric because of, what was known as, The Hollywood Production Code of 1934. It, too was sung by Ethel Merman. In 1886, Dr. John Stith Pemberton of Atlanta used cocaine to create his own concoction, which became known, based on it's most active ingredient, as Coca-Cola. By 1903, Middle-class whites started to worry worried that soft drinks were contributing to what they saw as exploding cocaine use among African-Americans. Southern newspapers reported that “negro cocaine fiends” were raping white women, the police powerless to stop them. “Coke” took coke out of it's recipe and replaced it with sugar and caffeine. By 1904, it was illegal. The thrill was gone and so was the lyric. In the mid 70's, I decided to see if the original lyric was correct and found that, for me, it was, except, it did more that “ bore me terrific'ly,” it hospitalized me – twice, before I was able to focus on the fact that it was Sigmund Freud's powder of choice that was making my heart seem like it was about to jump out of my chest. Not only did it screw up my heart, pretty much for the rest of my life, but I never really liked it. In the world of rock & roll radio in the 70's, it snowed constantly, not just in the winter. It was everywhere you wanted it to be, so, in my case anyway, I just did it because it was there and everyone else was “playing.” It was the second hospitalization that reminded me of the question my dad had asked me often growing up, “If Billy Hart jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, are you gonna jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?” It was at that point that I was able to pick up the phone, call my dad and give him the answer he had been looking for throughout my formative years - “No.” My short lived cocaine use did, however, lead me to a new source of kicks – meeting characters during the numerous ER visits and hospital stays over the years. A couple of years ago, as I was being moved from an ambulance to an ER bed, I couldn't help overhearing the lady in the next bed. She was 82 years old and had, apparently, had an episode of very low blood sugar and had fallen getting out of a car. She had a huge gash in the back of her head that had to be stitched up and had broken her neck. It was a fracture in a spot where it had broken before. I heard them talking about how she was hit by a trolley car when she was a teenager and how her leg had never been the same, but, she hobbled through life and faced one challenge after another. She was told that she would have to wear another “halo” to allow her neck to mend, but she was having none of it. The doctors said that if she didn’t wear it, she could be permanently paralyzed. This was obviously not the entertainment portion of the show. That came when she would doze off, reacting to the morphine they had given her for the pain. That’s when her daughter and her daughter’s best friend would start to chat and it always seemed to be about booze. Every conversation involved who could hold what liquor, how to mix drinks that wouldn’t give them a headache, how many bottles of wine it would take before they became totally useless and, in one particularly enjoyable segment, how a guy had given one of them a gift of a wooden box with 2 bottles of Sutter’s Home Wine, which she perceived as the ultimate insult. She was worth a more expensive wine than that. During my most recent visit, I had a roommate who had broken his hip while stepping off a cruise ship. He was 72, his name was Bob and he had Alzheimers so, every three or 4 minutes, he would be buzzing the nurse to get help peeing, pooping, standing up, lying down, turning on the TV, changing the channel, turning off the light......you name it, Bob was asking for it. He kept saying, “I can't.” He said that a lot. He seemed pretty depressed so I loaned him my i-pad, on which I recorded a number of old movies. He watched “Topper Returns” and seemed to enjoy it. When he gave my my i-pad back, I realized that he had watched about 23 minutes of the film. Bob was gay and his husband made it a point to stay away as much as possible. It seemed to be his only respite from the incessant demands and having to cater to Bob's every whim. I, finally, while struggling to be understanding, had had enough and as I heard him trying to get out of bed right after hip surgery, I yelled, “DUDE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” To which he yelled back, in a moment of lucidity, “WHO DO YOU THNK YOU'RE TALKING TO?” I explained that I was concerned and I didn't want to see him hurt himself and I told him a story: When I was about 5 years old, my parents took us to the annual 4th of July Parade that wound down Main Street in my hometown, Manchester, Ct. My mom looked down and I was gone. They couldn't find me and had begun to panic. That's when they saw me marching along the parade route playing a drum with one of the marching bands. When my parents addressed the fact that I didn't play the drums, I responded that, “Nobody told me I couldn't.” That was the day I removed the words “I can't” from my vocabulary, Earlier, Bob and I were chatting about our respective lives and he told me that he was impressed with many of the things I had done and told me that he thought it took a lot of talent. I reminded him of the earlier conversation and told him that it much less to do with talent and everything to do with the fact that nobody ever told me that I couldn't. I told him to get the words. “I can't” out of his head and off his lips. He listened and seemed to perk up at the suggestion. He said that was some of the best advice he's heard in quite a while and he was grateful. Then, within about 40 seconds, he was buzzing the nurse's station and telling them, “I can't change the channel,”as he was pushing all the buttons on his phone, thinking it was his remote. Bob will be fine but a little concerned for the mental well being of his partner, Richard. He was pretty frazzled. I still get my kick from doing drugs......all of which have now been prescribed because of the maladies caused by earlier experimentation. Metformin, Amlodipine, Lisinopril, Eliquis......I could go on but my keyboard is getting writers cramp. I'm sure there's a pill. Bottom line – new kicks caused by old kicks – and yet, those “kicks just keep getting harder to find.”