Liver Let Live

There was a story in the paper (hmmm, what will newspapers be called when there are no paper newspapers to be had?) the other day about a son who had donated his liver to his father. Then the son's liver grew back, and they both are healthy and happy.

I was thinking about this story as I drove to my new job at Current Publishing, which puts out six weekly papers -- and they still ARE papers -- in southern Maine. One thought led to another, meandering around stem-cell organ growth and hip replacements and cosmetic surgery and cloning, until they crystallized into the realization that eventually, if the human race doesn't wipe itself out, brain transplants are actually going to happen.

Why not? It will be as simple as, say, putting a new engine in your car. Just place brain in sawed-off skull, match up the dangling vesicles to their proper counterparts (optic nerve, brain stem, spinal cord), tighten up a few clamps and away we go!

Where will the bodies come from, you ask? Well, of course, cloning will advance to the point where it can be selective, so you can clone bodies that have no brains. Picking a new body will be like walking into Target and buying a dress off the rack. The only size you have to worry about is brain-pan size. You could even clone your own body when you're young and lithe, put it on ice, and get back into it when you feel your losing your looks.

Taken to an extreme, this could mean a lot of people choose a clone of the same person to "re-brain" in, so the people you meet on the street could look exactly like you. Bizarre! You could be in an orchestra where everyone looks exactly the same, but you all have different brains and different personalities.

It would certainly solve the dilemma of people who feel they're a different sex beneath their bodily trappings. Just put your brain into a clone of the opposite sex! No hormone treatments, no operations (except the brain transplant), no new "women" still looking like the men they once were!

I'm not trying to be funny here. I can see this is really going to happen, given enough time. You should trust me on this, too. I blogged before computers were invented. I drove beaters all my life, before used cars became fashionable. I'm a visionary. I am the great and powerful Debbi Hardy. Don't forget it.

Tromboning

I made the mistake of saying to my husband today that maybe I should just quit trying to regain my trombone-playing prowess.

"Give it up!" he exploded. "Take up something else that doesn't require an embouchure! Because you don't have one!"

I have to admit, I was a little taken aback by his vehemence. Mulling his reaction, I played something resembling a song. When I was done, I said, "That sounded OK, didn't it?"

He said, "Yes, but it gives me a headache."

His comments were closely followed this evening by a conversation with my sister Midge (or Margaret, as she likes to be called since she "grew up") in which she said, "You don't have the right kind of lips for trombone."

I was kind of taking these people seriously until I realized that a) my husband can't get a decent sound out of a PIANO, for heaven's sake! and b) Midge is a flute player. What the hell do THEY know about playing trombone?

If there is one thing I have an abundance of, it is determination. When I was breast-feeding my daughter and got that sore-nipple condition (I forget the name of it, but it was REALLY PAINFUL every time she latched on), I didn't give up! When my VW bus blew its engine out in New Mexico and I had to quit school and go to work to put food on the table (oatmeal for Thanksgiving!), I didn't give up!

And amazingly enough, it appears that I'm not going to give up on trombone. I kind of wish I could, but I have a feeling I'm still going to be trying even when I'm sitting in a wheelchair at the nursing home. I'll play "Joy to the World" at the nursing home Christmas talent show. And all the other residents, even the deaf ones, will be plugging their ears and shouting, "Give it up! Give it up!"

I've thought a lot about when things started going downhill. It was when I was in music school at USM, after I came back from my exchange experience in New Mexico (where, incidentally, I developed a post-nasal drip). As the school year progressed, I got worse and worse. At one point, my teacher told me to take a week off from practicing. He apparently thought I was doing too much.

Taking a week off didn't help. But talk about determiniation: I think it was sheer will that got me through my senior recital.

Over the years, I've tried to get back in shape. At one point, I was doing pretty well. Then one night, I had to play the solo in "Marie" several times. My lips just weren't ready for that high C. The next day, they were like sails flapping in the wind. I had no control whatsoever.

The big question is: Can that control be regained? If it's possible, then I'm not wasting my time. If it isn't possible, how do I find out?

I can say this: If I succeed, the world is going to know about it! I'll be the Obama of frustrated trombonists, shouting, "Yes we can!"