How to Catch 10 Colds in One Year: Work in a Nashville Studio

Stoker has a cold. Again. Last night I asked him if his manager/boss noticed that Stoker was sick and Stoker said he didn't think so, and anyway, his boss is sick too. And then I belted Stoker. Knocked him flat on his back.

Just kidding. But I did swat him on the kidney, because it's my way and because I was so mad at the absolute moronic behavior of these ridiculous workaholics I'm surrounded by. Since coming to Nashville, Stoker has been sick with a cold about five times. We've been here a year and a half. Before that we were in Mesa for about 9 months and Stoker didn't get sick once, and before that we dated for about 9 months and I don't recall him being sick then. He was like a horse. Horses never get sick, right?

Then we come to Nashville and all hell breaks lose. Have you been to Nashville? Next to Sin City, Nashville is the second most happening town for the devil. The devil hangs out here. It's his crib, or whatever the kids call it these days (that's only funny if you know the real Nicole, I'm only 29, so young!). Nashville, or Nashvegas, as it is called in some circles, is Sin City 2. Hello! What's-your-name Frank-something-or-other, hint hint, second graphic novel Sin City 2, set in a rainy, autumny Nashville. Former Bell South tower, great lines! Great contrast, Gateway bridge!

Anyway, once here, hell broke loose. It was 60-70 hours a week at the job. 8 am to 2 am. How many hours is that? 9…10…11…15…18! It wasn't that drastic EVERY day, by any means. But there were several days where Stoker was at work from 8 until 1, 2, 3 in the morning, and on the days it wasn't that late he was still there 12 hours or more. And he wasn't getting paid. It was an internship. Magical words. Ship and intern. Meant to be together. More powerful in the modern world than relationship.

Currently a typical workweek for Stoker is 60-70 hours a week. The days have no structure. He doesn't really get a lunch. He's always at that studio, which is no bigger than a closet. (Only the BIG studios are bigger than a closet. Most studios in Nashville are not the big studios. The small studios are where it's at. Sad fact: most big studios are going out of business.)

And his boss is a great guy, an amazing businessman and I like him very much. But I question the wisdom in going to work sick, ESPECIALLY when your workspace is the size of a kitchen pantry and it's guaranteed that there will be more than five people shoved into that space. On a busy day, there are several engineers, anywhere from 5-12 musicians, the client -- who might bring an entourage --, the staff members who comprise 3-5 bodies, and the interns, who make up 2-3 of the bodies breathing the infected air.

Because Stoker is ALWAYS run down, he is GUARANTEED to catch whatever is brought into the studio by the warm, viral human vector. The vector I'm blaming this round is his boss. I've never been able to blame him before. One time the staff guys kept the same cold going round and round. I think Bob brought it in (Bob's gone now so I can tell you his name). Then the other dude got it. Then Stoker got it. Then Bob got it again, and so on.
It doesn't help matters that Stoker can't really call in sick. It's not a job where you've got back-ups. You can't call in sick. There are no safety nets. They don't even have insurance. It's like a flipping SWEAT SHOP.

I love Stoker's job. I admire his tenacity. I'm amazed that he's persevered and forged a path for himself. It really kills me to see him succeed. But there are times when I'm convinced the engineers have gotten a raw deal. The session players have a union and there are rules the studios have to follow about scheduling. If the players choose to work outside the rules, that's their right. The songwriters have a union, too, which protects their rights. The faces of the music, the stars, don't need a union because they're sort of the pets of the label. Their biggest problem is looking good. And let's face it, it would be embarrassing to have a union for celebrities.*

But the success of all of these groups rest on the skill of the engineer. And the engineer earns a pittance and gets walked on by the producers and the songwriters. The session players have their union, so they know that the producer won't be making them work past 10 pm, or whenever. But after the players are gone, the engineer keeps plugging away until the songwriter or the producer lets them go.

I'm not sure why no one has started a union for the engineers of Nashville. Probably because the machine would stop working if the producers and the songwriters couldn't squeeze every penny out of that day rate they're paying. It's pathetic, really. The most outrageous thing is the gall of some of the songwriters who buy a Protools rig so that they don't have to book studio time, and then they call an engineer to ask for help! It's like deciding to do your own dentistry and then calling the dentist because you don't know how to fix a cavity. What the hell?!

Most engineers have the grace to help out, but they're really biting their tongue. What they're most likely thinking is, "Hey, man, you're taking the food out of my mouth, yet you want me to chew it for you? Here's a little sugar to make it go down sweet." Add a few expletives. It's all political, right?

Anyway, I guess the point is, Stoker has his dream job and that's why he deals with the crap. I'm the one on the sideline watching him succeed, but I also have to watch him take the hits and it sucks. I want to help out. I just can't, Grasshopper. He has to do it himself and if he wants something to change, like going to work with a cold, he has to instigate that change. I just hope that I don’t catch his cold.


*In no way do I claim this as fact. This is information I've gleaned from being here in Nashville. For all I know the celebrities could have a union. And for all I know engineers don't feel like they're getting a raw deal. I don't represent anyone but myself, not even Stoker, who loves what he does.

Ear Problems

Last September, on our flight back to Tennessee from Utah, my head nearly exploded. That sounds like hyperbole, and it is, a little. So if you said, "That sounds like hyperbole to me," then good job. I congratulate you on even knowing that word.

Back to the story. My head nearly exploded on the airplane. My ears wouldn't pop and when they finally did, I thought I heard a tearing sound -- the sound of my ear drums ripping away from my ear canal -- and I nearly crumpled into a heap in the aisle from the pain. Ever since then, my eustachian tubes have been worthless. That's hyperbole too, because they've been worth more than nothing. They've done their job a little. All the time my ears are popping and cracking and if I don't consciously make them clear, I feel the pressure building in my head and I get a headache. Sometimes I can't sleep at night because every time I swallow, breathe, or even move an inch, they snap, crackle, and pop. It's like living with a bowl of Rice Crispies in my ears.

A month ago, I went to the doctor, finally. She listened to about two words and immediately "knew" the problem. She prescribed Allegra and Flonase. She prescribed the Flonase because I told her I prefer not to have the pms-like symptoms I get from antihistamines. She said I should try both of them and if I don't like the Allegra, I don't have to take it. It bugged me that she didn't really listen to me. But whatever. She said there were no signs that my ear drums had ever been ripped apart, so I guess that was good.

Unless I heard the pharmacy tech wrong, the generic form of Allegra was $35. So I said screw that and got Alavert instead, which is still mighty expensive. But at least it's OTC. I did both the Flonase and Alavert and the ear pressure problem didn't improve much. I still sometimes feel like ripping my own head apart to figure out what the hell is going on. I say "ripping my own head apart" despite the graphic nature of the phrase, to express how dire my situation is (once again, hyperbole).

If something doesn't change soon, I might start cutting myself or something weird like that. No really, little known fact, Van Gogh cut his ear off because he had the same problem with his eustachian tubes. In a fit of rage he did it, and then he didn't know what to do with the unattached ear so he sent it to his mean cousin.

That's totally made up for all you people who don't get sarcasm, the lowest form of humor (that's not sarcastic), so please don't start using that bit of false information about Van Gogh in your school reports.

To top it all off, now I have an ear infection. I went back to the doctor yesterday and got some antibiotics and explained that the last doctor's prognosis was either wrong or . . . nothing, her prognosis WAS wrong. I don't have allergies like I did before the Flonase (I stopped taking Alavert when I noticed it hadn't helped the popping and pressure headaches), but the eustachian tubes are still acting up.

Now I'm looking forward to spending $45 to see an ENT. Oh yeah. Honestly? If it finally fixes the problem, I will tell the doctor I love him/her and promise them my firstborn, who we all know shall be a genius.

Future Headline: Frozen Dinner Kills Woman

I’m suffering here. Normally I’d come home from work and run or ride my new bike. Today I’m trying not to vomit. I loathe the word vomit, but my other options are throw up, retch, or puke. None of them are pretty words. Ugly words for ugly deeds, I guess. Not that throwing up is really a deed. It’s an involuntary action, except in the case of bulimia. And in that case it’s a dirty deed. Done D-I-R-T cheap. But at a cost to your health, so really, why do it? Is it worth it in the long run?

When your stomach feels like mine, induced gagging sounds like a good idea. SOUNDS. But is it? No*. I tried that once, when I was feeling sick, and it hurts. So, I’ll just wait this one out. Though I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.

My neighbors—whoever they are—are cooking something terribly smelly. Stinky. Vomity. I can’t even begin to describe it. To quote myself: ungodly. That’s what I told Stoker in a text message and I like the way it sounds. “I feel like throwing up. Especially every time I breathe and smell the neighbors f*#!*!g food smells. I can’t even describe it. It’s something totally ungodly. Like pig fat salad.” I don’t know what pig fat salad is, but it sounds horrid and makes the bile rise. It sounds like something that would make me vomit if presented with a plateful. I think I stumbled onto the pig imagery because the offending odor has a hint of a meat-smell to it. Boiled meat. Or something. Boiled AND THEN fried. This is my imagination running wild because honestly I can’t see how vegetables could smell this bad. Unless it’s cabbage. Now there’s a thought. Maybe they’re boiling cabbage. Making sauerkraut perhaps.

Think of an apartment complex with indoor entrances to each apartment. The kind with one entrance to the building, and then a hall or stairway, and then doors. You know the kind? Incidentally, that’s not the kind of apartment I live in, but bear with me. Now think of the typical smell in the hallway of a complex like that. It’s usually a bunch of awful cooking smells, mingling and hovering there for days. A stench, if you will. That's the kind of smell seeping into my apartment through the heating ducts. Now you know. Would you want to vomit too if you were already feeling sick?

My stomach-ache is a result of two things. First, against my good judgment, I heated and ate the frozen dinner I’d left in the fridge at work. It had been in there since last week sometime and I mean, it still looked alright. Ha ha. Famous last words. The kind of words you see in a public health brochure: “Just because food looks alright, doesn’t mean it’s safe to eat it. Millions of tiny microbes and bacteria live on that food. Beyond the vision of the naked eye, these microscopic creatures can do a world of damage to the delicate human body.**” If only that had been posted on the fridge at work to remind me of the dangers of rotten food. Instead we have this ancient, typed (on a typewriter, no less) sign saying something forgettable, like “Don’t leave your food in here for very long. We’ll throw it away.”

So the dinner hadn’t been frozen for several days, but it was still cold, and I’m lazy and didn’t want to find something else to eat. I ate it and it’s poisoned me. If I don’t make it out of this alive, promise me you’ll come to my funeral.

The second reason I feel sick is the cooking smell coming from my neighbor’s apartment. I hope it’s a cooking smell and not really the decaying smell of a decomposing body. What if my neighbor died and no one has noticed?

*I don’t know where this rhetorical style is coming from. Question, then answer. I think I’m delirious from the stomach ache. Oh great, now my stomach is trying to trick me into eating. It’s sending me mixed signals. Now it’s hungry. Now it’s upset and wants to throw up. I think it’s trying to trick me into eating so there’s more to upchuck. Oh, new word. Anyway, maybe some cake and ice cream. Something sweet.

**I made this up. No citation necessary.