THE LONG GOODBYE THE LONG ROAD down ALZHEIMER’S
FEATURES
ZZ ON TOP AGAIN
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The beards are back and still dressed sharp.
THE GREATER OUTDOORS
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No RV’s allowed. How to camp like gramps.
THE LONG GOODBYE TWAIN TIME
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A little Twain for your brain. You’re welcome.
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1.8 million men over the age of 65 suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. But these few aren’t taking it lying down. Whether it’s a highway to hell or a stairway to heaven, these men are riding it together.
regulars
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Fly fishing in the winter? Don’t worry...we gotcha covered.
BACKWOODS
BLUEPRINT
Ever wanted to tear a phone book in half? Cool. Us too.
BRAWNY
Grab your flannel and prepare for the Woodsman Workout.
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12 GOT BEARD?
COVER: THE LONG GOODBYE PHOTO: BRANDON ALLEN
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13 must know beard facts.
MANLIEST SPORT?
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Almost guaranteed it’s not what you think.
BURLY DADS
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10 bearded bread winners.
BLUEPRINT a plan for every man
HOW TO:TEAR A PHONE BOOK
WITH YOUR
S T E P
1
Grab book with both hands
Place your thumbs on top and your fingers underneath one of the edges of the phone book (excluding the edge that is the binding). You can either tear the phone book by its length or its width — either way it will be impressive.
BARE
HANDS!!
BY: BRETT MCKAY ILLUSTRATIONS: TED SLAMPYAK
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blueprint
S T E P
2
S T E P
4
Make “V” with phone book
This is the “trick” part of tearing a phone book in half. Make a deep “V” in the phone book by pressing the bottom edge up with your index fingers while pressing the middle of the top edge down with your thumbs. The “V” creates spaces between the pages which makes it easier to rip through, as opposed to ripping all the pages stuck together. I found the deeper “V” you make, the easier it is to tear.
Pull halves apart
Once you’ve torn through the edge, ripping the rest of the phone book in half is relatively easy. Just finish tearing through the book by pulling the two sides apart. You may need to readjust your hands on the book to get a better grip.
S T E P
3
Begin tearing phone book
Brace the phone book on your hip or thigh and hold it tightly in both hands. Keeping your thumbs on top of the V, begin bending the sides of the phone book down. Maintain your “V” shape as much as possible while you bend the sides down. Keep bending until you tear all the way through to the other side. Letting out a manly yell at this point can help. The thicker the phone book you use, the harder this part is.
S T E P
5
Bask in the glow of your burliness
Congratulations! You just tore a phone book in half with your damn, bare manly hands. Time to impress your friends and make the ladies swoon with this virile feat of strength.
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BACKWOODS a map for every chap
OFF
BY: BEN ROMANS
PHOTOS: KURT POECKER
ICE
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backwoods
Sometimes it seems as though Montana has no fly-fishing secrets remaining, no adventures still to discover. Most of its big-name rivers are known throughout the world. Stories about many smaller streams and mountain lakes appear in fishing magazines and websites. Even the sometimes fantastic fishing of early spring and fall—insider’s knowledge once known only to locals—has become widely known. What’s left for those of us who fish here regularly but still want to discover something new? How about this: Instead of looking for new water, consider fishing familiar streams and rivers at the most unlikely time of year—winter.
I
’m already a big fan of winter, so getting me to fish during my favorite season requires little prodding. I especially enjoy the quiet. In addition to the lack of crowds—or even a single other angler, in many cases the scenery and sounds of winter landscapes are muffled and muted by snow and ice. If you fly-fish at least partly for the serenity, you’ll want to learn how to do it during the cold months. In winter, I want to be outside. Fiddling at my fly-tying bench staves off cabin fever for only so long. So I bundle up and head to my favorite river—if only for an hour or two. And even though peace and solitude are the main reasons I’m out there, I figure that as long as I’m fishing, I might as well catch a few fish.
Think warmth Unfortunately, winter is not the best time to attract trout to a fly. The icy water slows the cold- blooded creatures’ metabolism, making them lethargic. Trout move less than in summer and aren’t as hungry. Still, they can be caught. The key is knowing when to go. The main thing to remember is that the warmer, the better. If the forecast is for daytime temperatures to drop below freezing, consider staying indoors until things warm up. Fish can be caught on cold days, but it’s a lot harder than during sunny winter afternoons with temperatures in the upper 30s or higher. Warmer air and water mean more active aquatic insect activity, which, in turn, persuades fish to feed. What’s more, you can stay outdoors and fish longer in the more comfortable conditions. To squeeze the most warmth out of a day, fish rivers or long portions of rivers that have the most sunshine hitting the water. The winter sun follows a southeastern-to-southwestern arc, warming primarily what gets hit by the rays. Rivers running north or south have more sunshine on the water during daytime than those flowing east or west. Both the Madison and Bitterroot Rivers flow northward with virtually no topography blocking the sun. They warm more quickly and stay warmer
than, for example, the lower Blackfoot River. Flowing west and flanked by mountains and canyons, the lower Blackfoot receives virtually no sunshine in December and January. It’s also one of the last to wake from its winter slumber in spring. The Missouri has examples of both. Some portions below Craig run north for a mile or more, soaking up sunshine the entire way. Then the river suddenly cuts into a deep, dark canyon and the air temperature drops 20 degrees. That’s no place to spend a Sunday afternoon in January.
it’s burly above freezing TIPS ON NOT FREEZING TELL SOMEONE WHERE YOU’RE GOING & WHEN YOU’LL BE BACK
Tailwater trout Another way to find warmer water is to fish tailwater fisheries, which are like gigantic spring creeks. The upstream reservoir provides the water source, which remains relatively constant through the year. As a result, ever-changing weather fronts don’t alter a trout’s daily routine downstream from dams nearly as much as on rivers without tailwater fisheries. The state’s two top tailwaters are the Missouri below Holter Dam and the Bighorn below Yellowtail Dam. On both, water temperatures drop no lower than the upper 30s through January, February, and March. “The water will cool a little a few miles after it leaves the dam, but I’ve only seen the river get shelf ice as far down as the Bighorn [Fishing Access Site], about 12 miles downstream,” says Duane Schreiner, owner of Bighorn Fly and Tackle in Fort Smith. “Fishing can be spectacular even at 10 and 20 below zero, but we generally try to convince people to fish when the air is at or above 30 degrees. Anything below that and you spend too much time keeping ice from freezing up your gear. The fish don’t quit hitting; it just becomes more bother than it’s worth.” Another great tailwater is the Madison River from Hebgen Dam downstream to Quake Lake. Just 2 miles long, the stretch doesn’t hold a huge amount of fishable water. But because it’s so far from anything—the closest town, 20 minutes away, is sparsely populated West Yellowstone—you’ll
PREPARE FOR THE WORST. BRING BACKUP CLOTHES & A FIRE STARTING KIT
DRESS MUCH, MUCH WARMER THAN YOU THINK YOU NEED TO.
COVER YOUR FINGERS. WEAR THICK GLOVES WITH MITTEN TOPS
USE A WADING STAFF TO AVOID SLIPPING & FALLING
BRING A THERMOS OF HOT COFFEE, TEA, OR CHOCOLATE
9
10 BEST WINTER FLIES
TASTES LIKE VICTORY likely have the river to yourself. A different option is to fish a spring creek, where subterranean inputs keep the water at a constant 45 to 60 degrees F year- round. Though most spring creeks are closed to fishing from December 1 through the third Saturday in May, Armstrong, DuPuy, and Nelson Creeks, in the lower Paradise Valley of the Yellowstone River, re- main open. These waters run completely through private property and cost users $40 per day during winter months. Fee fishing may seem blasphemous in Montana, where open public stream and river access is gospel. But in midwinter, with few other options, paying to catch 18-inch rainbows on size-20 midge imitations doesn’t seem like the worst way to spend your money. Another option—this one free of charge— is Poindexter Slough, a spring creek on mostly public land just outside Dillon. Whether it’s a spring creek, a tailwater, or just a regular trout river on a sunny day, don’t fish too early. In winter you want to fish during the heat of the day, when a trout’s metabolism increases as the water temperature rises, even if only by a few degrees. Sleep in, have another cup of coffee, do some chores, and maybe eat an early lunch. Then fish when the sun is highest and temperatures climb—typically between 11 a.m. and when the sun’s rays no longer hit the water.
Go deep, then deeper No, that is not what she said. As river temperatures drop and winter flows settle to the lowest of the year, most trout congregate in deep pools and runs. Fish slip under cavernous undercut banks, beneath logjams, and into any long,
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backwoods
profound, gravel- strewn trench with slow flows. Trout survive winter by conserving calories. Fish for them in holding waters where they can find safety from predators and feed without expending too much valuable energy. Winter trout also seek spots where natural springs or adjacent sloughs send in water warmer than the icy river. “Think about summer, when you were wading or walking down the bank, and you suddenly felt a rush of cooler water around your feet and legs,” says Jim Cox, co-owner of Kingfisher Fly Shop in Missoula. “That’s natural spring water seeping into the system. In the cold months of winter, that turns into a warmer spot where fish gravitate.” After finding likely holding water, you need to get your presentation to the fish. Cox recommends using two-fly nymph rigs. By mimicking two different food sources, you double your chance of getting a strike. For example, a Beadhead Pheasant Tail nymph might not interest a trout, but the buggy- looking Pat’s Rubber Legs tied on 12 inches away might look tasty enough to eat. Two-fly rigs also allow you to cover different water levels. A heavy nymph at the end of the tippet helps pull a lighter nymph like a scud imitation or Copper John tied a foot or so up the tippet down toward the bottom. The big fly works like a split shot, except, unlike the lead sinker, it can also catch fish. The heavier fly will drop down into deeper pockets or slots, too. The most important value of the indica- tor is to let you know when a fish takes your fly. Trout strike lightly in winter, sometimes biting then spitting out an artificial nymph in less than a second. Without
an indicator— and by not striking whenever you see it pause for a moment or move in a direction not in line with the current flow—you can easily miss a take.
When to go on top Aquatic insect hatches are much less common in winter than during other times of the year. The water is usually too chilly for the cold-blooded bugs to undergo metamorphosis. But hatches occur. The most likely flying or floating insects you’ll see are blue-winged olives, small stoneflies, and, especially, mos- quito-sized midges. Craig Mathews, owner of Blue Ribbon Flies in West Yellowstone, approaches midge dry-fly fishing with the same respect he gives to fishing caddis and mayflies in summer. “Midge fishing is always best on a warm, overcast day, because you don’t have shadows to contend with,” says Mathews, who fishes at least two days a week, even in winter. He explains that if your fly rod or fly line throws a shadow over a rising trout, the fish will spook and stop feeding. “But if it’s a little overcast, you can get away with a little more,” Mathews says. “The beauty of winter midge fishing,” Mathews adds, “is the fish lock into narrow feeding lanes, so if you crouch low as you walk you can get close. Then I kneel down or sit. I like to see the fish’s eyeballs—I get that close. Then I make short casts and presen- tations, almost simply dapping the fly. I just use a little fly line and my leader out of the rod tip.” “Tenkara is perfect for winter midge fishing,” Mathews says. “I’ve fished as cold as 22 below zero on the Madison, and that’s where something like
tenkara techniques and equipment come in handy. This isn’t August, when trout go into a stupor by noon. You’re fishing a short, fixed-length cast, and you don’t have to worry about your reel or guides freezing up.” Mathews says most midge action is in soft water along banks and fringes of fastwater chutes. “Find a place where fish are comfortable rising, near relatively calm, moderately deep water, and spend the after- noon there. In my experience on the Madison, fish prefer water closer to the bank, in protected areas, where they don’t have to expend too much energy.” Mathews puts floatant on his leader to keep it on the surface but uses a water-absorbing powder like Frog’s Fanny to keep the imitation buoyant. “Floatant just mats down the fibers of a small, sparse midge dry,” he says. One challenge is to keep track of your im- itation fly among the thousands of naturals floating on the surface around it. If you lose sight of your fly, don’t despair. “Quite often the adult midge naturals will cling to your leader, so if you don’t see your fly and a trout takes it, you still might see a long line of naturals on the water sort of jerk forward,” Mathews
says. “It’s kind of like bobber fishing with a natural, live bobber.” Mathews recommends midge patterns with shucks. “From what I’ve seen, fish feeding on midges mostly take the impaired adults, cripples, and stillborns,” he says. Other than that, go with the simplest patterns, such as a Zelon Midge. “That’s important,” Mathews says. “Fish tend to ignore complex midge pupae and adult patterns and just want something simple.” Keeping at least a few aspects of winter fly-fishing uncomplicated is a good idea. Fishing during the cold months is definitely more difficult and cumbersome than in summer. It requires more clothing, more patience, and, considering the everpresent risk of hypothermia, far more attention to safety (see sidebar below). But for some of us, the bother is worthwhile. The crowds are gone, and you’re outside in a river with a fly rod in hand. Besides, if nothing else, fly-fishing during a few chilly days in midwinter makes you appreciate a sunny summer afternoon on the water all that much more.
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BRAWNY a sport for every sort
Exercising outside with simply the equipment found in Mother Nature’s Gym pushes your body, boosts your manly vigor, and, as you can clearly see in the pictures below, makes you look like a wooly beast. Today I share a routine that is done by the likes of Bunyan, Johnson, and Adams. So wolf down your flapjacks, put on your flannel shirt and boots, grab your axe, and head outside. *Master Norris is unaware of this endorsement 12
brawny
BY: BRETT MCKAY PHOTOS: TODD ANDERSON
WOODSMAN WORKOUT
*
before we begin: Check where applicable
(3/5 is necessary before beginning)
or
DEEP BREATHING Begin your Woodsman Workout with some deep breathing exercises to clear the mind and oxygenate your blood for the vigorous activity you’re about to take part in. A proper breath originates in the diaphragm.
Slowly breathe in the fresh forest air through your nose. As you inhale, imagine your lungs filling up from the bottom to the top. Exhale through your mouth. Imagine the air in your lungs emptying from the top to the bottom. You’ll know if you’re breathing correctly if your belly moves in and out and your chest and shoulders stay still. Take deep breaths. Focus on the sound of your breath and the bubbling brook beside you.
HIKE Hiking serves as the foundation
of the Woodsman Workout. In between the various exercises, we’re constantly moving because we’re constantly hiking. I try to hike about 5K every morning in Springville Canyon. Keep a brisk pace while you hike, but make sure to take some breaks to really soak in the scenery. Perform each of the following exercises whenever nature moves you to do so, and as soon as you finish an exercise, start hiking again immediately.
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“Exercising outside with simply the equipment found in Mother Nature’s Gym boosts your manly vigor, & makes you look like a WOOLY BEAST.”
BEAR CRAWL I harnessed the power of my animal
spirit guide, the noble bear, by performing bear crawls through the woods. There’s nothing much to them. Just get down on all fours and crawl like a bear, making sure your knees don’t touch the ground. Gloves are preferable when there’s 4 in. of snow on the ground. Do the bear crawl in one minute spurts whenever you feel like it during your hike. Shoot for 5 crawls during your hike.
front * squat with a log As you are hiking and taking in the view, be on the lookout for logs for hefting and hoisting. It weighed a good 75 pounds. If you can’t find a proper lifting log, earn extra woodsman points by felling a tree and bucking a log. Squats are a great way to develop the lower body strength needed for powering through long hikes and putting unruly moose in leglocks. Do 3 sets of 8 reps, resting a minute in between each set.
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brawny
OVERHEAD PRESS WITH A LOG The overhead press is one of my favorite exercises; it’s even awesomer when performed with a giant tree log. The overhead press works your entire body: shoulders, upper-chest, core, and legs. Hoist your log to the top of your chest. Grip the log about an inch or two outside shoulder-width. Feet should be about shoulder-width apart. Look straight ahead. Press the log over your head. As you lift, exhale. When the log passes your forehead, shift your torso forward and continue lifting the log. Lock your elbows when you reach the end of the lift and hold for a second. Slowly lower the log back to the starting position, inhaling as you do so. That’s one rep. Do 3 sets of 8 reps, resting one minute between each set.
lumberjack press The lumberjack press is a great shoulder exercise. It also activates your core muscles in order to keep the log straight and balanced
during the lift. Begin by hoisting your log lengthwise onto your right shoulder. Grip the log in the center with both hands — the left hand in front, the right behind — so the log is nice and balanced. Lift the log above your head, making sure it remains straight during the lift. It’s harder than you think it would be. Lower the log onto your left shoulder. Just four more to go! Lift the log again and rest it on your right shoulder. Complete 2 sets of 5 reps. When you finish the first set, switch your hands so that your right hand is in front and your left is in the back.
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WALKING LUNGES WITH A LOG We worked our quads with the front squat, so now we need to hit our hammies and glutes. Lunging through the woods with a log hoisted over your shoulders will do the trick. Begin with log over shoulders. Lunge forward with your right leg until your right thigh is perpendicular with the ground. Your left knee should come close to touching the ground. Push up with your left leg and without hesitating lunge forward with your left leg until your left thigh is perpendicular with the ground. Keep alternating like this for about a minute. Rest for a minute, then repeat two more times.
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brawny
BOULDER TOSSING You HAve probably seen people tossing medicine balls in the gym. The equivalent of that in the Woodsman Workout is boulder tossing. Tossing heavy boulders is a full body workout. You work your back, chest, legs, arms, shoulders, and core. Best of all, it’s fun to throw heavy things around in the woods. Select a good sized boulder. Mine weighed about 50 pounds, give or take. Bend down with your legs to pick up the rock and lift it to your chest. Hurl the rock up and out by pushing your arms up from your chest as fast as you can. Enjoy watching your boulder hurtle through the air and land on the ground with a big thud. Pick it back up and throw it again. Do 3 sets of 5 throws, resting 1-2 minutes between each set.
wood splitting A Woodsman Workout wouldn’t be complete without a session of wood splitting. Splitting a stack of wood is a tremendous workout. You work your arms, back, and core swinging the maul around. It’s also a great cardio workout. Place your log on a larger log. Bring the maul head above your head. Swing down. Aim for the center of the log. Follow through on your swing until your maul completely splits the wood. Get another log and keep splitting. Be sure to switch up your hand placement during wood splitting sessions to work the different sides of your body.
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THE LONG 20
GOO DBYE 1.8 million men over the age of 65 suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. But these few aren’t taking it lying down. Whether it’s a highway to hell or a stairway to heaven, these men are riding it together. BY: JERALD WINAKUR
PHOTOS: BRANDON ALLEN
ebruary 24, 2006, is my parents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. My family plans a brunch for them in their home. We are keenly aware that this may be the last anniversary my parents will celebrate together. It won’t be an elaborate party, just a bittersweet one. Seven years earlier, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, and he has gone steadily downhill. At 87 years old, he is now a prisoner of his mind. His agitation and paranoia arise from distorted memories, nightmares he can no longer separate from reality. A few days before the brunch, my mother calls me in a panic. My dad is bellicose and paranoid, accusing. Summoning Yiddish profanities he has not uttered in 75 years, he curses at Yolanda, the caregiver who holds everything together in my parents’ household. He will not be bathed or shaved. He will not eat, refuses his medications. He is raving. “Dad,” I say when I visit their house that afternoon, “What is it? What’s wrong?” “I want to go home. Please, take me home!” “But, Dad, you are home.” “I don’t know where I am. Please, Jerry-boy, take me home. You know the way…” “I don’t know where else to take you, Dad. You’ve lived here for twenty-nine years.” “You go to hell! You’re in with them!”
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There is no walking away now. He is an abandoned child. He searches for his boyhood home on Boarman Avenue, in Baltimore, or perhaps our first family home there, on Forest Park Avenue. He hears voices but can’t decode what is being said, and his mind assumes the worst: My mother is insulting him, planning to run off; his sons are belittling him, his mother scolding him, his older brothers and sisters teasing him. He is lost, with no father of his own to turn to. I see that he has wet himself; a dark ring marks his place on the couch. By now I have written or refilled hundreds of thousands of prescriptions, but my constant goal is to cut back on medications, stop them altogether if I can: By now I have written or refilled hundreds of thousands of prescriptions, but my constant goal is to cut back. As a geriatric physician in San Antonio for the past thirty years, I have been through this before. I have been cursed, spit on, bitten, and punched by demented old folks over the decades. A poor woman threw a shoe at me when I stepped inside her hospital room. The day before, she thought I was the devil. As a doctor, I know what to do; as a son, I am uncertain. So I assume my doctor role, retreating into the armor of my starched white coat. I walk to the kitchen and check his daily pill slots to make sure he’s been getting his regular medications.
BURLY MEN with
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ALZHEIMER’S
Sometimes my mother, unable to see due to macular degeneration, inadvertently leaves pills in the plastic containers I fill every couple weeks. But everything. The pills are often as much a part of the problem as the cure. My father takes eight medications a day; my mother, who is 82, fourteen. They are both on vitamins and minerals, blood pressure medications, diuretics, and cholesterol-lowering drugs. My father also takes two hearts. My mother takes drugs for her diabetes, a thyroid disorder, osteoporosis, and depression. This is not unusual for folks their age.
Hog Wild I spend my doctoring days prescribing medications for my patients, reshuffling the ones they’re on-a tiny dose change here, a retiming of administration there. By now I have written or refilled hundreds of thousands of prescriptions, but my constant goal is to cut back on medications, stop them altogether if I can: Less is usually more. Every geriatrician knows this. Looking through my father’s pills, I recall a patient of mine, Lilly, a woman who first came to see me carrying a brown paper shopping bag crammed with pill bottles‚ at least forty different drugs . “This one’s for the high blood,” she had said, “and this one’s for the sweet blood, and this one’s
Charles Bronson actor “the dirty dozen”
for the low blood. These three are for my bad knees, and this one’s ‘cause I’m sad a lot, and this one’s ‘cause I don’t sleep too good, and this one’s ‘cause I’m tired all the time. I can hardly keep ‘em straight, but I got a big list at home tacked to the wall, over the phone in my kitchen. Last month the company cut off the service when I couldn’t pay the bill. All these medicines and still I feel so bad. That’s why I come to you now. That and all these other troubles.” She had handed me a list of symptoms, pencilscrawled on a ragged piece of paper. I spent two hours with Lilly, hearing one story loop into another: bad marriages, kids in jail, ER visits, surgeries, strange diagnoses mostly selfmade. I knew what was happening to Lilly, what happens to many people like her in a medical encounter. The physician begins to drown in a sea of conflicting information, feels powerless to alter the circumstances of this person’s life. A wave of helplessness washes over doctor and patient both, and he reaches for his prescription pad. “Here, try this,” he says. “I think it will help.” Then he steps into the hall, picks up the next chart, and moves on, hoping the drug he has prescribed helps but doubtful it will. I could not change the circumstances of Lilly’s life, couldn’t make up for her poverty or lack of education or the poor choices
Ronald Reagan American president
she had made. But she improved significantly when, after some lab work and many more hours of listening, I was eventually able to whittle her medication list down to three. Prescribing for the elderly is complicated. They don’t metabolize drugs at the same rate as younger, healthier patients. The main workhorses of drug excretion‚ the liver and kidneys‚ decline in function with age, as do all our organ systems. The elderly, like my parents, are often on multiple drugs (including over-the-counter preparations the doctor might not even know about), and the incidences of unforeseen interactions begin to mount. We know so little about these interactions. Indeed, the pharmaceutical companies are infamous in geriatric circles for not including our elderly patients in drug trials. These days, between the Food and Drug Administration and Big Pharma, I hang suspended in a netherworld of prescribing angst. The FDA has pulled more than twenty drugs off the market in the past two decades, drugs they first assured me were safe to use but then ended up damaging livers or kidneys or hearts. I have always tried to protect my patients, wait if I possibly can for aftermarket studies to bring more data to light. It is one thing, I tell my patients, to judge a drug’s benefits and risks after it has been given to a few thousand patients in clinical trials; it’s quite another after it has been prescribed to hundreds of thousands upon its general. In the parlance of the technology and pharmaceutical industries, doctors like me who are cautious, who do not immediately jump on the company bandwagon every time it trumpets its ”latest and greatest” product, are known as ”slow adopters.” Now these industries have figured out a way to circumvent my judgment should I fail to join the chorus of cheerleaders for their newest breakthrough. On television, in magazines, they promise an end to arthritis pain, a good night’s sleep, a cure for incontinence, a firm erection. My
phone rings off the hook with patients who worry that I may have blocked their path to the Fountain of Youth when I decline their drug requests. I have no sympathy for Big Pharma. I resent its intrusion into the doctor-patient relationship, resent the constant introduction of new‚ often rushed‚ products into a marketplace crowded with me-too drugs. Big Pharma is right where it has always wanted to be-smack-dab in the middle of my decision-making process as it tries to influence consumers who also happen to be my patients. And yet here I am, in my parents’ home, rummaging through a basketful of medicines I take down from a high shelf. This is where I store the unused pills-all the psychoactive drugs prescribed by my father’s physician for his recurrent bouts of anxiety or agitation, for his depression and his insomnia, for his memory loss and lethargy, for his confusion and paranoia, for his belligerence and sadness. I take down a dozen orange plastic pill bottles with white, almost-impossible-to-remove lids. My father’s name is on every label: Some are six months old, some several years. We have been dealing with this for a long time. Haloperidol and risperidone. Olanzapine and quetiapine. Paroxetine and citalopram. Alprazolam and trazodone. Donepezil and rivastigmine and memantine. Organic molecules, various combinations of carbon and hydrogen and nitrogen, oxygen and sulfur-the atoms of which we are all made-bioengineered to slip across the blood-brain barrier, to stimulate one receptor or block another, precipitate a rush of ions through neural membranes, flood synaptic gaps with potent neurotransmitters, flip a switch here, throw a breaker there, block a surge somewhere else. I settle on the bottle of risperidone. Although I am reluctant to use this drug-any drug-in treating my father, I know that he has taken it before with success. It has worked. It has settled him down, albeit with an added degree of cognitive impairment. My hope is that by continuing to
“At 67 years old, I am now a prisoner of my own mind. Riding helps me escape for a little while.”
James Doohan actor “Star trek”
Glen Campbell Singer/ actor
Alfred Deakin australian prime minister
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Charlton Heston actor “planet of the apes”
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Sugar Ray Robinson champion boxer
Peter Falk actor “columbo”
use this drug judiciously, I can maintain the status quo and keep my father at home for a bit longer, delay the decision to relegate him to a long-term facility where I know he will only I bring my father a bisected tablet and a cool glass of his nutritional drink. “Here, Dad, take this. I think it will make you feel better.” His eyes, still wild, stare at me. “What’s this for?” “Dad, you’ve got shpilkes,” I say. I use this Yiddish word, retrieved somehow from my own memory, because my father has lately been interspersing his speech with snippets of this language, his mother tongue-the mamaloshen-the first words he ever heard and therefore the last ones to abandon him. He smiles. “Az ich habe shpilkes,” he says. And he swallows the pill. “For the shpilkes.” my mother and Yolanda tell him when it is time for the next dose. Before long he is back to his usual demented but pleasant self. This time I have made the right decision. Three days later, on my parents’ anniversary, those of us who love them assemble in their home. My wife brings a dozen yellow roses and arranges the table. I drive over to the bagel bakery, and pick up a dozen-onion, poppy seed, and sesame-just out of the oven. It is a small gathering. Family-oriented to the point of insularity, my parents have made no close friends in all the years they have lived in San Antonio. Everything is ready, and I wheel my father
Burgess Meredith actor “rocky”
into the living room. “What’s the fuss about?” he asks as he enters, seeing all these faces he recognizes but cannot place. For a moment he is frightened. “Dad,” I say, speaking into his good ear, “today is a special day. You and Mom have been married for sixty years.” He searches for my mother’s face in the small crowd around him. “Really? Is that true, Mom?” “Of course it’s true,” she says. “Do you think we made this up?” “It doesn’t seem like sixty years.” he says. “It seems like a hundred to me.” she says. We, the assembled family, laugh nervously.
This Is My Exit My brother leans in and asks our father, “So what do you think about all this?” We have been dealing with this for a long time. Organic molecules, various combinations of carbon and hydrogen and nitrogen, oxygen and sulfur-the atoms of which we are all made-bioengineered to slip across the blood-brain barrier, to stimulate one receptor or block another, precipitate a rush of ions through neural membranes, flood synaptic gaps with potent neurotransmitters, flip a switch here, throw a breaker there, block a surge somewhere else. I settle on the bottle of risperidone. Although I am reluctant to use this drug-any drug-in treating my father, I know that he has taken it before with success. It has worked. It has settled him down, albeit with an added degree of cognitive disrupt. My hope is that by continuing to use this drug judiciously, I can maintain the status quo and keep my father at home for a bit longer, delay the decision to relegate him to a long-term facility where I know he will only deteriorate faster.
Winston Churchill British prime minister
“Here, Dad, take this. I think it will make you feel better.” His eyes, still wild, stare at me. “What’s this for?” “Dad, you’ve got shpilkes,” I say. I use this Yiddish word, retrieved somehow from my own memory, because my father has lately been interspersing his speech with snippets of this language, his mother tongue-the mamaloshen-the first words he ever heard and therefore the last ones to abandon him. He smiles. “Az ich habe shpilkes,” he says. And he swallows the pill. “For the shpilkes.” my mother and Yolanda tell him when it is time for the next dose. Before long he is back to his usual demented but pleasant self. This time I have made the right decision. Three days later, on my parents’ anniversary, those of us who love them assemble in their home. My wife brings a dozen yellow roses and arranges the table. It is a small gathering. Family-oriented to the point of insularity, my parents have made no close friends in all the years they have lived in San Antonio. Everything is ready, and I wheel my father into the living room. “What’s the fuss about?” he asks as he enters, seeing all these faces he recognizes but cannot place. For a moment he is frightened. “Dad,” I say, speaking into his good ear, “today is a special day. You and Mom have been married for sixty years.” He searches for my mother’s face in the small crowd around him. “Really? Is that true, Mom?” “Of course it’s true,” she says. “Do you think we made this up?” “It doesn’t seem like sixty years.” he says. “It seems like a hundred to me.” she says. We, the assembled family, laugh nervously. My brother leans in and asks our father, “So what do you think about all this?”
Jack Lord actor “hawaii five-0”
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on ARP H S L CK! A A N I B G ARE ORI N E E H T DM E S S DRE
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N I A G A
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“Reality is stranger than fiction and funnier than anything {we’ve} put either on record, stage, or video.”
I
n the beginning, way back in 1970, ZZ Top wandered the backwaters of the Southwest, laying down the boogie law for serious boozers and dedicated hell-raisers. Billy Gibbons, Dusty Hill and Frank Beard were crude and rude, three weird Texans who gave their hard-core fans what they came to hear—songs like the American bar classic Tush, which honors one of the band’s favorite body parts. On their first world tour in 1976, they remained true to their roots, mounting a production that for sheer outrageousness has yet to be equaled. The show featured a cactus-laden, Texas-shaped stage and several living creatures not usually associated with rock concerts—a buffalo, a coyote, a rattlesnake, a long-horn steer and four buzzards. Time, success and MTV have all changed ZZ Top, at least on the surface. Gibbons and Hill have sprouted chin hair that reaches nearly to their belly buttons—that’s right, only Beard doesn’t have a beard—and all three now perform in Italian jogging suits. Their Sharp-Dressed Man video, which beat back Def Leppard’s Foolin’ and the rest of the competition to cop video of the year on NBC’s Friday Night Videos, has reached out to grab the young and the fair by their discretionary income. Now ZZ Top sings about TV Dinners; their ninth album, Eliminator, was Warner-Elektra-Atlantic’s biggest seller of 1983 (3 million copies sold in the U.S. alone); they’re rich; they are no longer a regional phenomenon. In fact, their appeal is now so widespread that they trounced runner-up Jesse Jackson in a recent Saturday Night Live phone-in Presidential poll by more than 64,000 votes. But one thing hasn’t changed. For Gibbons, Hill and Beard, reality is still stranger than fiction and funnier than anything they’ve put either on record, stage or video. For example, the afternoon after the eight-month Eliminator tour ended recently in Biloxi, Gibbons
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BY: DEBORAH FROST
PHOTOS: RODNEY BURSIEL
could be found wandering around the antique-filled lobby of a tiny, exclusive New Orleans hotel, where he’d arrived on a whim, via limo, in the middle of the night. Pinned to his big black coat was an honorary Texas Ranger badge. In one pocket was a large bottle of Tabasco, which he sprinkles on everything. In the other was a supply of ZZ Top souvenir keychains, which he hands out—just like in the band’s videos—to the fans who recognize and besiege him everywhere. The effect was that of a huge bear unpleasantly startled out of a long winter’s snooze. “Where’s the maid?” he bellowed. “Why?” asked the confounded desk clerk. “Do you want her to do your room?” “No! I want her to braid my hair,” he replied, utterly baffled when the clerk dissolved in giggles.
scientific experiments. Nonetheless, he may yet get to the moon sooner than he gets to his own home, a $500,000 town house he’s never bothered to furnish with much more than a couch and a jukebox. On those rare occasions when the band is off the road, he is more comfortable checking into a Houston hotel around the corner, where he entertains drinking buddies and dreams up new video concepts. Not all of his projects are out of this world, either—he holds five U.S. patents as the inventor of a miniature guitar. A onetime student at the University of Texas whose knowledge of modern art is surprisingly extensive, he now, at 34, takes his active involvement with Houston’s Contemporary Arts Museum seriously.
Billy The Kid
Like Gibbons, bass player Dusty Hill, 34, finds it difficult to adjust to life off the road. Recently he woke up and couldn’t figure out why he was having such trouble getting room service—until he realized he was in his own bed in Houston. He just didn’t recognize it. He began his career at age 8 singing Elvis and Little Richard hits in the beer joints where his mother worked as a waitress. Since 1965 he’s been playing with drummer Frank Beard. Long before ZZ Top, the beards and punk, they dyed their hair blue in a band called the American Blues. Although Hill enjoys the rewards of the band’s success—he sports the state of Texas in gold and diamonds on one finger and once got trapped in his De Lorean when the gull doors malfunctioned—he’s still just a good ole boy whose ambitions and interests are as humble as Gibbons’ are wide-ranging. “I tend to fall into things,” says the ruddy, doughboy-shaped East Texan, whose favorite pastimes are gambling and long, hot baths. “If I’d
But then, Billy Gibbons’ life is one of odd moments and impulses. His early childhood memories include running loose in Las Vegas showgirls’ dressing rooms (his father was an arranger and orchestra leader) and being visited by LBJ (his mother was on the President’s Texas staff). He once played a guitar made out of a toilet seat. As a teenager, his psychedelic Moving Sidewalks opened for the Doors and Jimi Hendrix, who presented Gibbons with a pink Strat and touted him as one of America’s best young guitarists on the Tonight Show. His hero is a fellow Houston eccentric, Howard Hughes. One of Gibbons’ greatest regrets, in fact, is that the band is on tour so much he can’t visit Hughes’ Houston grave often. Disappointment also reared its droopy head when NASA turned down Gibbons’ offer to have ZZ Top play the space shuttle, at least for the time being. The space shuttle, he was quite saddened to discover, is currently reserved for
The Other Beard
‘S never made it out of clubs, that’d be all right,” he says. “I don’t have a grand plan. My grand plan is to play the next show. “I like the celebrity of what I do,” Hill continues. “But it’s a little embarrassing at times. In an airport I don’t know whether people are staring at me ‘cause I’m in the band or ‘cause I’m a weird-looking sonuvagun.”
Beard Without A Beard
That’s not Frank Beard’s problem. “I am more of a complete human being than the other two,” says Beard, 33, a man of many passions and contradictions. He’s a golf nut who, with a partner, won his country club’s tournament last year. He and wife Debbie (it’s the third marriage for both) own a designer sportswear store in a chi-chi suburban Houston mall and a “wonderful” new house. As he rattles on about his desire for a son, the loaded pistols in both his Mercedes, and why he voted for Reagan, it’s hard to believe Beard’s ever been anything other than a hip-looking, conservativethinking businessman with a penchant for Giorgio Armani. But by the time he was 16, he was an acid-popping, high school dropout and father. (He’s only recently been reunited with his two teenage daughters.) And just seven years ago he was an alcoholic with an equally nasty heroin habit. “Neither Billy nor Dusty has had to face the demons I have faced and come out a winner,” he says, chain-drinking Tabs and chain-smoking low-tar menthol cigarettes. “Which has given me something they don’t have. But to get to that, I had to lack something they had.” That understanding may be at the root of what makes ZZ Top so special. Despite the vast differences in personalities and lifestyles, the band’s biggest argument was over the lyrics to Leila, the only ballad they’ve ever recorded. Offstage they rarely socialize or even speak to one another—but onstage they are tuned in to one another’s quirky, individual frequencies. “We just love to play,” explains Gibbons, a fact that’s obvious to anyone who’s seen ZZ Top live. Although both Hill and Gibbons are showing the effects of too many enchiladas, their surprisingly graceful choreography—they say they improvise their inimitable knee bends, knee wiggles and duck-walk variations on the spot—might make a breakdancer envious. When they opened for the Stones in 1981, Mick Jagger was stageside making like any other fan—playing air guitar.
What La Futura Holds...
Despite the band’s recent popular successes, ZZ Top has neither compromised its integrity nor dishonored its musical forefathers. Their songs pay homage to the bluesmen and early rockers who inspired their licks, though it’s hard to know what those ancients would make of ZZ Top’s jet-age collection of matching fluorescent, zebra-striped
and toy-car guitars. It’s no accident that Hill’s backstage wardrobe case is covered with photos of Elvis and after-show visitors are often treated to Little Richard tapes. And ZZ Top never plays down to the kids. There are no drum solos, and when ZZ Top resorts to smoke bombs, it’s a spoof. On the Eliminator tour, the smoke went off, the scaffolding fell down and a dummy roadie fell from the rafter to its “death.” So when ZZ blows its top in concert, the question isn’t why they’re so popular but why it took MTV to make them—as they once sang in an early FM radio favorite—”really bad and nationwide.” And that’s just one of many mysteries that surround these upwardly mobile cowpie-kickers. The boys will offer the keychains from their pockets and the diamonds from their fingers, invite you to their favorite restaurant, cemetery or country club, and tell you about their ex-wives and sex lives, but no one will reveal where the name ZZ Top came from.
Frank: “Damned if I know. I always thought it was the name of some old black blues guy we had on a sticker when we started out.” Dusty: “It means something dirty in French, but we didn’t know that till we went to France. I think only Billy knows what it means.” Billy: “You’ll never get me drunk enough to tell.”
ALBUMS
1 2 3
ELIMINATOR
DIAMOND (10 MIL SOLD)
AFTERBURNER
5X PLATINUM (5 MIL SOLD)
RECYCLER
PLATINUM (1 MIL SOLD)
“In an airport I don’t know whether people are staring at me ‘cause I’m in the band or ‘cause I’m a weird-looking sonuvagun.”
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BEARDS101 Where do beards come from? DIHYDROTESTOSTERONE ...DUH.
K
OH CH 3
beard |bi(ə)rd| noun 1 a growth of hair on the chin and lower cheeks of a man’s face
CH 3
LONGEST BEARD
O H
LIVING
Suck it!
Sarwan Singh
Beards grow more in the summer (like hairy face daisies)
8’ 2.5”
(2.495 m)
17’ 6” (5.33 m)
Scientists believe prehistoric men had beards for: more men tend to have facial hair when the marriage market is good but when it’s tough to find a wife, weaker men shed their staches. scientists think that men shave to make women feel safer.
WARMTH INTIMIDATION PROTECTION
EVER Hans Langseth
33%
55%
of
of
Americans have facial hair
the rest of the world have facial hair
whether you sport a full beard or you can only manage a wispy ‘stache, flaunting facial hair at some point in time seems to be a rite of passage for most men. a recent beard-
related study conducted by behavioral ecology has found that of women with minimal
pop culture exposure, the majority surveyed find men to be less attractive when sporting a full face of hair. however, this same group of women also perceived bearded men as garnering higher respect and being more powerful than clean-shaven men.
BEARDS THROUGH HISTORY H
H
356-323 BC
912-973 AD
500-1500 AD
Alexander the Great forbade facial hair because he feared them being grabbed by their enemies.
Otto the Great (a Celtic king) swore by his beard whenever he wanted his sincerity to come across.
During the middle ages, touching another man’s beard was cause for a duel.