Dedication

The discomfort had been there for months, occasionally flaring into a searing pain that burned from my abdomen into my lower back. It had frequently struck just before or during gigs, and though I suspected that something in my diet was at the root, the obvious answer had somehow eluded my grasp.

The pain had begun, as it often did, on Saturday night. I had planned on attending a friend's birthday celebration later that evening at Roxy’s Greenroom, but decided not to risk the half hour drive into Buffalo while I was in such a condition. It had subsided a bit when I awoke the next morning, only to return again shortly after noon, but at 5 pm I felt well enough to start getting ready for the 8 pm show at Nietzsche’s. A hour later, the pain returned, gradually gaining in magnitude. For the first time in the many years that I’d been putting together shows at Buffalo’s legendary music club, I was forced to cancel the gig.

A few hours later, I was flat on my back, with an assortment of tubes protruding from various orifices, already greatly relieved that my worst fears were not reflected in the initial diagnosis. As the week progressed, I was poked, prodded, inspected, detected, injected, and occasionally neglected by an overworked hospital staff, but I, the most patient of patients, raised no complaint. By week’s end, I felt as if I had been cleansed in body, mind and soul, and I awoke at home the following Sunday with a head full of ideas and a body bursting with renewed energy. Among the revelations was the thought that I was the bearer of a story that needed to be told, not for the entertainment or enlightenment of the world’s masses, but rather as an extension of my private commitment to doing what I can to make the world a better place for people like myself, whose lives and lifestyles cannot be conveniently molded to fit one of society’s arbitrary categories or labels.

To those who must struggle, against seemingly overwhelming odds, for the right to be themselves, I dedicate this work…