It sure was a Trick, But It wasn't a treat.

Coley Blackstone wandered outside to look at the stars. His dog Chubby close by his side, he and the little four-legged black and gray rag mop trudged through the 12 inches of snow in the front yard. Chubby was chomping on his saliva slicked plastic banana. There was dead silence for a few moments as Coley looked up, gazing at the constellations.

With no artificial light to dull the brilliant sparkle of the stars, the view was breathtaking. As Coley ran down the list of constellations he recognized in his head, the silence was broken as Chubby bit down on his plastic banana causing it to emit a high pitched squeak. Coley looked down at him briefly and returned his gaze to the sky.

"Look at that, buddy ... You can see the Milky Way!" The dog looked up at him, just for a moment, and then went back to running his wet, black nose through the dense and wet accumulation of snow. In the distance a generator fired up, robbing the scene of its almost mystical solace.



It was Halloween night. There was a foot of snow on the ground. Trick or treaters were no where in sight. The bowl of candy near Coley's front door would remain filled this year. It was far too dangerous to venture out and it was announced by the Sheriff's Department that Halloween had been cancelled.

The ground was liberally littered with tree branches of every shape and size. Tree tops still lush with their green leaves lay on the ground bent in the middle still attached to their shattered trunks. Young birch trees still standing had their tops touching the ground and they were bent in a very radical U shape.

The tree limb which had come to rest on Coley's roof was splayed in two different directions appearing as if a mighty giant, a drunken Paul Bunyan perhaps, had split it down the middle with a dull axe.

The generator starting in the distance had distracted Coley's attention from the stars to the fallen debris littering his neighborhood, downing power lines, destroying property, the fallout from a freakish Nor'easter which had paralyzed Muskrat Flats. The devastation was insurmountable, it seemed like it would be days before power would be restored.


Coley once again addressed Chubby, as he looked up to his master's voice with his snout covered in snow.

"It looks like God is reminding us that he is Still in charge, Chubby. Yep, he's still in charge." Chubby went down into a crouch, began to bark and romp around in circles, ready to play. Now that the silence had been broken by the drone of one generator, Coley trudged back to the house to power up his own. Coley was glad to be alive despite the harrowing ordeal he had endured getting home in the storm the night before ...


Yes, it was an odd week in Muskrat Flats. It was a long, cold, dark week which put Spiritual Principles such as Love, Friendship and Truth to the test.

The neighborhood near the old railroad yard known as the Iron Triangle, just a few short miles from the Odd Fellows' Lodge at the corners of Petersen and McKernan in downtown Muskrat Flats, seemed to escape the devastation as it never lost power. Very quickly long lines formed as residents from the neighboring communities which had lost power, such as Dana, Enfield, Prescott and Greenwich flocked to gas stations, banks and supermarkets in the Triangle. This grittier section of town gets its name from the three sets of railroad tracks which essentially surround the neighborhood, leaving you in the situation - no matter where you stood within the Triangle, you were on the wrong side of the tracks.

It was business as usual within the Triangle, probably a little better as the working girls who were doing what they had to do to keep the ball rolling had a somewhat captive audience as the streets of neighborhood were paralyzed, congested with prospective clients.

At the Odd Fellows Lodge, Moe Eckstein and Sid Bartelby sat at their table in the candlelight, warmed by a fire roaring nearby in the stone hearth. They were kvetching about the slow response time of the utility companies. Although the rustic room was warm and illuminated, there was something missing, that being the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee co-mingled with the sweet fragrant enticement of Iva's blueberry muffins. This situation would be quickly rectified as the young bucks in the kitchen were setting up a mobile kitchen outdoors underneath a 20'x20' tent. By four o'clock, the Odd Fellows were offering freshly brewed coffee, some bread, a steaming bowl of chicken soup and sweets to anyone who wandered in looking for refuge.

Moe marveled at what was going on in the community. He said to Sid.

"Did you see the intersection at the other end of McKernan and Tamalpais?"
Sid replied,

"Are you kidding me? I avoid that intersection like the plague. It is always a mess."

"No kidding, right?" Moe agreed. "I went through it today because I was rerouted by a fallen tree. With no traffic lights at all, that intersection was smooth sailing. I got through in a minute, everybody was cooperating with each other, actually being courteous. Go figure."

Gomer sat with His father and Sid, fiddling as he always did with his iPhone. He barely had one bar which quickly disappeared and gave way to the words "No Service." He groaned to himself and looked up. The flickering of the candle projected a pretty good shadow as the light passed by the stuffed jack-a-lope. Gomer chuckled to himself at the cartoon like quality of the scene, the shadow appropriately looking very much like something you hoped you might NOT see on Halloween.

He was trying to get in touch with Miranda, who had left him three messages. She was worried having seen news reports of the devastation in the area. Things were going good with them. Gomer was at peace with her, and he was very much in love. He had told Miranda what had happened between him and Sveltie after they had left the club and headed toward the Hotel at the Farm Museum last month.

Miranda was a little disappointed when the subject had come up. Gomer bared his soul to her. He told her how he and Sveltie had flirted, He told her about the decision to go off together. He told her about how he and Sveltie held onto to each other, crying, agreeing that they had no right to fix a feeling with a feeling. They had no right to seek each other for comfort. What they had was in the past and it didn't work then for a reason, why would it or could it work now?

Gomer had freed himself somehow by doing the mature thing and not succumbing to taking the easy way out. And he didn't hesitate. He called Miranda right away, moments after he and Sveltie parted ways. All was good. Right now his concern was getting cell service so he could let Miranda know he was okay. He opened his phone and had three bars!! he immediately fired off a lengthy text message. Moments after he sent the message, another iPhone chimed in a three story Victorian house somewhere in the Mission district in the City by the Bay. Miranda smiled and exhaled a sigh of relief.

Across town Sveltie and Jeff assessed the damage at the Farm Museum. They had lost many trees. Between the tornado, the microburst, the hurricane and now this, the skyline of the Farm museum had been radically changed in the Summer and Fall of 2011.

All of the grapes had already been harvested and were safely being stored for wine production. As ravaged as the tree line surrounding the museum had been, only some of the vines had been damaged, and it was minimal.

The early winter storm did impact the business at the Museum as they anticipated a large turn out for the last weekend of the Corn Maze. Although ultimately the winter storm was responsible for people staying away from the Farm Museum for the weekend, earlier in the week, a decision had been made to close the corn maze because of a slight safety issue which had arisen.

It seems that at the end of the day last Sunday, Jeff had sneaked into the corn maze to "relieve himself" as he liked to call it. This means he hid in the corn maze where he promptly downed a half pint of vodka. After he emptied the bottle, He lit a joint. He exhaled after having taken a few puffs, and he heard something rustling in the corn. He quickly extinguished the joint. He walked forward thinking some kids decided to use the corn maze for a similar purpose as he had intended. The rustling got closer. Jeff froze as a mama bear and two of her cubs emerged from the corn. She stopped and looked at the motionless man mere yards in front of her. With a slight grunt she turned around and ran with her two cubs closely following.

The next morning, it was out to the maze to investigate to see if the bears were still around, and they were.

On the outskirts of the maze, the Museum workers had set up a compost area which had included the recent addition of a number of sugar pumpkins and bruised apples. Nearby, Jeff spotted the two cubs cavorting as the mama was feasting on a honey comb which she removed from one of the nearby bee hives, a perk available to the mama bear as a local bee keeper had set up numerous hives there. She just toppled it over and sat there gnawing on the wax and licking up its encased nectar oblivious to the bees swarming around. They had practically set up a smorgasbord for the bears.

There was a group of people who joined Jeff that morning. Everyone wanted to see the bruin family. Sveltie was there as was her assistant, Gina and her fiancee Kurt from the Smithy Shop. Also along for the ride were Sid, Moe, Gomer and Coley Blackstone, who held Chubby firmly in his arms as to not put him in harm's way by allowing him to roam freely in such close proximity to the bears.

After the decision was made, the employees of the Farm Museum went back to work and the Board of directors went back to the Odd Fellows Hall.

Shortly after Moe, Sid, Gomer and Coley settled in the Snow began to fall. It began to fall in large odd shaped flakes, quickly covering the still green autumn lawns and roads with a layer of white. What was previously thought to be a small dusting of snow was quickly acknowledged to be a freakish early season storm by the local weather forecasters. They began to urge viewers to prepare for a wallop as they began to describe what was happening as Nor'easter.

After his time at the Odd Fellows hall, Coley went to the music store where he had recently secured a job as a teacher. Although he hadn't any students as of yet, he felt compelled to hang around the store for a few hours, talking music with the other teachers, however the conversation kept returning to the weather. As nightfall rapidly approached, he finally decided that it was time to head back home to his neighborhood in Triple Creek. He exited the shop and urged,

"Comon, Chubby!" Chubby grabbed his plastic banana, squeaking away as he excitedly followed Coley to the car.

The ride back to Triple Creek was treacherous. The roads out of Muskrat Flats leading to the creek were already a twisting semi navigable trail through densely wooded residential area. The snow was coming down with driving force and the wind began to whip up. He drove at a slow and cautious pace, his tires occasionally feeling like they were losing their traction. Chubby was on the front seat his front paws on the dash board. As Coley scolded him telling him to get in the back seat, he heard the first of what would be many loud cracks as tree branches and trunks began to give way to the combination of the weight of the snow and the ferocity of the wind. It was now dark as he passed houses which had their elaborate Halloween displays now obscured and heavily laden with snow as the bright oranges, greens and yellows shone through the snow fall.

There was another another loud snapping sound followed by a sharp crack. He swerved the slow moving car as another branch gave way taking some power lines down with it. The neighborhood went dark.

Coley's mind began to get away from him. He had that feeling he used to get when he would play alone in the basement of his Grandmother's house, convinced someone was watching him. He slowly dodged a few more felled branches as he crept closer to his neighborhood. Chubby had maneuvered his way back into the front seat. Coley turned a bend, the final hill he had to go down before he could take a right hand turn and pull into his neighborhood.

All the while he kept hearing the loud cracks coming out of the woods as if some unseen monsters were causing devastation as the Wood sprites retreated in fear. He thought he saw demons in the shadows cast by his headlights. Car tail lights at the end of a log driveway looked like red menacing eyeballs staring him down. Chubby, illuminated by the dashboard even looked like his canine teeth had sprouted into fangs while he snarled at the mayhem occurring outside the vehicle. Coley was doing a great job of freaking himself out.

Earlier in the week, someone had slung a large skeleton over one of the branches overhanging Triple Creek Road. The skeleton was about five feet tall, secured to the tree by a noose around its neck. Coley had seen this skeleton numerous times, thinking it was a neat decoration. He wondered how and when someone had taken the time to get it up there. It hung from a branch about 20 feet in the air.

Tonight however he was more focused on the road and getting home safely. He had forgotten about the skeleton. His paranoid thoughts, thoughts of Ghouls, Goblins and Orcs waiting in the shadows prepared to viciously garott him and feast on his quivering flesh as he gasped struggling for that one last breath, whisked him away to a place he did not want to be. He began to talk himself down. None of that shit is real. This is just a crazy storm. No one is coming to get you. He reached over and mussed up Chubby's hair as Chubby looked at him with normal sized canine teeth in his mouth.

Coley heard another loud crack. Coley saw the branch before them begin to fall and quickly applied the brakes safely sliding to a stop.

Fortunately for him and Chubby the branch ahead of them was still attached to the tree. What Coley failed to anticipate was the the falling branch would launch the forgotten skeleton hanging from the branch into the air. He shrieked as the skeleton landed right across the windshield. Coley was screaming! Chubby was barking and the skeleton was peering into the car smiling with the noose still around his neck. The road wasn't blocked, so Coley floored the gas pedal. The tires whined slipping on the slicked road. As quickly as it had fallen across the windshield, the skeleton was whisked up and over the car as they made their getaway.

Moments later, he was in his driveway, furiously panting. He turned off the car and he and Chubby raced into the house and locked the door.


Yes, another fine holiday has come and gone. The cast of characters in Muskrat Flats is shaken but not stirred. But for Coley Blackstone after the snow began to melt and the clean up had been done, the thoughts of a warmer destination with less threatening weather crossed his mind, just to get away for a week or so. If that were my criteria, I don't think I would pick San Francisco as he did. He called Gomer and asked him if he wanted to accompany him as he prepared to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

You want me to do what on my handkerchief?

I has been a very interesting week in Muskrat Flats. There have been overflow problems at the Farm and Agricultural Museum. It seems that more people and vehicles want to visit the place than can be accommodated.

Then again, who can blame them? The place is gorgeous. The vineyards are lush and in the process of being harvested. The surrounding hills emanate vibrant oranges, reds and umbers creating the most amazing visual panorama. The Bartelby's are fast at work with the help of the Odd Fellows as they labor underneath a 10x10 pagoda style tent emblazoned with three links of a chain each with a letter outlining their basic guidelines -

Friendship, Love and Truth.

Under this tent, shielded from the early October sun, they are selling copious amounts of warm blueberry muffins with either hot coffee, mulled cider or a crisp cold carton of milk.


As I surveyed this scene, I noticed an elderly gentleman sitting in his chair in the shade of the grand oak tree outside Sheriff Hawthorne's office. He was a veteran. He was in full dress uniform, Army infantry. He probably had served in World War II. Out of place on the uniform, but very appropriate was a red "Buddy Poppy." He was a handsome man with combed back white hair. From a distance, especially with the poppy on his uniform which signified the blood spilled in the First World War, the man bore a startling resemblance to my long deceased Grandfather.

As I took in the lush landscape it reminded me of what the homeland - Poland, might have looked like this time of year. Perhaps even what the steppes of the Carpathian Mountains might have looked like in the days of his youth.

Dziadziu (Jah Ju) we called him, was the patriarch of our clan. He was a proud veteran of WWI, He was a sharp shooter who was wounded in battle. An injury for which he was awarded the purple heart. He was a free and liberal thinker who always did whatever it took to provide for his family. Rumor has it there was a still located somewhere on his property during prohibition.

At one point, His house had burned down and he built a one room shack to provide his family with shelter using whatever materials he could find. He grew his own vegetables and hunted for meat. During the great depression, he was without a paycheck for three years. Although there were hardships, through his and my grandmother's hard work and diligence, the family was always sheltered and fed.

One time, during the Depression, a group of people were in his fields, harvesting some vegetables. My Grandmother demanded,

"Peter, do something!" He simply replied,

"I can't, they are hungry."

Things did finally settle down for my grandfather and his clan. He eventually went back to work securing a job in a drop forge. A job from which he eventually retired. One of his sons was a veteran or WWII and one of his grandsons served in Vietnam.

The funny part about the three generations of warriors was their totally different experiences. Dzaidziu used to tell me tales of what went on in France. How he had been injured as an artillery shell detonated in close proximity as it pierced the mess kit he was holding in his hands. Miraculously he survived the blast. He would point out areas on his body where there was still German shrapnel embedded in his skin.

My Uncle, never spoke of his experiences as a pilot in the Pacific Theater during WWII. All I knew of his tour of duty was that he was a pilot at the Battle of Midway. His son, my cousin, went to Vietnam where he seemed to have a grand old time hanging out on the beach and maintained Army helicopters.

As a youngster, I was just about 5 years old at the time, I used to love to sit there and listen to my Grandfather recall his experiences from what he described as the Last Gentleman's War.

My Grandfather, Peter Bukowski was born in Southeastern Poland near the Carpathian Mountains in a village named Frysztak. He was the son of a Horse Farmer. As he was approaching his later teen years, Kaiser Wilhelm had annexed Poland as part of the Austrian empire. The foundation for what would become WW I was being laid. Young men my grandfather's age were being conscripted into the Kaiser's Army at a rapid rate.

In 1914, my Great Grandmother did not want her son to join the Kaiser's Army, so she put my Grandfather on a boat to Ellis Island to join his brother Frank who was living in Three Rivers, MA. Falling ill on his first trip across the Atlantic, my grandfather was denied entry into the US and sent back to Europe, where his mother promptly put him on another boat and sent him back to the US.

His story is that his mother kicked him out of the house when he was a teenager. From my point of view it looked like she was protecting her son.

Once settled in the US, Peter joined the US Army Where he was shipped over to France during WWI. There he was taught to speak English by a Frenchman. So you can imagine the accent my grandfather had. It was a thick Polish accent sprinkled with obvious French pronunciations and flourish. Part of listening to his stories was the love I had for my Grandfather's accent which was oft mimicked in my youth and beyond.


I understood what he meant by calling WW I the last Gentleman's War when he spoke of a Christmas Day where soldiers from opposite sides remembered the spirit of the season, together, only to once again be battling each other in the trenches, the very next day.

What didn't register with me as far as the conflict being a Gentleman's War was his recollection of the harrowing stories of the use of poison gas on the allied troops by the German Army.

In 1899 and again in 1907 international meetings were held in Den Hague in the Netherlands where representatives from various countries met. Out of these meeting came The Hague Conventions. Some of the points addressed at the conventions were the rules of war and more particularly prohibiting the use of chemical weapons in war fare. Sadly the documents of the agreement were obscurely worded which left doors open for interpretation, and were, in the long run, ultimately disregarded.

The first instance of chemical warfare in WWI was perpetrated by the French Army in August of 1914, where they had employed turpinite grenades in an attack on the German Army which left many soldiers dead due to asphyxiation.

The Germans had procured documentation that the French Army had developed these grenades and decided to disregard The Hague Conventions as well. Their first attempt was launching a shell containing tear gas which did not dissipate because the chemicals did work properly due to freezing conditions.

The Germans tried again, this was done successfully in April of 1915 at the Battle of Ypres where the Germans launched shells containing chlorine gas at the trenches occupied by French and Algerian Troops. This worked so well that even the Germans were startled at the result and failed to effectively advance their front lines.

Eyewitness accounts recall that these troops were initially deemed cowards by soldiers further back in the trenches as they witnessed their hasty retreat from the wafting greenish yellow cloud.

These accusations were promptly laid by the wayside as the cloud began to burn the eyes and lungs of the allied troops causing severe respiratory distress and in many cases asphyxiation. Those who fared the worst were the already wounded at the bottom of the trenches and on the ground as the heaviest concentration of the chlorine gas traveled closest to the ground.

My grandfather spoke of burns and blisters he had witness from the use of mustard gas as well.

In the winter of 1970, I was 5 years old, not yet in school. My brother was 8 and in third grade. My brother, also named Peter, a nod to my grandfather and my Father's middle name, was always a tinkerer. He would create things and take things apart to see how they worked. He was always doing different experiments with me looking on. I used to frustrate the hell out of him as I analyzed the situation and simply declared,

"It won't work, Peter." His frustration was usually compounded by the fact the more often than not, I was right and they didn't work.

One of the hot spots we used to frequent was located at the Eastfield Mall. There, out in the open, not behind locked cases, long before the concept of homeland security was on the front burner, was my brother's Shangri La, his utopian supply depot for the ingredients required for most of his experiments, the Kaybee Toy and Hobby Store. You heard me, the Toy Store.

There at Kaybee, of course you could buy toys. What they also had was racks of balsa wood which could be used in the construction of model planes, ships and rockets. They also had model plane motors, fuel, model rocket "engines" and ... chemicals. A whole rack of multicolored glass jars filled with chemicals. In addition to the chemicals you could buy glass jars, laboratory apparatus, glass tubing of all sizes, rubbers hoses and stoppers.

Once my brother recalled he bought all of the ingredients for making gun powder, which fortunately didn't work. The clerk asked him what he was going to make, he simply replied "... gonna just experiment."

One of these "experiments" was burning strips of magnesium which produced a shockingly white and bright flame.

"I used to make ethanol, too. I'd burn strips of wood over an alcohol burner." This was done in a stoppered test tube with a tube going into another test tube which would catch the condensed alcohol.

"It was cool and it smelled good," He said.

My brother was a sickly child, often experiencing loss of breath and strength. It was determined that he had problem with his heart which could be corrected with surgery. It was during this time frame, as my brother lay in bed before and after his surgery that the plans were laid for possibly his most dangerous, and assuredly most successful experiments.

"It was January. I was in the hospital for a number of weeks. Someone had given my some chemistry books to read while I was in there." My brother recalled.

"They were advanced books probably high school or college. Certainly not a 3rd grade level," He chuckled as he recalled.

"I remember the night before my surgery the anesthesiologist came in to talk to me about the procedure the next day. He saw the books and was pretty impressed that an 8 year old was reading them." Peter went on,

"He told me he was going to give my some nitrous oxide before my surgery and asked me if I knew the chemical formula for it. I told him NO2. Not quite right (the formula is N2O) but he was impressed regardless. One of the books was pretty much a recipe book for different experiments and reactions. One of them was for chlorine gas."

When Peter got home from the hospital and he was convalescing and regaining his strength he put his plans into action.

"I couldn't get out of the house to buy chemicals so I used what was handy. In this case chlorine bleach and Drano. The experiment not only worked, but worked well."

I asked if it occurred to him what he was doing could be harmful?

"It didn't ... if I thought what I was doing was harmful or a health hazard, I wouldn't have proceeded. I wasn't secretive about it, because I didn't think I was doing anything wrong."

Peter put together the apparatus. He had three bottles. In the first bottle was chlorine bleach. In the second bottle was Drano. The third bottle was empty. These tthree bottles were connected by rubber stoppers equipped with connecting tubes of both glass and rubber hose.

Peter put the chemicals in the bottles and attached the stoppers. Immediately the the reaction began.

"You could see yellow gas pouring out of the tubes, it was really cool. It was working for a few minutes." As we sat there watching the experiment,

Dziadziu, who was upstairs with my Mom, came into the basement to see what his young grandsons were up to. He took one look at the apparatus and his his face went white. He didn't need a road map to know what was happening in those bottles his grandchildren were peering into.

He picked up the bottles and rushed deep into the woods behind our suburban house. He came out of the woods shortly afterwards, wheezing and gasping with a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Who knows, perhaps he used one of the tricks he learned in WWI to combat and diminish the affects of the gas. You see, Chlorine gas is water soluble. If you breathe through a water soaked rag, it would protect you from the gas. It was even more effective if the water contained urea which would further and more efficiently neutralize the chlorine gas. In the trenches the best source for urea was found in their own urine.

My grandfather really didn't say anything to us directly. But my Mother heard it,

"Jesoos Chrrrist!" He yelled, "That is vhat the Germans used begainst our troops in Vorld Var I!"

That was quite a startling memory to both me and my brother as we reminisced recently.

My brother simply said, "That was end of my fun."

It is amazing what we used to not only do, but get away with as children. I don't ever recall using a seat belt when I was young. We used to have full run of our neighborhood, spending hours unattended in the adjoining woods going for lengthy hikes or running with the pack of kids our age, just generally being unsupervised. It is not that our parents didn't care what was happening with us. It was just a different time. It was a different world.

There were no milk cartons to put pictures of missing children on, milk came in glass bottles. Delivered by a man whose name you knew. Someone you trusted who would give you a ride from your house to your Grandfather's house as you stood up in the milk truck, just like he did when he drove from stop to stop.

It was a time in our lives when principles which are held in high esteem by the Odd Fellows, Friendship, Love and Truth were held near and dear and were codes by which people, at least the ones I knew, lived their lives.

I can't imagine letting my child partake in some of the activities in which I used to engage when I was a preteen. I'm sure my brother, who is a very doting and protective father of three teenagers, feels the same way.

First of all a lot of the situations that I am discussing are now illegal due to laws which have been passed to protect our children and society. But other activities such as making poisonous gas, just defy common sense.

As my teenaged daughter gets older, and she is asserting her independence, I realize that there will be a time where I have to let her fall. A time where I have to allow her to have her own life experience of defeat or failure, where she will undoubtedly pick herself up and dust herself off. But that doesn't mean she can't benefit from my experience and I can prevent her from stepping on some landmines or worse a bottle of poisonous gas.

DON"T TRY THIS AT HOME KIDS!

I'll just simply encourage you to Go in Peace as I am once again,

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Maybe Somebody should tell him ... or "I'm so vain I probably think this blog is about me."

Gomer Eckstein sat in the back of the darkened room. He was in a bad space and up in his head. He had just had another fight with Miranda. It wasn't a total blowout, but she decided perhaps it would be a good idea to get away for a few days, so she decided to go back to San Francisco.

Although he was agitated that he had caused her to leave, in fact by the time she had left that afternoon, after his gig, they had patched things up a bit and it was a pleasant farewell. Deep down, Gomer was just as happy to have a few days to himself.

By the time he had gotten to the club, the sting began to settle in a bit and he was beating himself up again. He did have a good time chatting with his friends Sean and Sherrill from the band Rail Rider. They always seemed to have a positive outlook on things.

Gomer sat and awaited his turn as the featured performer at the open mic left the stage. Gomer liked this room. It was a quiet little sober club where not many people knew him as the front man for the Hook Nosed Satans.

He was dressed incognito, not wearing his black "get up" as his father like to call the outfit Gomer's stage persona donned for every performance. He looked a far cry away from the guy who just last year caused a furor by pulling a vegetarian out of the audience, actually his girlfriend Miranda) and whipping her bare back with a cat o nine tails fashioned with raw strips of bacon ... 39 times, just for shits and giggles.

Every fearful of being alone, Gomer asked Sveltie to join him for the evening. Her husband Jeff didn't join them because he was "somewhere else" as she said. Gomer gathered from that comment that the last place Jeff wanted to be was at a sober club.

Gomer looked over to the corner of the room. There was a guy he had seen once or twice before hanging around the fringes of the scene, who was rummaging around with a guitar in one hand and a sloppily wound instrument cable in the other. He had tucked under his arm a black plastic binder overflowing with spindled, crushed and folded pages protruding from the insides.

Gomer poked Sveltie and said, "What's up with this guy?"

He was holding an old Stratocaster which looked like it had seen years of action. The guy was an old rocker. Late fifty-ish, wearing black jeans, a black leather vest which deftly contained his paunch. A head band was stretched around his thinning black hair. He had a dangling nose ring and a couple of visible tattoos, a rose and what appeared to be a Bonedaddy tattoo and some tribal feather like patterns.

Sveltie leaned in and whispered , "He looks like an unhealthy Keith Richards, if there is such a thing." Gomer laughed.

"I was thinking more along the lines of if Ron Wood and Johnny Ramone had somehow spawned." Sveltie laughed and smacked Gomer in the arm.

Gomer went up and did his three songs. He played a new tune he had written which he butchered, forgetting of all things on of the chords. He started over and made his way through the tune, later giving an offhand apology for screwing up the tune. He was beating himself up for his lack of preparedness.

As he got back to his seat, Sean grabbed him and said, "you know the cardinal rule number one. Never apologize for sharing your music!" Gomer replied,

"I know I know ..." ugh!

Gomer's angst soon dissipated as the guy he and Sveltie had been checking out made his way to the stage.

Very slowly.

It took him a long time to set up. He almost seemed bewildered or even high as he got his shit together. The guy was obviously a casualty of years of drug and alcohol abuse. Gomer was aghast as this guy just farted around for minutes fiddling with the guitar cable, then the microphone which was about a foot and a half away from his mouth. Then the music stand. He then left to the stage to retrieve yet another equally unkempt and dilapidated binder leaving a trail of dropped pages in his wake as he made his way back to the stage.

As he strapped on his guitar, he started talking, which no one could hear because his mic was so far away.

The sound man had a blank expression on his face which clearly read, "You gotta be fucking kidding me!" The guy from the Glenwood Mills Band was on the edge of his seat, his hand over his mouth hiding a smile, trying to conceal his amusement. What on earth was about to happen?

It could have gone either way Gomer thought, either this is going to be awful or he is going to be the best guitar player he had ever heard.

Then he hit his first chord. It was ... awful. It sounded like a 12 year old who was playing his first chord ever on a guitar after turning the reverb and drive WAY up on his amp. He began singing which again, no one could hear because of the placement of the mic and slowly worked his way through the chords of the unrecognizable tune he was playing.

Gomer thought to himself. "This can't be ... NOBODY is that bad." People began to get up from their seats and head outside for either a smoke, a breath or fresh air, or even better, a breath of second hand smoke.

There was an exodus as one by one, people left the room. The crowd outside was abuzz with their comments and criticisms of what was happening inside. Gomer stood on the rail of the ramp and watched the guy through the window picking up reflected flashes as the stage lights hit the guy's nose ring.

Again Gomer said this can't be. After the guy got off the stage, people meandered back into the club. Gomer was in the hallway discussing the topic at hand when the guy walked by. A friend of Gomer's engaged the guy in a brief conversation encouraging him. Gomer quietly observed. First he noticed that the dangling nose ring was a clip on. Then he noticed that the tattoos were a little too shiny. They were temporary.

Hmm ...

Gomer and Sveltie began to chat when he was out of ear shot.

"What do you make of that guy? He was so bad. Maybe somebody should tell him." She proposed. Gomer scoffed.

"Go ahead, you tell him. All I know is that I forgot how I thought I had butchered my new tune." When he said that some guy piped up and stuck out his hand,

"Dude, you were awesome, You got really good lyrics, man!" Gomer thanked him. Sveltie Smiled, winked, leaned in and whispered to Gomer, "Mr. Rock star ... But what about that guy?"

Gomer thought for a moment. Sveltie looked at him expectantly.


"Seveltie, he was sooo bad that it can't possibly be. The nose ring is a clip on, the tattoos are fake, the whole package is so over the top that I suspect there is a bigger picture we are missing."

"And what do you think that is?" Sveltie asked.

"Either he is completely nuts, which is possible and he thinks what he did is acceptable or we just witnessed some type of Dadaist performance art piece that was perpetrated with one purpose in mind ... to clear the room of the patient, respectful and attentive listening audience which shows up here on a regular basis."

"Comon Gomer ..."

"No I'm serious! Nobody can play the guitar that badly, even a beginner who just sat down with their new "how to play CD" from Esteban could put together a three chorder." Sveltie laughed.

"You can only play that badly, if you actually know how to play."

"I don't know Gomer, you have some pretty weird ideas sometimes. You know how you are always proclaiming, "what a weirdo!" she mimicked him.

"Takes one to know one ..." She leaned in for a hug.

Then a 18 or 19 year old kid walked up to them.

"Uh ...." He piped up. "Aren't you Gomer Shabbos from the Satans?" Sveltie just looked at Gomer and Smiled. "Can you sign this?" The kid handed Gomer a Sharpie and as he held out his White Ibanez bass guitar.

"I didn't know you were in recovery, Gomer. I saw you sit in with PRY last summer at Shoreline. You guys rocked!"

"Thanks kid, what's your name?"

"Kyle, I been sober for about 6 months." Gomer smiled. He signed the bass, dug into his pocket and gave the kid his card with his cell number.

"Keep up the good work man, if you ever get that feeling like you're gonna pick up, give me a call first, we'll rap." The kid was wide eyed.

"I'll do that Gomer!!!" He walked away beaming. Gomer watched him walk away and got that warm feeling inside. He looked at Sveltie.

"What's up with Jeff?" Gomer asked.

"He's not been available for the last month or so. Probably passed out by now." Gomer hung his head, feeling the swirling excitement, which he knew would be quickly followed by rising guilt.

"That's too bad ..."

"When is Miranda coming back?" Sveltie asked.

"Next week, she coming to the Red Rocks gig with me." Sveltie squeezed his hand and with that mischievous twinkle Gomer knew so well said,

"Let's go to Sherrif Hawthorne's hidey hole at the hotel and see what we can find."

Gomer looked down at the ground then into her eyes and said,


"I'd like to do that ..."

Gomer and Sveltie walked away together, hand in hand, feeling only the excitement of the moment, just mere hours away from feeling the pain of regret. Perhaps this time it will be different?


Probably not.

The two lovers disappeared into the night, leaving behind a great evening of entertainment and amusement, once again seeking to find what just didn't or couldn't exist between them as they once again were off to the races as they were both ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats

Hard Labor

It has been a very busy year in Muskrat Flats. I am chagrined to look at the date of my last post, since writing, theoretically, is one of my passions. I seem to be visiting Muskrat Flats with the frequency that I'd go to church earlier in life - only on the BIG holidays.

In some ways I have been flourishing in my life, moving forward with the passion and tenacity of a gifted teenager who can't decide upon which of the numerous summer internships I have been offered. Each one of these, most assuredly would be a stepping stone to bigger and better things and a guarantee to future success.

In many ways, in fact, too many to count, I have all of the tools in front of me, all of the necessary equipment and raw materials I need to produce the same results as I had described in the previous paragraph. But, for whatever reason I am stuck on stupid. One thing is for sure. I can't linger where I am much longer. The results - well, I can't say they will be disastrous, because there will be NO results.

My Grandfather used to say, "Work Hard it is good for you."

My faults lie in the fact that I am not afraid of physical labor, I just seem to be incapable of preparing myself mentally and organizing myself in such a way that there will be no labor pains.
The fact that I am writing about it indicates to me that I have come to the end of the road and must seek a way to overcome the unfounded fears and trepidations which are preventing me from moving forward and succeeding. But I must digress and flash back many years and a few months. Leaving the chilly crisp fall mornings behind in favor of the warmer dew dipped mornings of late spring.

Labor Day has always been an odd holiday for me. I recall my early years around 1971-72, when my brain was really starting to wake up and process my surroundings in a more advanced cognitive capacity.

Labor Day much like Memorial Day was a sad event.

I recall many a Memorial Day as being somber, especially after my Grandmother and Grandfather had passed on. I recall my observing all of the flags at half mast. I knew what that signified after having read a scouting manual. World War II was still a not so distant memory to the adults in my family, and the US was still entrenched in the Vietnam War.

One of my Memorial day memories recalls a trip I took to a cemetery along Berkshire Ave. with my childhood playmate, Jackie and her family. Her Father, a National Guardsman put on his dress uniform with all of his medals and accoutrements, complete with a saber, and took us to visit his parent's grave site, where he lovingly placed a wreath of flowers. I think that was the first time I'd ever seen a grown man shed tears. Mr. Laurino was larger than life to me. He was a good neighbor and family man. I felt really bad for him. That experience definitely put a damper on MY day. (even then it was all about me)

My Birthday.

I was born into a semi-silent world on May 29, 1964.

Having your birthday fall on a holiday like Memorial Day is an odd pairing for a person as sensitive as myself. I'm sure my my brother and sister can identify with where I am coming from with this thought. My brother's birthday is earlier in the week on the 24th and my sister ... I stole her her thunder as I was born on her 10th birthday. Poor kid. I'm not sure I would like me for a birthday present.

Being born on a holiday like Memorial Day does put a damper on things like planning a birthday party. It is not quite the same experience as if you were born the third week in September. Everyone was either going to a picnic with their families or heading up North to go camping in the mountains or to the coasts of Northern New Hampshire or Southern, Maine.

I recall many Memorial Day picnics at my Uncle Rudy's house. His property was a secluded semi-forested sprawling landholding which used to be owned by my grandfather. Even though the house itself was situated on route 20, the property had a very spacious and welcoming feel. there were tall Ponderosa pines and other types of conifers, birch trees, maples and oaks, There was a little pond and wetland area which filtered into a little stream. If you went up the hill behind the house near where the high tension wire power lines had been placed - The reason my Grandfather had to vacate that portion of the property, you would find wild blackberry, raspberry and blueberry bushes.

It was great place for a picnic. Everyone chipped in with various picnic foods. A guy whose name I only recall as Rosie, perhaps he was a Harrington, from my aunt's side of the family. Rosie would man the grill. He was cooking over white hot lumps of charcoal in a brick fireplace my uncle had built back there. Rosie only had one arm. Perhaps he lost it in the war or some awful industrial accident. But he sure as shit could flip a burger with that good arm.

Like the miscreants we were when we would get together sometimes, my brother and I would endlessly amuse each other by tucking one arm behind ours backs and pretending to flip burgers with one arm. One thing that sticks in my mind about Rosie and something I still use today when I'm cooking, was a relish he used to make. All it is, is a mound of caramelized onions with ketchup in it. Take a couple of quarts of that, pour it over some beef short ribs and cook them slowly covered in an oven for about three or four hours and you will not believe the results from starting with such simple, nondescript ingredients.

Underneath another pine tree, not too far away from the grill, you would find my grandfather, his patriarchal equal from the other side of the family, Mr. Harrington, and various male uncles and cousins sitting in folding chairs. My Grandfather would cup his ear and lean forward straining to hear the transistor radio which had been tied to a tree branch as his beloved Boston Red Sox made their way through nine innings. Those were the days of Carl Yazstremski, Cecil Cooper, George Scott and Rico Petrocelli, Pitchers like Bill Lee, Jim Lonborg and Sparky Lyle kept us on the edge of our seats hoping that this season would be the big one. The last time my grandfather saw the his team win the World Series was in 1918. He would never again see his team win the World Series as his 90 plus year life came to an end.

Those picnics were unpredictable. You never knew what was going to happen. I remember one time someone broke out a shotgun and My MOTHER firing the gun at the urgings of her not so particularly sober brothers, into a dirt cliff across from the pond. Yes there was not a shortage of alcohol at these events. "Handle" bottles of Vodka and Seagram's 7 with mixers such as O.J., bloody Mary mix and Ginger Ale adorned a sloppy and wet card table. My extended family took their drinking seriously.

One thing I especially remember was at this very young age, if I could have gotten away with it, I probably would have been sneaking a drink or two because it sure seemed like fun. Little did I know this type of lifestyle with the inclusion of drugs, prescription, street and otherwise would be my cross to bear later in life. It is a cross which is still presumably carried by two of my estranged cousins and one surviving Uncle.

OK, back to the Fall, 38 years later. Whew, what a time warp!

This year, Labor Day and the subsequent weekends were spent rocking out with the Glenwood Mills Bands at various recovery based events such as Sober In The Sun and Recovery Jam 2011.


The band is flourishing, that is due to the help of a very dear friend, whose wisdom and vision and tenacity have been a catalyst for great things. If I haven't said "Thank You!" enough, I am saying it again right now.

Sometimes I ruminate about those days gone by, days like the picnics, the sad reality of the passing of loved ones, the sting of regret after fights with friends and lovers and associates which could have been avoided had I taken an extra moment to think.
These thoughts cause me to be overcome with grief and pain. The pain, sometimes, seems unbearable, to the point where rational thought is somehow obscured and a detachment between the physical and mental and the spiritual sides of my life occur.

It is at these times that I think using is not such a bad idea. Prayer and meditation do help as well as keeping connected with a network of good people who can hold me up when I begin to falter and get bogged down in the stagnant quagmire of my obsessive thoughts. I got some good advice last week. Simple and to the point ...

"Stop Thinking."

Today life is good. I woke up at 5:30 AM. I got up, made the coffee and a couple of plates of pancakes which my daughter and I shared before I drove her to school for 7:15.

It is a perfectly normal fall day as I sit and wait for the colorful and vibrant foliage to brighten the horizon, surrounding mountains and hilltops.

The Sun has had a long hard summer. It had to do some catching up after a brutal winter. It was further hampered during the summer as Muskrat Flats was visited by a debilitating Tornado, a micro burst and a near miss by a category 3 hurricane, which had been downgraded to a tropical storm as it approached these parts, but wreaked havoc in other parts. We caught the eye of the storm, so to speak, so we were spared a good amounts of flooding that our neighbors to the the east and west had to endure. But things look different around here. You can see more sky as the tree tops had been snapped off by the recurring high winds. But today, we go on.

Labor Day just doesn't seem the same without Jerry Lewis, but I don't own a TV, so even that wasn't too much of a burden to bear as I pack up my gear, tune the guitars and look forward to the next gig. The best reason I have encountered, to date, to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

An Attitude of Gratitude.

Attitude of Gratitude - That's what the bumper sticker said. It must have been twenty or more years ago when I first saw that sticker affixed to someone's vehicle. More than likely I was otherwise occupied. I was probably fretting about the commute from Amherst to Springfield and covering that distance without running into the Po Po, the Five-O, the Pigs, the Man or whatever libelous slur one can affix to describe my nemesis at the time. I was carrying precious cargo and needed to get back home unfettered so I could weigh and repackage the product, and quickly distribute it so I could sit down and enjoy my cut of the contraband in the peace and serenity of my living room, without having to look over my shoulder, with no one pointing their finger at me or judging me. Well ... there was one person who was doing that, my loving wife who finally decided enough was enough and cut me loose years later. She was no Saint in the relationship, that is for sure. But then again neither was I.

It is surprising that I noticed the bumper sticker at all, never mind what it said, considering the vast and extensive check list which was undoubtedly running through my head, at the time. The paranoid, and drug fueled fears, coupled with the very REAL fear of getting caught. Being the addict that I eventually found out that I was, my desire to use superseded any rational and lawful behavior that I was expected to exhibit, especially when it came to dealing with the ways and means and lengths I engaged in to do so. It would be years before the progression would set in and bring me to my knees.

This progression is a simple mathematical formula to which you must insert your own variables, because no two equations are the same. This formula is, however, very simple. - If you are an Addict/Alcoholic and you continue to use, things will eventually get worse.

If you are lucky you will not die. If you are lucky, you may end up in jail. If you are lucky you may end up institutionalized in a rehab, a detox, a long term residential program or a half way house. If you are very lucky you will end up in the rooms of 12-Step fellowship when someone just like you with a little more experience than you when it comes to staying clean and sober will take you under their wing and teach you a new way to live. Just like someone had taught them, and you will teach someone else one day. But you have to want it and you have to ask for help. There is actually a little bit of work involved.

If you are the luckiest person on the planet, you can just stop drinking and drugging one day, live your life to the fullest and actually come out on the other end a reasonably healthy and well adjusted individual. That doesn't happen to very many people. I personally know of two. More power to them.

It is in these rooms of recovery that I began to understand what an attitude of gratitude is and what that bumper sticker I had read so many years ago truly means.

Today I am grateful. I have had a few bumpy months with a lot of ups and some downs, recently, but I remain grateful.

As 2010 rapidly comes to a close I have begun to reflect on the year and what my experiences have been. I was going through some personal stuff a few days ago, I have been burning the candle at both ends and my meeting attendance has been down. Although I'm still involved and keeping centered in my recovery. Old behaviors still emerge. Fortunately today I have some tools to combat such dreadful times when my diseased brain starts telling me doing such and such with so and so, might be a good idea. One of those tools is calling my sponsor who suggested I write a gratitude list. So I did just that.

I am grateful to be alive. It can't get much simpler than that. There were times where my using put me very close to death on a regular basis. Though overdoses, blackouts while driving, nodding out while driving, walking into strange buildings in the middle of the night because, someone told me Pito on the second floor has got some good shit. I am amazed I didn't meet an early demise.

I am grateful for my loving family who stood by me no matter what, one of the grateful attitudes I strive to demonstrate every day. I will not pick up no matter what.

I am grateful for an ex-wife who understands and supports my struggle and is a good mother to my daughter.

I am grateful for my daughter who is funny, gregarious, talented, emphatic, honest, loyal and a damn good song writer. I hope she sticks with music. She has a natural talent people practice for years to discover.

I am grateful for my experiences on the road with the Grateful Dead and Phish and all of the other live music I have had the honor to have witnessed. It was during these experiences that I learned to self medicate taking recreational drug use to the new level of "lifestyle choice." A lifestyle I had to experience to take me to the next level of my addiction.

I am grateful for the writers I have read extensively over the course of the years. Writers like Hemingway, William Burroughs, Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, Ken Kesey, Stephen King and Charles Bukowski. Writers who painted a romantic picture of drug use, drunks, junkies and hustlers. They painted a panoramic landscape where their shortfalls and hindrances were fodder for their craft. They described idyllic bohemian spaces where they could hide in the shadows where they could do their thing artistically fueled by the liquids, pills and powders and crystals which enabled them to repeatedly leave it all on the field before they had the opportunity to come back and do it again. Some had better results than others. Hemingway and Hunter Thomson took the easy way out ... if putting a gun in your mouth can be considered - easy.

The erroneous notions I concocted regarding the relationship between drugs and art and how drugs facilitate the artistic process were validated as I devoured the works of these guys. Delusional adoration of these writers allowed me to spiral downward as quickly I did when stronger and more addictive drugs became part of my daily regimen. Their well documented exploits gave me the license to do what I did and increased the rate at which my disease progressed causing me to find the desperation and willingness to change my life.

I am grateful for the gifts I have been given. My artistic abilities come natural to me. Through art and music and writing, I have been able to express myself in ways that I had never imagined.

Through the flame working, I have found a niche through the Continuum Memorial Glass series. This series involves me putting cremated remains into art glass marbles and pendants. I am making permanent heirloom quality pieces of art with which you can memorialize and celebrate the lives your loved ones. It wasn't until a few days ago when I had the opportunity to make one of these pieces with the ashes of someone I actually knew who died the previous week. I got incredibly emotional during the process. It hit me as to how very special it is having the opportunity ability and willingness to do what I am doing. How my work can affect the family members who are left behind. This truly is a gift. With perseverance, and a little marketing, art and music could easily turn into that one way ticket out of the production kitchen which I have been looking for. The funny thing is, I kind of fell into it when a friend of mine had the most odd request for his brother's ashes. Without advertising and through word of mouth, it is starting to happen. 2011 will be the year to see what will happen if I do advertise and market these gifts.


I am grateful for all of the people I have met along the way who have helped me in my recovery.

I am grateful in so many different ways that I could go on much longer. But it is Christmas Eve, I worked a very long day already making way too much food for way too many people. It is time that I wrap this up so I can go and enjoy some time with my family.

2010 was a very interesting year indeed. I found out a lot about myself. I found out a few things that I do want. I found out that I am really a lot more driven than I had previously thought. My entrepreneurial spirit, although dormant if not suppressed for a few years is bubbling back to the surface. I am aching to climb to the top of the highest mountain and shout to the world that I am ready and I am willing. I want to sing with all my heart and no fear. I want to tell the world I am the person you have been looking for all of your life. I will make a difference. I will follow through. I will be everything I ever wanted to be. There is nothing stopping me.


With all my love, hope in my heart and an attitude of gratitude, I find myself once again ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Merry Christmas.

Pablo

Sitting Here In Limbo, Waiting for the Dice To Roll Part II ...The Reality TV Version

It has been a very busy summer in Muskrat Flats. So busy, that I am chagrined to see that I have not posted any thing since Valentine's day.

It has been a while since I have been to Muskrat Flats, so long that the Town Meeting decided to re-route traffic to the downtown area to encourage more shopping and pedestrian traffic along Petersen Street. One would think that a benevolent organization such as the Odd Fellows would have more pull with the Town Meeting folk, and yes there was some resistance, but the 90 day trial run of having Petersen Street run one way in a westerly direction beginning at the intersection of McKernan Street is in effect.

This means that the club members are now forced to drive an extra couple of blocks to catch Petersen at Firglade, in order to turn left into their parking lot where in the past they simply had to turn right at the intersection. Minor details. Some members actually support the change.

Moe Eckstein and Sid Bartleby however - not so much. They had a nice session kvetching about the change. They do hold the principles of Friendship Love and Truth near and dear to their hearts, but let's face it, they are old and need something to bitch about and this time it was finding resistance to their proposition that a "curb cut" be allowed on McKernan Street to allow for direct access to the Odd Fellow's parking lot. For some reason, these days it is easier to get a liquor license in Muskrat Flats than it is to get the Town Meeting and the DPW to agree to a new curb cut.

Moe and Sid sat at their usual table under the gilded framed portrait of Sheriff Hawthorne. Moe was eyeballing the Jack-a-lope which had recently been returned to them by the taxidermist.

Moe really didn't like the taxidermy guy. He felt bad for this guy's neighbors. His front lawn was decorated as if it were a summer rental cottage at Cape Cod, rife with seashore kitsch. His lawn - wasn't even a lawn. It was littered with driftwood, mounted fish and wooden lobster pots, much more of an eyesore than appropriate lawn ornaments, in Moe's opinion.

The landscape was void of any greenery other than a few scrub bushes, perhaps they were ill looking arborvitaes which had od'd on the calcium from the sun bleached broken oyster shells lining his walkway and scattered through out the yard.

The inside of the house was equally creepy. The interior very much resembled the motif of the front yard. Displayed prominently in a glass hutch were scrimshaw etched walrus tusks and whale's teeth. The walls were adorned with muzzle loading pistols, more mounted fish and dusty paint by numbers quality portraits of canvas masted tall ships perched atop white capped waves in a turbulent blackened ocean set below a foreboding gray and stormy sky. The house was a very dark and morbid place. All except for the living room.

There, Moe walked into an equally alarming display of multicolored pastel miniature ceramic kittens. There were thousands of them in various poses displayed on lemon oil polished furniture lined with lace doilies from Brugge, in Belgium. The kittens were on the mantle piece, window frames, inside shadow boxes. They adorned any flat surface in the room.

The entire time Moe was dealing with Sam the Taxidermy Man, his wife, Mimi, the curator of the manic ceramic kitten circus, was fixated on the computer screen, seemingly in a bidding war for more feline figurines on eBay. Moe thought he heard a muffled curse escape from her lips as she was outbid in one auction she was following.

He couldn't get out of that place soon enough. Standing in the house, he felt his spirit begin to decay and atrophy. Moe was startled as Mimi actually spoke to him as he was leaving. Without peeling her eyes away from the screen, she spoke, handing Moe a sheet of paper the printer had just spit out.

"Jack-a-lopes are a dime a dozen on eBay, cheaper than he's charging you ..."

"Jesus, MIMI!!" Sam barked.

Moe became invisible as they began to banter back and forth. He deftly slunk out of the house hearing the ensuing ruckus fade away as he made his way to the car and escaped, thinking to himself,

"I can't even imagine what the fuck they have tied up in their basement. But I'm sure it's something and it ain't right."

As Moe and Sid sat under the painting of Sheriff Hawthorne, Gomer- Moe's son, was whooping it up a few tables away with the kitchen workers Paulie and Donnie. They were watching the video of the botched re-enactment of Sheriff Hawthorne's hanging. Gomer was playing the part of Sheriff Hawthorne at the Silver Days celebration a few years ago, when the Hanging went horribly wrong. It didn't go as wrong as it could have considering he was still sitting here in the warmth of the wood paneled banquet room at the Odd Fellows Hall.

Another nonsensical conversation started to brew between Paulie and Donnie. This conversation would end up taking all day if not weeks or months. Gomer wondered who was going to throw the monkey wrench into the giddy repartee which would launch this conversation to the level of being revisited time and time again?

"What do you call those guys ... the one's in Tibet that guide you up the mountain?" Donnie asked.

"Are you talking about Sherpas?" Paul responded.

"Yeah, that's it, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Those dudes are bad ass! Imagine doing that every day? It so dangerous."

"There are more dangerous things out there," Paulie shot back. Gomer began to grin, he could feel it coming.

"What do you think is a more dangerous sport than Mountain climbing in Tibet?" Donnie asked.

Paulie stroked his goatee for a moment and replied,

"How about swimming from Florida to Cuba?" Gomer laughed.

"Who the fuck would want to swim from Florida to Cuba? Don't you mean the other way around, Cuba to Florida?"

"Whatever ... it's still dangerous." Paulie asserted.

"How is it more dangerous than climbing say, Mount Everest?"

"Well, you could drown ..."

"You could fall off the Mountain ..." Donnie shot back.

"You could get a really bad sunburn ... "

"You could freeze to death!"

"You get get stung by a bunch of jelly fish or eaten by a shark..." Paulie replied.

Donnie had that look in his eye,

"You could get sodomized by a Yeti!"

What!? You fucking moron, who gets sodomized by a Yeti?! Nobody!"

"How do you know? You could. You don't see very many Yeti which probably means there aren't very many female yeti for procreation purposes.."

"First of all, animals mate, God fearing humans procreate. There aren't any fucking yetis that are going to sodomize you."

"Yeti ... It is pluralized Yeti." Donnie continued, "Well, like I just said there probably aren't very many female YETI so the male Yeti are probably really horny, looking for nice warm young white boy like you ..."

Gomer was beside himself. All of the sudden he heard Sid shout out for them to take it in the kitchen. They left Gomer at his table as they were bickering and slapping at each other on their way to the kitchen. On they way Donnie dropped his apron and bent over to pick it up. When he did, Paul reached between his legs, grabbed his balls, and in a cartoon voice said,

"YETI" Donnie shrieked and began laughing, he said,

"I can't believe you did that, you fucking homo ..." And they disappeared into the back.

Gomer just sat there, staring at his computer screen, shaking his head. His phone chimed, he looked at the screen.

"Miranda Klein Text"

He slid his thumb across the screen to open the message. It was a picture taken in a slightly fogged bathroom mirror of Miranda nude. Gomer smiled and read the text.

"in SF It is 56 degrees and Foggy. I steamed up the mirror just thinking about you, lover."

Gomer giggled. Nobody noticed ... but it was a text giggle, nonetheless. He was so lucky to be experiencing one of life's simplest pleasures ... That feeling - knowing that somewhere out there, someone cares enough about you to let you know they are thinking about you.

A new way of communicating, and flirting, and falling in love.

He had felt the same way in the past without the modern technology. Just passing notes in school, or opening a love letter in College. He started to answer the text thinking about how very lucky he is.

He remembered how he felt that day after Valentine's Day, when Miranda met him in Mountain View. Her electrifying kisses, the warmth of her touch. The pressure of her hand holding his. He longed for her touch right now. But it didn't matter. she was thinking about him.

He hit the send button on the glowing screen of his iPhone.

Somewhere in San Francisco, in the bathroom of a renovated three floor Victorian house somewhere between Mission and Guerrero, a cell phone chimed -

followed by a giggle.

;0)

This one didn't turn out the way I had thought or intended. Sometimes I think my writing, and by that I mean my style and how it flows out of my mind is more of a curse than a gift. It is a gift I will continue to accept, because sometimes you and by you I really mean me, just don't know how things are going to turn out - especially when you (see above) are absolutely sure they will turn out in your favor. Still not a good enough reason to be ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Go in Peace!

Sitting Here In Limbo, Waiting For The Dice To Roll

It has been a very quiet week in Muskrat Flats. The usual mayhem we have grown accustomed to experiencing as we interact with folks from the Flats seemed to be on hiatus for the week. Some of that probably has to do with the fact that Gomer had been out of town most of the week and had not been present to either instigate or fuel one of the loud and public dramas for which he and his father have become famous.

Perhaps it had something to do with Valentine's Day. Sveltie and her crew at the Muskrat Flats Farm and Agricultural Museum Greenhouse had their hands full. The first weeks of February are always hectic for her. This is a good thing. Sveltie, AKA Mrs. Jenny Smith, wife of the museum director, Jerry, are the two workhorses that keep the Muskrat Flats Farm and Agricultural Museum in the black with their selfless service to keeping the raw frontier energy which fueled the development and growth of Muskrat Flats, in the first place.

It often seems, sometimes, that they inherited the energy demonstrated by the town's founder and first Sheriff, Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III. They are still influenced by Hawthorne's energy, sometimes even directly, which they both discovered, as the notorious prankster proved to them just about this time last year when one of his diaries surfaced and ended up in their hands.

Even though Sveltie was in the planning stages for the upcoming semesters for her Vintner Program, it was crunch time as far as getting together all of the orders and smoothly delivering all of the holiday flower orders to the lucky Valentines out there in Muskrat Flats.

Her assistant Gina had even recruited her boyfriend, Kurt out of the Blacksmith shop to help out as she tapped his organizational skills putting him in charge of setting up the staging area for the distribution, where he made sure all of the invoices and manifests meshed with the orders.

Kurt even had a hand in the production of the bouquets. Sveltie wondered if it was a good idea to have the two of them working together. It was hard enough to keep the two separated when Gina was working in the office and he was in the Smithy shop. But they did a fantastic job keeping it professional all except for one instance where she caught Gina copping a feel in the walk in refrigerator amongst the hundreds of multicolored roses, ferns and baby's breath.

Sveltie just mockingly suggested they get a room. But what could she really say to them as she began to really take an honest look at her own libido and the trouble it had gotten her into in the last few years? Even when she was "supposed to be working."

You see, Gomer wasn't the only person with whom she had dallied with outside of the relationship with her husband Jerry. She had her fun at some conferences as well. She had been a faithful doting wife for years until she first found out about one of her husband's drunken sexscapades.

It all began right in front of her one night. they were in a crowd of people at a concert. It wasn't entirely clear that they were together as a couple because they arrived separately. He had already been pretty tipsy when she arrived and was paying some attention to another woman, in the group, whom she did not know.

As he got drunker and drunker, he paid more attention to her until he made a move which which was reciprocated. Sveltie was pissed. He assured her the next day that nothing further was going to happen between them and he would not see her again.

Less than a week later, she knew that he had broken his promise as he began to avoid eye contact, and began acting differently toward her and stayed out drinking. She caught up with him on the way out of the house on a Saturday morning. He confessed to not only that conquest but to a couple of others as well. She listened, she cried, she told him that she would have to think about what he had told her.

She knew it was wrong the wrong decision, but she agreed to stick with him, she agreed that they were better off as a couple. However, she decided that she was not going to deprive herself of the experiences she so desired, but was giving up for a "selfish drunk,"
and proposed the addle pated don't ask don't tell policy when it came to such matters.


Looking back at her decision at the time, she had some regrets. Things seemed to be getting better between her and her husband, for a while, but she occasionally had that itch, that inexplicable desire to act out and seek love and comfort elsewhere. She regretted getting back together with Gomer, because she had begun to fall in love with him. She also suspected that Gomer's rekindling their romance from years ago, was responsible for his breaking up with Miranda or should it be said, her breaking up with him?

Yes there were tough times. But as of late, the last 3 months or so, Jerry had been living sober, he struggled with it, but he was giving it his best effort. Sveltie was lost in thought, when she heard someone clearing his throat.


Standing behind her was her husband, holding the huge bouquet that Gina had been working on for the last 45 minutes, trying to get it just right. After all she knew how special this one had to be.

Jerry stood there in his white suit, an unlit cigar in his mouth, complete with a broad rimmed hat and Sheriff Hawthorne's 1870 Smith and Wesson Model 3 American revolver strapped to his side. He dropped a small terry cloth towel on the ground, and placed upon it, one knee.

He had been in this position before, but then he had always been begging forgiveness. This time it was different. Jerry looked over his bifocals up at his wife as he held the roses out to her. She looked down into his hazel eyes and began to feel weak in the knees. She reached out to him taking the flowers and cradling them in her right arm held out her left hand to him. He leaned in and kissed her hand. He simply said, "Be mine." She stood with tears in her eyes again a repeat of similar circumstances in the past. This time she didn't have to compromise. She stood there elated, never wanting the moment to end, as he got up and kissed her. It was like a first kiss between two teenagers. It was a kiss which was electrifying. A kiss which made both Jenny and Jerry quake with anticipation. A kiss you never think is possible from two people in a long term relationship.

It wasn't only roses and a kiss Jerry gave Sveltie on that crisp Sunday afternoon in February. He gave her only what he had to offer at the moment. He couldn't take away the pain he caused her, he couldn't remove the embarrassment. He couldn't undo the harm he had done over the years, the harm to her, his friends and most of all himself. He couldn't undo his affairs or the pain he caused her which led her to think acting out the same way was the answer to her pain.

What Jerry had given her that afternoon was the man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. He gave her a little glimpse of peace. And he never wanted to take that away from her ever again, no matter what.


Gomer sat in a small restaurant in Mountain View, California.

He had been in the place one time before when he was on tour with the band PRY in the late summer and early fall. It was called Taquiera La Bamba. Gomer had been on tour for about 5 weeks and was getting sick of the back stage offerings. He really just needed a change of scenery. So he hopped on a mountain bike and ventured out into the California landscape surrounding the amphitheater.

That afternoon, he went to the Museum of Computer History and a few blocks away found La Bamba. What really drew him into the restaurant in the first place was the exterior look of the place. It reminded him of Muskrat Flats, simple as that.

It was Valentine's Day, and Gomer's heart was heavy with anticipation. He sat at an empty table eyeballing the food his neighbor at the table to his left was relishing. It was plate of Carne Asada, with a big basket of chips and some fresh green guacamole and a pile of freshly slipped cilantro leaves. The food was swarming his senses - it looked so good. His stomach rumbled.

He had been reading his blog, he checked his email a couple of times and checked the front of his iPhone for the time. Fifteen more minutes he thought.

He was caught up reading something else on the internet when there was a commotion at the table next to him. The woman eating the Carne Asada had been joined by another woman about her age. They were both about 26 years old. The woman at the table had brunette hair, a lip ring and a small scar on her cheek. Other than the scar, she was very pretty, nicely dressed. Perhaps on a break from work.

Her recent companion on the other hand, seemed like she would have been a resident of the Iron Triangle in Muskrat Flats. She was a white girl, wearing pajama bottoms, fuzzy slippers, braless in an Ecko hoodie. She was blonde, had too many rings on her fingers and had a broken front tooth.

"Oy!" Gomer thought to himself, as he sized her up. His interest was peaked and he began to eavesdrop as he pretended to fiddle with his phone.

"Hey Sherry, what going on?" The brunette asked. "I haven't seen you in 6 months."

"Yeah, I know, I've been busy, How have you been, Donna? I saw your car so I figured I'd stop by."

"Things are good, I got a promotion a couple of weeks ago. A new office, bonus, the whole nine."

"That's great! I wish I could say the same."

"Aww that's too bad, are you working still?"

"Yeah, I like it there and the bosses are cool, but I had to cut back a bit, got too be too much, and then having to go home and deal with my kids."

"Did you know my sister moved in with me about a month ago?" Gomer listened intently. Donna began to rant.

"That little whore, I can't believe her. So, she moves in with me, All she does is sit up on the couch all day. Smoking cigarettes, which I pay for. I pay for the food, I pay for the diapers, I do everything."

"Wow, I thought you guys were tight, what happened?" Sherry asked.

"The little whore had a kid with my man ..." Gomer exhaled a limp muffled laugh.

"And you let her move in?"

"Well I had to, my mom is still on methadone, so she is useless. And can you believe she stole my son's birthday away from him. She had her little bastard on my son's birthday." She continued, without seeming to take a breath.

"We had a birthday party last week, which again I paid for, did she lift a finger to do anything for her kid? I even bought the presents, the cake, the decorations ... Everything is going fine and then my ex shows up.

He begins to start some shit with her, then they are screaming at each other, her son is crying, and then my son freaks out and starts trying to take his helmet off ..."

Gomer had to get up and go to the bathroom at that point where he laughed until he thought he would puke.

His phone chimed. He looked down at the screen, It was a text message from his Father.

"Are You There, Sonny?"

"A text message from Mr. I can't stand people who fiddle with their phones in public? :)"

"Cut the Shit look at this." Gomer waited and his phone buzzed again.

Miranda Klein Text ...

His heart began to pump a little faster. His phone buzzed again. It was his father.

He looked down at the screen and tapped a picture he had sent. It was a close up picture of Jerry and Sveltie at the Odd Fellows Hall. His phone chimed again. He opened the message...


"Where r u?" He dashed off,

"El Bano, b right out." His phone buzzed again, it was Moe.

"You see the look in their eyes? That's what I used to see in yours when your were with Miranda."

"Can't talk now, Dad." He dashed off as he washed his hands and exited the bathroom. He didn't do anything in there other than have a good laugh and use his phone, but he didn't want to come out of the bathroom and touch Miranda's hand with one which obviously had not been in recent contact with water.

He walked out into the dining room and stopped in his tracks when he saw her. He was stunned by her beauty.

She saw the expression on his face and let slip a sly little smile. She held a couple of pages of paper in her hand. Which he could see had been highlighted in numerous places.

His email. "Oh No," he thought.

She got a serious expression on her face. and walked over to him. He was going in for a hug, but she held out her hand. When she detected from the coolness of his flesh that it had recently been washed she lingered long enough for him to lean down and kiss hers.

"I got your email, Gomer. Pretty intense stuff. If you truly feel this way about me, how could you have disappeared off the face of the planet like you did?"

Gomer just stood looking at her silently. He smiled.

"I thought I explained myself pretty well in the email." She picked it up and looked at it.

Yeah, I've read it a couple of dozen times. It is much more uplifting than your blog has been lately."

"Miranda, I made a mistake. I just couldn't face you. You are so sweet. I didn't think you could understand."

"What!!?? I told you when this was happening that you should take the time to figure it out. Did I have to be any clearer than that?"

"I know, I was a jack ass. Everyone was telling me what a fool I was for not calling you back. You were so sweet to me when you came to the PRY show at Shoreline. But I felt uncomfortable. Like I had betrayed you."

His phone buzzed. Gomer looked down

Moe Eckstein Text ...

"It's my Dad. He's doing well ..."

"I know, I spoke to him yesterday - told him I was coming. and that your traveling here to make up with me was not the "fool's errand" he described." Gomer smiled and shook his head.

"Are you, going to trust me, Gomer? Are you going to let me in?"

"You're taking me back?" He asked.

"No, Gomer, I'm not taking you back ..." His heart sunk and he began to tear up.

"I can't take you back because I never let you go. I love you."

She leaned in and for another moment that day, St. Valentine sent cupid out with his quiver of arrows piercing the hearts of two estranged lovers. Allowing for another moment one of those kisses that energize you but also leave you feeling as if you are teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Miranda looked into Gomer's eyes and saw that look that Moe had been talking about. She hugged him like she would never let him go. Gomer promised to himself that he would never let her go.

It was business as usual at La Bamba, Gomer and Miranda's conversation had gone relatively unnoticed. They could have been any number of lovers kissing on Valentine's day, just going through the motions because that is the proper thing to do.

Not so for them and not so for Jerry and Sveltie who were dancing in the warm glow of that wood paneled room at the corner or Petersen and McKernan Streets in Muskrat Flats proper. Everybody knew their business and was elated to see the progress that Jerry and Jenny had been making.

They were the finest examples of two people demonstrating the principles of Friendship, Love and Truth that anyone could find in Muskrat Flats that evening as they swayed under the impressionist painting of Sheriff Hawthorne at the Odd Fellows Valentine's Day Dance.

Moe's phone buzzed and he looked at the screen

Sonny Boy Text ...

Moe opened the message and all he saw was

:0)



Thanks for reading and Happy Valentine's Day. Call it my fond memories or my hopes for the very near future. But life is pretty damn good as I continue ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Oh Yeah, Mountain View ... that was a shout out. Thanks for reading whoever you are.