Brown Fried Cure

I pretty much lucked into seeing the merry band of specialists at the University of Colorado Cancer Center’s melanoma clinic because my primary care doc, who spotted and biopsied a tiny little suspicious mole, immediately sent me there when the pathology report said I’d checked into The Hotel Melanoma. So I’ve often wondered whether I ever would’ve found my way there on my own, instead of putting my fate in the hands of some oncologist who sees a handful of new melanoma patients each year and couldn’t have offered me the treatment option of biochemotherapy, which it seems few Stage IIIc patients receive.

Nearly ten years later I’m still here, perhaps not entirely “cured”, but at low enough risk for a recurrence to be kicked halfway to the curb to annual rather than semi-annual checkups. (Thank heavens, since the university hospital campus has grown so large that I now have to stalk departing patients to score a parking place.) So I owe these folks a big debt of gratitude that I’ll probably never be able to repay. It’s not that I’m unwilling to pose naked for a melanoma awareness t-shirt and donate the sales proceeds to UCCC, I’m just dead certain nobody would buy one.

As far as I know, none of these docs read my blog and they probably don’t even know it exists. But what the heck, I’ll dedicate a song to them anyway. To the tune of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl”…



Hey, where did C grow?
Rays then the pains came!
Down in my hollows
Playing a new game,
Scanning and a-humming, hey, hey,
Dripping and a-pumping
In the misty chemo fog when
My, my heart stopped thumping
Thank you, I found trial cure,
You, my brown fried cure.

Whatever happened
To U days no mo’
Glowing brown, sun tan lines with the
fast blister baby oil.
Tanning in the sunlight’s past thing
Hide behind a parasol
Nipping and some trial flings
All along the clinic halls
Thank you, I found trial cure,
You, my brown fried cure.

You do dismember them ‘skin cancer’ things
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
Just like that
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
La dee dah.

So hard to hide from rays
Now that hide’s all cancer prone.
I saw you just the other day,
My, how U has grown!
Cast my memory back there, Lord,
Sometime I'm overcome thinking about
Taking drugs in a mean blast
Behind’s the Ray C ‘fun’
Thank you, I found trial cure,
You, my brown fried cure.

You do dismember them ‘skin cancer’ things
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
Slaying with a mean blast
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah
Dee dah dee dah dee dah dee dah dee dah dee
Sha la la la la la la la la la la la la
Dee dah la dee dah la dee dah la

Hazmat Suit Golf

Okay, so I haven’t yet gone quite this far for sun protection on the links. But I have learned to embrace wearing long pants and a long sleeve shirt when playing eighteen holes in the middle of the day, because it can take quite a while at the Geezer Golf League’s rather geriatric pace of play. One of the side benefits I’ve discovered is that if you spend as much time as I do looking for your (or your slicing partner’s) ball in dense scrub oak or tall native grasses, you tend to finish the round with a lot fewer cuts and abrasions from the course flora. And the truth is that my golfer tan lines of days gone by were never that cool of a look. So be careful out there, because you really don’t want to be a primary source of college tuition for your dermatologist’s and oncologist’s kids, do you?

With my sincerest apologies to Bon Jovi, I’ll sign off with the Hotel Melanoma rendition of “Wanted Dead or Alive”…



It's all the same, only the games will change
Every day it seems we're playing in rays
A ‘southern’ pace when the faces are so old
I'd drive ball right just to get back home

I'm a pale boy, on the ‘screened horse I ride
I'm haunted, red or alive
Haunted, red or alive

Some lies are deep, sometimes I’m stuck for days
And the Precepts I beat always go their leftward ways
Sometimes you tell the day
By the golf club that you plink
And times when pars are lone all you do is drink

I'm a pale boy, on the ‘screened horse I ride
I'm haunted, red or alive
Haunted, red or alive

I walk these greens, a load of Srixons in my bag
I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back
I been everywhere, and I'm stranding balls
Doc’s seen a million places and I've ‘blocked them all

I'm a pale boy, on the ‘screened horse I ride
I'm haunted, red or alive
I'm a pale boy, I got the white on my hide
I'm haunted, red or alive
And my hide’s red or alive
I drill drive, red or alive
Red or alive
Red or alive
Red or alive
Red or alive

Colorado Melanoma Foundation!

The national melanoma nonprofits do a lot of very, very fine work. But they're also pretty good at holding fundraising events in Colorado and leaving no money behind that directly benefits the melanoma research, education, advocacy and prevention efforts that are going on in Colorado, a state where the rate of incidence of melanoma far exceeds the national average. So we're going to take matters into our own hands and go local, by starting the Colorado Melanoma Foundation. Please support our inaugural event...

To the tune of “Wild Horses” from the Rolling Stones…



Wild good giving is easy to do,
The cures you wanted we’ll get them for you.
Graceless Ray C, you know who I am,
You know I can't let you slide through my hands.

Wild horses could just drag C away,
Wild, wild horses, could just drag C away.

I watched you suffer a dull aching pain,
Now we've decided to show C the same.
But no sweeping efforts or late stage trials,
Could make me feel better, we’ll beat this in time.

Wild horses could just drag C away
Wild, wild horses, could just drag C away

I know I've ‘screened U, a skin tan’s a lie,
I have my freedom, but I don't have much time.
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried,
Let's do some living after C dies.

Wild horses could just drag C away,
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them that day.

Wild horses could just drag C away,
Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them that day.

A Boomer in Wonderland

It’s always seemed to me that life at The Hotel Melanoma has a certain “Alice in Wonderland” character to it. But perhaps that’s only because licensed medical professionals prescribed way too many psychotropic drugs for me, to combat the various and sundry effects of melanoma treatment?

To the tune of one of my favorite songs from the 60’s, Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit”…



One pill makes you barfer
And one pill makes it stall
And some ones that doctor gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go mask malice
When C's ten feet tall
And if you go chasing tan beds
Then you know you're going to fall
Tell 'em a hookah smoking quack and killer
Had given you the call to
Call malice
When you were just small

When the men on the death board
Get up and tell you where you glow
Gads, you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving slow
Go mask malice
I think we’ll know
When logic and emotions
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Coat is talking backwards
And the meds scream "off in yer head!" Remember what the mole doc said:
"’Screen YOUR HEAD...
‘Screen your head!!"

For the record, I was NOT at Woodstock in 1969, because I was only sixteen and my parents wouldn’t let me go.

Banned From The Sun

I recently found out that I’m a two-time loser in the ‘just skin cancer’ lottery. First and foremost it was a Stage IIIc melanoma diagnosis in 2003. Ten years later, it’s a squamous cell cancer and yet another warning that I’m covered with moles (several of which were the subject of new mug shots taken in the mole mapping room) that could develop into new primary melanoma tumors. But I refuse to hide indoors the rest of my life-- I live in Colorado, for gosh sakes, and I love to hike, ski and play golf. (Yard work, not so much.) So I’m going to keep on getting out there, soaked in sunscreen and donned in SPF apparel, and sporting the skin tone of a guy who just got paroled from the Feds’ Supermax prison down in Florence, Colorado, after bunking with Unabomber Ted Kaczynski for the last decade. Although I don’t think I’m quite ready to carry a parasol on the trail, slope, or fairway…

To the tune of Paul McCartney’s “Band On The Run”…

Stuck inside these four walls
Sent inside forever
Never seeing no sun, hide again, yikes U
Sunspot U, sunspot U

If I ever get out of here
Thought of hiding it all from rays
Through a derm-preferred UV screen
All I need is a pint a day
If I ever get out of here
If I ever get out of here

Well the vain exploded with a mighty rash
As they dwelled in U from sun
And the skin doc said to this freckled one fair
I hope your tanning's done

Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
I’m a paler man sans ray-born tan
They’re searching every one

For I’m banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
For I’m banned from the sun
Banned from the sun

Well the undertaker drew a heavy sigh
Seeing more sun-dwelled had come
And a bell was ringing in the village square
For the tan beds on the run

Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
I’m a paler man sans ray-born tan
Docs searching every one

For I’m banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Yea I’m banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun

Well sun fright was falling as the mela world
Began to heckle browned
In our gowns they’re searching on us everywhere
‘Cause C never will be downed

Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Tan was deadly smudge, U held a grudge
Skin searched for evermore

For I’m banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun
Banned from the sun

Golf Like An Egyptian

A retired physician who plays in my Geezer Golf League asked me the other day, after we’d just finished a hot and sunny round, why I was wearing a long-sleeved golf shirt and long pants. My answer: "I had a bout with metastatic melanoma, and I don't want to do that again." His response: "Metastatic melanoma? I'd be playing golf in a f@3$#%g burka."

I think the good doc just might be on to a new fashion trend for golfing melanistas. An SPF 50 white burka, assuming I could figure out how to swing a club while wearing one, could save me from some future carving AND lower my sunscreen bills. Plus Nike’s “swoosh” symbol would look really sharp on one and I’m sure the company would be proud to sponsor a premier player like me on our local Extremely Senior Champions Tour. Tiger Who?

To the tune of “Walk Like An Egyptian” from The Bangles…



All the old players near to tomb
They do the sand dance doncha know
If they move too quick (oh whey oh)
They're falling down like a domino

And the hazard man by the Nile
He lost much money on a bet
All the crocodiles (oh whey oh)
They snap their teeth on your Srixon best

‘Scorin types with the hook and slice say
Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh
Golf like an Egyptian

The golf waitresses make our days
They spin around and they cross the floor
They've got the moves (oh whey oh)
You drop your drink then they bring you more

All the fool ‘kids’ so sick of hooks
They like the plunk of the metal brand
When the shotgun sings (oh whey oh)
They're golfing like an Egyptian

All the ‘kids’ in the par-less space say
Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh
Golf like an Egyptian

Line feet up neat bend your back
Fix left arm when you pull club back
Golf’s hard you know (oh whey oh)
So strike your blows on a hacker track

If you want to find all the shots
They're hanging out in the pro golf shop
Pray swing’s as planned (oh whey oh)
Pray hit the club, you’ve found the shot

Call me hacker geez with par yen
This par-free boy calls mulligan
And this wise geez knows (oh whey oh)
He golfs so fine like Egyptian

All the docs in the pro golf shop say
Ay oh whey oh, ay oh whey oh
Golf like an Egyptian
Golf like an Egyptian