*Cough*Cough*Cough*

Gate, this last week I've been suffering from a case of bronchitis. It's been going around here lately. I'm at the point where I'm coughing less than I was three days ago, but coughing still seems a normal experience of the day. All of this reminds me of when I had pneumonia, over ten years ago.

At the time I was taking photographic courses at a local community college in Dallas. I spent a majority of my time, at least six hours a day and some times more, in a tiny, damp darkroom developing my film and making prints. My usual lunch was a 20 ounce coffee and a package of peanutbutter cookies. This was certainly no Battle Creek health spa, but a typical under-funded, built on the fly, community college Fine Arts photography darkroom.

The king of be-bop tumpet, Dizzy Gillespie, was making a concert tour of community colleges and one of his dates was at our little venue. I had just discovered Diz's a-mazing bop band of the late 40's and I was Groovin' High to learn that this jazz legend would be performing at our CC. Maybe I could even take a few photos of him! So I went over to the director of the performing arts venue and, after some investigative work on their part, I learned that while I couldn't take any photos of him in concert, I could go backstage and take some photos of him there.

The day of the concert arrives and I wake up sick. And not just 'sick,' but "Oh, my God. I'm ... sick." The sickness unto death, but not in the spiritual sense of the phrase, but in the only slightly exaggerated physical sense. I had an extremely high temperature, could barely breathe and was deathly pale. Moving hurt. I took some cold medication and slept until just prior to Dizzy's show. When I did get up, I considered not going. I felt beyond miserable and not entirely coherant. But as a lot of strings had been pulled to allow me to photograph Dizzy after the show, I felt I should go no matter how I felt.

"You look awful." said the venue director to me when she saw me. I was to hear this phrase for the rest of the night from people I knew and complete strangers. I could barely talk, but I managed to assure her that despite how I looked, I'd make it. I was ushered inside the theatre and given an aisle seat. The conceret was quite good, what I remember of it. I drifted in and out of sleep. At the intermission, I leaned against a pillar and looked ill. I was burning up and pale. I felt like I'd begin coughing any moment, but that if I did I'd just choke. People would look at me and move away.

The concert ended and I was rounded up with some kids from the CC's newspaper and taken into a room backstage, just off from the lounge where Dizzy and his crew were relaxing. I began the tedious process of setting up my 4x5 press camera and flash, getting the slides all set and stuffed into my pocket. I looked a bit like Weegee and that had been my intention. There were a couple of beret-wearing Bop cats around, too. So while I'm setting up and wishing I'd stayed home after all, the newsies are asking one another just what they should ask Mr. Gillespie. I mean, they hadn't even bothered to do any research on him or get a CD of his music! So I croaked out "Ask him what he thinks the future of jazz is." That simple sentence really cost me and I dissolved into a fit of coughing, nearly doubling up. At this point I realized I would just take two or three quick photos and leave. I was really sick. Anyway, the newsies thought that was a killer question.

We were ushered into the lounge and the public that was lined up outside was allowed in to get autographs from Diz. I found something wasn't quite right with my press camera, so I had to make a few adjustments and, as I was doing so, some guy says to me "Hey, man, is that a press camera?" I croaked out "Yeah, it is." and this cat launches into a long monologue about press cameras and how he's a great friend of Dizzy's and goes around concerts with and so on. Ordinarily that would have been fascinating, but I just wanted to get my photos and leave and this guy kept peppering his monolgue with questions which I could barely answer. My throat was locked up and felt like coughing violently.

I got my photos ... only one really turned out like anything ... packed up and fled. I practically passed out when I got home. I woke up late the next day and then slept for nearly another day. I'll spare you details about coughing and more ... I was out for over two weeks and it was nearly three months before I felt anything like normal. I never want to experience anything like that again.

So that's my story of Dizzy Gillespie and pnuemonia.