Naked Valedictorian

A naked valedictorian. I was not a naked valedictorian, but Matt the Electrician sings of a valedictorian who sheds her clothes and says, “This is who I am, and I’ll never see any of you ever again.” I heard Matt sing the song live in Raleigh a few summers back. When I told Matt I was the high school valedictorian, the lady sitting next to me at the bar said that she was, too. We’re out there at Matt shows, the former valedictorians.

Last night my daughter was stressing about writing a speech she’ll give at graduation, and it was taking me back to a time when Andy Dumstorf and I tried to write my valedictory under the influence of Pete Townshend.



Actually, if I had to write a speech today I would call on Andy or Tim Culver or Kelly Ford to help me.

I did flounder a bit with my valedictory. The nuns rejected the first copy. So I wrote the speech with fifteen minutes to spare before jumping in the sedan to head downtown with my parents.

And while I was driving around in North Carolina today, thinking about this blog, I heard a gospel singer named Mary Williams sing on The Story on NPR. Her voice immediately reminded me of that of my beloved classmate, Cathy Hughes.

I got to know Cathy personally sitting next to her on the bus. Buses deposited us at a common stop on Bardstown Road and Grinstead Drive every morning. My first bus came from the Fern Creek area, and hers came from downtown. Together we rode on the second bus that took us to Sacred Heart.

Cathy did not graduate from high school. A river washed her away one summer in Tennessee. A river—think of that—something to be enjoyed and loved—something that should inspire. In this instance the river was the reaper. It ended Cathy’s story. Cathy had so much vocal talent that one can only wonder where that voice would have taken her.



We had a teary memorial service for her that August, and we sang “Candle on the Water.” The ever-composed Jean Cassidy led us in song. It was a song that was supposed to make us feel better. Every time I have an acoustic memory of Cathy singing “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” I get a deep down sorrowful feeling of loss.

And today on The Story, Mary talked of how gospel music can give you the courage to go forward. Mary talked of troubles present. World problems. Dick Gordon and Mary decided a song can be a way to a solution. We need a world of song today.

And wouldn’t you know, after longing to hear Cathy sing “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” Mary sang it on the radio show today. She sang it from the bottom of her toes, the very depths of her soul, the way a song should be sung. I heard Cathy again.

I’m thankful for singers like Mary Williams and Cathy Hughes. They give us the courage to go forward. And that’s something that today’s graduates need.

Principals and counselors close in, trying to avert a scene/
She just keeps on sticking to her speech, feeling like a prom queen

“The Valedictorian,” Matt the Electrician

Romancing the Stones

I’m romancing the stones. You’d expect this from me, right? You know I’ve got it bad for Mick and the boys, and you probably think the re-release of Exile has me mad. Yes, I’m writhing on my sheets. No, it’s not what you think.

The irony is that I have some rolling stones in a vestigial organ that concentrates bile, and I’ve been out of sorts lately.

Remember the 911 call? Not an auto accident. Thought it was a heart attack. There have been roughly four more since that day, only one other that involved a fire truck and beefy men. By the way, the Durham firemen are more buff than the ones here in Orange County.

The workup wasn’t too prolonged. Thanks to one of the studies, I now have the reassurance that I don’t have mitral valve prolapse like some in my family. But the problem is what I do have is really, really painful. And can you believe my friend, Susan, made the diagnosis over the phone without seeing the patient? And without spending a fortune on medical school like I did.

So I’m romancing the stones. Cutting fat out of the diet. Painful? Very. My husband is a wizard in the kitchen and we can’t break bread the way we used to. Every day sustenance is a challenge. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. And stay away from the muffin man.

My strawberry shortcake ain’t what it used to be. Here’s one that I made with gluten-free cornbread, strawberries soaked in apple cider (not balsamic) vinegar, topped with (yum?) no-fat plain yogurt and a sprinkle of what might be too much coconut now that I've checked the label.

Taking a walk on the bright side, I get to watch late night TV if I’m having an attack--they often occur when you’ve already drifted off to sleep. This week I tuned into two-timing, sorry, two-time Oscar winner Michael Douglas on Jimmy Kimmel’s show and heard him suggest that Catherine’s understudy might come home on the nights Catherine has to do the show. Yep. Also caught Sean Penn on C-SPAN2. He gave a harrowing account of an ambulance ride with a young Haitian who eventually died of Diptheria. Saw Hillary looking tough as nails in a hot pink suit on the same channel. Turns out the New Start treaty has nothing to do with "Start Me Up."

So I better roll. I’ve got a stone to romance.

“I’m romancing the stone, never leaving your poor heart alone/
Every night and every day gonna love the hurtin away.
Oh and in the heat of rapture when I feel the cold winds blow/
Through the broken glass, I’ll see at last the sweet desire in you.”


“Romancing the Stone,” Eddy Grant

She's Already Made Up Her Mind

Was it the Texas Ranger Museum? Dr. Pepper? Or Big 12 conference athletics?

Let Lyle say it for me. She's already made up her mind.


Two years of road trips. Think Thelma & Louise.



We were on the run from idle hours in Carolina. We weren't sure where we'd end up. We always met friends on the road.

Hit a couple of honky tonks and record stores along the way, like the Bruton family biz and the Love Shack. Stayed with Uncle Jeff. Even caught Pat Green sneaking into a Mystiqueros set.



We hit the Big D, the capitol of Texas, and Capitol Hill.



We even stormed the Mall. No, wait. It was storming on the National Mall.



Now the journey is over.


Ella is off to university. She's already made up her mind. She picked the private school in Waco.



She's leaving me because she really wants to
And she'll be happy when she goes
She'll be happy, she'll be so very happy
She'll dance and sing and even learn to fly
-"She's Leaving Me" Lyle Lovett

Love Shack Baby!

Songs keep me coming back to Texas, and this acoustic memory is gonna expose a little more about a Texas song that’s all wrapped up in the concept behind "Acoustic Memory."

Roundabout seven years ago I started trying to write a novel in earnest. The emotion was there but the stylings were hard to work through.

The story is about a woman’s suppressed love for a Texas guitarist. Or is it about his suppressed love for her that makes her suppress her love for him? Hm. I’m still too confused about my own story. Anyway, two years into the project my mil sent me a CD she bought in Johnson City. The artist’s name is John Greenberg. I’d never heard his songs before, but I took one listen of “Amy Walker” and thought it clearly summed up the novel’s theme.

So on my next trip to Texas, I went on a pilgrimage to River City Grille to meet the songwriter with my mil. He played “Amy Walker” for my mil and me after the show, even though he’d just flown in from Italy that day.

I’m on John Greenberg’s mailing list and every week read about all the good folks that come to the RCG to play with him and Mike Blakely, who is a novelist himself. Sometimes John goes on the road with Walt Wilkins and the Mystiqueros.

Funny thing is that John and the Mystiqueros were going to be in Fort Worth the same night that I was visiting my husband’s uncle with my daughter. I called Uncle Jeff a week before the show and left him a message about the band. He called back with a brief response, “I’m in.”

The night of the show, we headed out to Tim Love’s Love Shack So 7 with no expectations. The Love Shack is a burger joint owned by Tim Love, who’s probably better known for one of his other Fort Worth restaurants, the Lonesome Dove Western Bistro. We were blown away by the Mystiqueros playing in the beer garden—all three generations of us.

Uncle Jeff worked hard after dinner to get the two girls good seats, right in front of Walt where we could revel in the harmonies of Bill Small and John Greenberg. A few songs later when I was adrift in bluebonnets, Jeff came back from the men’s room, all excited cause he’d spotted Pat Green. Sure enough, Pat joined Walt at the microphone. The song I can’t get out of my mind is “The Trains I Missed.” The boys capped off a night of hill country blues with a Van Morrison cover, “Into the Mystic.” By then I was heavy into the Mystiqueros.

Check out the Mystiqueros’ new CD, Agave, on Blue Boot Records (a Ft. Worth label) or go old school and buy John Greenberg’s CD, Red River Blues, when you head down to the River City Grille on May 4. That night Gurf Morlix joins John and Mike for a TexAmericana Tuesday. Tell ‘em Heather sent you.

"Only now I wish I could be that same smooth talker,
Talk myself out of wanting you."
-John Greenberg, "Amy Walker"

Bluebonnets for Liz

This morning I learned that the legendary Liz Carpenter, press secretary to Lady Bird Johnson, passed away in Austin, Texas, yesterday. Many of the newspapers today are focusing on the short speech that she, Bill Moyers, and Jack Valenti wrote on Air Force One for President Johnson to give when he landed at Andrews with the coffin bearing President Kennedy’s body.

I had all but forgotten about Liz until about some five years ago when I was having coffee one summer morning at Austin Java with Troy Campbell. Troy mentioned he would be driving to a farm near Crawford later that night to play at an anti-war rally. He said that Liz Carpenter would be there, too. It takes a hurricane to keep me from attending services at the Saxon Pub on Sundays in Austin so I didn’t head to Crawford.

That night Ray Wylie Hubbard sat in with the Resentments and I figured I’d made the right decision. I got to hear RWH play “Snake Farm” before the CD was released.

The next day when I picked up the Austin American Statesman, I realized maybe I should have gone to Crawford. You could have checked any newspaper the following morning and seen how big the Joan Baez concert was, and I felt like I missed out on something big.

Liz Carpenter lived a very long, full life. A photo of her in today’s Austin American Statesman shows her seated on a sofa with a pillow that says “Uppity Women Unite.”

Amen to that, Liz.

Next week I take my daughter to Texas to look at schools. They grow strong women in Texas, and I’m thinking it’s the perfect place for my daughter. We’ll have plenty of time to drive along the highways, contemplating Lady Bird and her highway beautification efforts. For Liz, the bluebonnets will likely be very blue this April.

My Mother’s Advice for Spring Break 1982 Still Holds True Today

Despite having been made to read at least a dozen Shakespearean plays by the time I was ready to pile into a paneled Jeep with four other Sacred Heart seniors on spring break, I did not recognize that my mother’s parting words to me (“to thine own self be true”) were those of the bard himself.

It’s spring break for colleges, and my mother’s words are ringing in my ears. If you agree that the cost of health care is too high and want to have a new reason to be outraged, read on.

I opened my own biomedical communications business about a year ago, and I often seek work as a medical writer. I almost made a very big mistake this week.

I make it a practice to read a news log called MedCenterToday. Between that practice and my mother’s words, I’ve managed to dodge trouble. I’ve been following stories about a dirty little practice called medical ghostwriting that impacts your health care bottom line.

Let me explain exactly what medical ghostwriting is in today’s context. Medical ghostwriting can work several ways, but I’ll pick one scenario to examine since it’s the one most pertinent to me this week: A medical education and communications company (MECC for short) writes a grant application to bid to advertise (although they will package it as continuing medical education for doctors) a pharmaceutical company’s product. Let’s call that product Better More Expensive Pill. The pharmaceutical company says, why yes, by all means, we will give an Exorbitant Amount of Money to you for this work. Then the MECC turns to one of its M.D. or Ph.D. serfs that it pays less $50,000 a year to write for the company and says, write a first draft of a medical journal article touting Better More Expensive Pill. In this article, make sure you reassure the reader that Better More Expensive Pill does not cause Most Dreadful Unwanted and Potentially Fatal Side Effect so that doctors reading the article will prescribe the pills. And oh, by the way, please contact doctors at the Top Medical School to put their name on the paper you wrote and we will give them a little kickback. Then once you are finished with the article (and please hurry because you need to start on another one), we will contact the pharmaceutical company and collect for the article (and oh, you probably shouldn’t know this since we pay you so little, but they are paying us $25,000 for your paper).

Now do you see why this is so heinous given the cost of medical care today?

This week I almost interviewed for a job at a MECC. The job description said that I would be writing “continuing medical education,” which you know your doctor has to get each year, at a cost of about $1000 a course, to maintain his license.

While there is clearly a market for continuing medical education that is legitimate (educating your doctor about improvements in medical care since the time of his graduation), that does not justify the creation of businesses in the name of continuing medical education that are veiled advertising agencies for pharmaceutical companies.

No, I did not go through with the interview once I pieced together what was going on.

The cost of medical care is too high. As a consumer I am willing to embrace innovations and pay for them, but I do not want to pay for the dirty little tricks that industry tries to turn along the way to make a profit for executives at the expense of sick people. Medical schools do a fine job with continuing medical education, and third party for-profit companies don’t need their share of the pie.

The stories that have been written about MECC’s involvement with a marketing campaign for estrogen for menopausal women despite the risk of breast cancer is one of the best examples of what can go wrong, as are the tales of medical school docs taking big paychecks from industry to further the cause of a therapy.

It has been suggested by some writers that the authors involved in medical ghostwriting should face criminal charges. One cartoonist suggested they should sign autographs in bookstores. Senator Grassley is committed to bringing change and transparency to medical schools where these practices have been known to exist. Even some pharmaceutical companies are trying to take three giant steps backward--Pfizer and Glaxo Smith Kline have stopped providing grants for MECC’s.

Now I have an extra hour on my hands because of that interview I canceled this morning. I’ll think twice in the future about becoming anyone’s serf, because my mom and Shakespeare told me to be true to myself.

An Ad for the Car that Moves Forward Too Much

Riddle me this: If you were writing a jingle for Toyota, what would it say? Better yet, what would it not say?

Advertising is my one that got away. As a kid I wrote jingles: “Lite beer is the right beer; drink the right beer to be light.” As a med student I spent more time than I care to admit designing a logo for my business cards when I taught CPR. So I enjoy ads.

Sometimes I am shocked by advertising humor. Today I was just shocked by marketing stupidity.

Old habits die hard and I can’t help but use the keyboard as a placemat for lunch. This afternoon I looked up from my Pink Lady and spied a Toyota ad next to my inbox. They are moving forward.

And M.D. Anderson is making cancer history. Now that’s one I like. It makes sense. There’s a double meaning. Great.

But in this day of the runaway Prius, should Toyota really be moving forward? Maybe they should borrow from the alcoholic beverage industry and say their cars know when to say when. Maybe Ford should capitalize on this problem and say friends don’t let friends drive Toyotas.

How long does it take for the damage control peeps to sit up and notice a national advertising campaign that looks more like a joke at this stage of the story? Toyota moving forward—is that an excerpt from a 911 call?

Disclaimer: The author’s first car was a white Corolla and she presently drives a black Highlander.

Afterthought: Maybe Toyota can’t afford a new ad campaign. If that’s the case, I’ll retract my barb.

Note to Mr. Toyota: Please spend all the money you need on quality assurance right now. I’ll offer you a new slogan, gratis, once you put safe cars on the roads.