"Never mention the word addiction, in certain company ..."

I pushed the little green phone on my cellie. I was kind of laughing to myself and just HAD to share. The phone started ringing. Two rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey!"

"Pablo! What's up buddy?" I begin to laugh.

"Did you see what I posted on the message board?"

"Oh boy! What did you do?"

"Nothing really ..." I laugh a little more.

"WHAT did YOU DO?"

"Well, it wasn't about you, really" By now, he has gone on the board and checked the most recent post.

"You just couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

"Am I wrong? It is pretty funny."

"arrrrghhhh! Oh ... Paul Brown! Do me a favor, keep me out of it."

"Oh ... comon, where's your sense of humor?"

"I get into enough trouble on my own, I don't need your help. Keep me out of it."


Okay, so you get the idea? That is the nature of our relationship. I'm sorry buddy, but I can't keep you out of it, not this time.


F. Alex Johnson and Jim Armenti

You see, yesterday was a rite of passage for both of us. It was huge. And we won. it was like the 2004 World Series, The Celtics beating the Lakers and all of the Pats' Super Bowl rings wrapped up into one. If you want to compare yesterday to where we had been, We just beat Ted Turner's ass and won the America's Cup.

In fact, I have made a conscious effort not to read Freddy's Blog today, in fear that I will be swayed away from documenting our shared experience. I am positive he wrote about the Newport Folk Festival. I doubt he used a song quote for the title of his post. That is my schtick, And I am sure that he is sticking more to his experience of performing at one of the oldest and most prestigious music festivals around and voicing a similar opinion in his unique and insightful brand of prose.

The Newport Folk Festival. Yeah, sure Bonnaroo and the Gathering of the Vibes are noteworthy. But they are new. They don't have the history that Newport has. JFK probably enjoyed the music and the company of Marilyn on the deck of his sailboat anchored within listening distance of Fort Adams State Park.

Apparently, Jakob Dylan joked about breaking family tradition by strapping on an acoustic guitar for his set. That is some funny shit, and I thought I was the clever one who came up with that one.



I got to Fort Adams right around 11:30. As I headed to my music tent of choice I heard my buddy ripping out Purple Haze as the Young @ Heart Chorus was hypnotizing the very enthusiastic crowd. The first people I see in the crowd of 15,000 are two friends from the home turf, James and Rachel. How could the day get any better?

I checked out the music and then found some sustenance, a yummy falafel. But, not before making a new friend in the vendors area. Cynthia from FireCat Glass had some wonderful jewelry for sale. It is always nice to meet a fellow lamp worker.

I went back to the tent for Dylan's set and then met up with Freddy. We hung out for a few minutes and then I was off to see Trey.


Everyone noticed he was drinking water! When people hear you are clean, they have a tendency to look in your cup to see what you are drinking.

I love Trey, he was good. Not quite the left hand pyrotechnics I was expecting to see. He played an acoustic guitar. He looked happy and healthy. He treated a surprisingly small, but devoted crowd to a good set. Let's not forget most of the hippies were further down the coast at the Gathering of the Vibes. Trey played many of Phish's "hits" - Bouncing Around the Room, Water in the Sky, Bathtub Gin, Sample in a Jar, Chalkdust Torture and, an odd choice in my opinion, Wilson.

He also played some of his solo tunes, Shine, Heavy Things (okay I guess it is a Phish tune but it's debut was on a solo tour) and Sleep Again. Good Stuff, Trey. Thanks.

Three things were re-affirmed watching Trey. The first being that I hope the murmurings created by Phish bassist Mike Gordon regarding the band getting back together for a tour are true, because I sure could use a Phish show.

The second, no matter what the gig is, Trey could have been up there humming through a comb with a tissue wrapped around it and there would be at least one kid in the front row, so fucked up and tripping that even a belch or a fart from Mr. Anastasio would be a profound, earth shattering event.

Third - There will never, ever be a shortage of blonde, dreadlocked and bra less twenty something hippie chicks seductively gyrating to aforementioned farting, belching and comb humming.

Shortly after Trey's set, I was forced to drag out my .99 cent emergency poncho and hid beneath it as the crowd was pelted by sheets of rain. This was just outside the tent as She and Him featuring M. Ward and Zooey Daschanel were performing. Great set of music. The rain had no bearing on what was happening on stage. I was mesmerized.

I met up with Freddy again and headed back stage for a cup of coffee and a pilfered sandwich from the press tent. We sat down in the artist hospitality area as he brought me up to speed regarding the gig he played with his other band Drunk Stuntmen, in Brattleboro, VT, the night before.

We then went and checked out Jim James of My Morning Jacket. What a voice on that guy.


Then it was time for the Black Crowes. We headed over to the main stage, and went back stage, into the VIP viewing area. The performance was flawless. There were two red apples on either side of the stage speared with multiple sticks of burning incense. The way the band builds into a groove was amazing. The crowd was loving it. I was loving it, and it was a perfect day.


Nice View from the side of the stage, eh?

We had both seen the Black Crowes before. Once we saw them together at the Riverside Park Speedway about 11 years ago. The last time I saw him at that show, was right before the Crowes hit the stage. I saw him passed out against the armco barrier in turn three of the high banked 1/4-mile oval track. I was glad he made it back to the van. He actually missed most of the concert because he knew getting back to the van was a priority and it would take him at least an hour in his current state.


The last time I saw the Crowes was a couple of years ago at Pearl St. in Northampton, MA. They were billed as Mr. Crowes Garden for a couple of word of mouth gigs to warm up for a national stadium tour. I was a mess at that show. I was injecting dilaudid, drinking and smoking weed. When I got home that night, I listened to an urgent call, on my answering machine, from my primary care physician. I was oblivious to the warning signs being given to me by my abused and pickled body. Fortunately, I had a blood test the day before, a routine thing. Due to my filthy little habits, I was diagnosed in the very early stages of sepsis, a blood infection. I showed up at the ER and gave them my name. They were ready for me. Despite the fact that I was drunk, stoned and opiated, they admitted me immediately and hooked me up to a week's worth of IV antibiotics.

Needless to say our last two Black Crowes shows were not very memorable other than being gross reminders of where the disease of addiction had taken us.


But here we were, backstage at the Newport Folk Festival, clean and sober, thoroughly enjoying a day's worth of live music without the desire to use. Without the uncomfortable feeling of not having a drink in our hands. At one point, as a cloud of kind bud smoke wafted our way. We looked at each other and silently made eye contact. Eye contact and a few raised eyebrows was all that was needed, no words were necessary. We both knew that was some dank ass weed which was being puffed. And someone was really going to enjoy it. But that was not us, not today. That look simply said, "Yep, we can't do that."

Seeing the way the band interacted with each other, the singing and dancing crowd and to have just as much fun, and even more fun since it wasn't a horrifying drug and alcohol induced nightmare, was the icing on the cake.

Being there and having that wonderful experience gave us hope. He expressed his hopes for the future and he will make it because he already is doing it, he is well on his way.

It gave me hope for the future in the respect that I can be whomever I want to be. My habits can't limit me If I don't pick up. I will finish my book, I will achieve notoriety as a glass artist because I am good and can only get better. I will know my daughter as an adult and continue to be a positive force in her life.

As far as the music goes. who knows? unlike Freddy, I'll never be a rock star, even though I felt like one yesterday. Someone has to sit in their living room strumming their guitar by themselves, it might as well be me. Meanwhile, I've got bigger fish to fry.


With the hail on my back, you will always find me ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Pablo

"Shelter Me From the Powder and the Finger ..."

Ah yes, "the thought that pulled the trigger."

The carnival came to Muskrat Flats a few short weeks ago. We talked about that. Good music, good vibes, good people. And of course, the good people who were doing bad things, mostly to themselves, with nary a thought about how their actions might affect anyone else.

There could be the immediate consequences such as doing just a little too much and having someone caught unawares, as they slide barefoot through your vomit. Or, you could totally freak out the EMTs who have never had to deal with some one who is freaking out on acid, badly in need of both thorazine and some restraints.

You may not think about it, but you could be that guy who is just fucked up enough
that you are on edge and in an unpredictable state of mind - being loud, aggressive and incoherent ... bad vibes. You can feel it. And guess what? everyone else around you can feel it as well.

Perhaps you can be there and view all of the insanity and be thankful that you are not a participant, a reminder of how things used to be and could be again. Being in the presence of such excess can also go the other way, where you are tempted. You thought you could be strong, you thought that hanging out with the Wharf Rats would help ease the pain of the struggle, but it didn't and you pick up anyway.

And then there is the anomaly, like myself, strong and determined inside that scene, where drugs and alcohol are as available as if you were in a corner store along a canal in Amsterdam, but fearful and vulnerable and alone, at home.

I guess the freaks forgot to take their roller coaster with them when they left the flats with the rest of the carnival, because I have been riding it incessantly.


Oh the ups and downs. Those awful, misguided thoughts. The thoughts of insecurity and self loathing. The thoughts that you are less than and your worth has permanently been diminished by the excesses you have endured and the crimes for which you were never held accountable. The thoughts that led you into the arms of a lover you have no business interacting with ... at least if you truly want to stay clean. "The thoughts that pulled the trigger."

The thoughts that pulled the trigger. No one knows like you know, how you can lie to yourself. Well, your sponsor does, if you are practicing the spiritual principle of honesty with them.

Being honest is a hard, hard thing, especially when you have spent so much time in active addiction lying and spinning yarn after yarn to avoid being caught and having your inflated sense of self-image stained and tarnished in the the eyes of another. Even worse is the untold truth, the information withheld. You might as well lacquer yourself with a thick coating of patina, because you are harming yourself more than you know. Sometimes it takes numerous suggestions of those who are rooting for you before you open your eyes and realize that the program you think you are working is absolute shit and you need to get back to basics.

I have been playing a dangerous game, associating with someone from my past. And I paid the consequences. I have let that person go, She is off and running with her old boyfriend who left a program to do so. When he gets caught he is going to JAIL, no doubt about it. I have, in the past, had strong feelings for this woman but she is not worth losing my life and family over. I was expecting this. I was expecting the other shoe to drop, for the walls to cave in. I was Charlie Brown running up to FINALLY kick that football only to have Lucy Van Pelt pull the ball away, yet again. Leaving me gasping for air, frustrated and flat on my back, even though I know better.

I hope she finds recovery, but I am not the one to help her in that journey. It is time to Let the boyfriend step on a few land mines for me. He is going to jail anyway, the program he was in was imposed by his probation officer. What does he have left to lose? Let them lose what little she has, together, because I made it clear that I am unwilling to do so, unwilling to be that irresponsible party throwing caution to the wind to feel good. The thought that pulled the trigger.

I am back to counting days, instead of months. Sorry Mom and Dad, but it is what it is. I am back on track and have been doing good. I have been going to meetings and have been in very close contact with my sponsorship family. I have been asking for help and have been taking many good suggestions from those who came before me. I was fortunate to have only lost the clean time I had accumulated. I didn't lose vast sums of cash, I didn't lose my license, I didn't lose my kid, I didn't end up in jail and I didn't die. I did get very very sick, and I deserved it for fucking up.

It has taken me a while to write this.

One thing a member of my sponsorship family said, in convincing me to be honest with myself, was - If some one truly loves you they will not put you in harms way.

If, Someone truly loves you, Paul, they will NOT put Paul in harms way.

This is so true. I have to accept my part in the charade and acknowledge that I can not associate with people who are using even if it is casually. Look where it ended up for my friend, where it always does, down a long and hard road of insanity.

My friends in the fellowship have been very supportive calling me every day. I have been doing the same with them.

I felt vulnerable yesterday and made a phone call. I said, "I feel like I should not be alone today, I don't feel safe." He told me to come over. I talked to my sponsor on the way, I spoke with my buddy when I got to his house. We hung out all day and had a great time, we spent some time with other addicts who welcomed me into their home for the first time. After a while, the thoughts that pulled the trigger were so distant and foreign to me. Yes indeed, "This too, shall pass." I went to a meeting last night, where I saw my old dope dealer. She is clean and is in a pre-release program from prison. She asked me if i had the same number and she would call me when she got out. I told her, "Yes, I do," And that it was good to see her clean and healthy. As far as the phone number goes ... Okay, I told a lie, my phone number has changed.

After the meeting I went to a restaurant for some post meeting fellowship. I eventually ended up with my best friend, with less than an hour to go in the day. I had made it, another 24 hours under my belt. And guess what? I worked hard to accomplish that feat yesterday.

So, here I am today, nary a bad thought has gone through my head and I feel safe. Funny how it works that way. Yes, my actions DO affect the ones I love, there is no doubt about it. (stop crying)

Like I have said so many times in the past, I'll worry about tomorrow when It comes, but Just for Today, I am doing fine and know that today can sing at the top of my lungs with great joy and enthusiasm -

"Shelter me from the powder and the finger. Shelter me from the thought that pulled the trigger!"

Thanks to Neil Young, hearing you on the radio when I did ... you really helped me out yesterday, brother.

Once Again, with the "Hail on my back" and a smile on my face, I am "Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats."






(Sorry, I must apologize in advance for this one - clean and sober Deadhead/Trekkies - Worf Rats?)

Fear and Loathing in the City of Homes

I love my city. Springfield, Massachusetts. There really isn't much to it. It is rather small by city standards. Sure we have the Basketball Hall of Fame, Smith and Wesson, Merriam-Webster and some fine Institutions of higher learning. But by city standards it is not very large.

It has it's unique neighborhoods, some are a little better off and well heeled than others. What makes the city so civilized, and others would disagree with my use of that word, is that even in the worst areas of the city there are strong healthy neighborhoods inhabited by decent people who care. But what is unique is the whole city offers living space, hence the moniker - City of Homes.

Look at Forest Park, for example. I used to live and conduct my business in "The Park" It really has a beautiful, heavily forested park. In Forest Park you will find a very metropolitan mix of folks. There is a historic district, which is very upper-middle class. Politicians, lawyers, business people who commute to Hartford on a daily basis all inhabit the Historic District south of Sumner Ave. There is a nice Farmer's Market at the Trinity Church on Tuesday and carillon concerts on Thursday in the same location. Forest Park is where the X, the intersection of Sumner and Belmont Avenues and Dickinson St., are located. Let me talk about some of the other neighborhoods in the City of Homes.

As You drive East on Sumner you head toward East Forest Park, not quite as tony as Forest Park proper but the neighborhood is strong and safe. East Forest Park turns into 16 Acres, where the homes are not built quite as closely together. If you follow Parker St. from 16 Acres center you will end up in Indian Orchard with its thriving new businesses such as Gus' Auto Repair a newly furnished Hampden Bank, Gallery 137 and of course my home base of operations the Indian Orchard Mills, which houses artist studio spaces as well as industrial space for all sorts of operations and chicanery.

If you drive up the hill, along "Monsanto Ave." and take a left, you will end up in the densely populated East Springfield. If you choose to exit Indian Orchard on Berkshire Ave. you will pass through Pine Point and eventually Mason Square also known as the Old Hill Neighborhood and Winchester Square. This is near the Armory. Wedged between Mason Square and East Springfield is the Hill-McKnight neighborhood. There you will find mansion sized dwellings bordering on low income neighborhoods. If you go down the Hill you will hit Main St. A left turn will take you through the South End an old Italian Neighborhood with specialty food shops and bakeries. A right turn onto Main St., will take you to the North End where the Latino population is predominant. And then there is the neighborhood where I live, the old Irish neighborhood Hungry Hill. Past the hospitals and medical campuses, and past Atwater Park and between Carew St.

Now to break this up in traditional way. The Forest Park Neighborhood, south of Sumner, the Historic District is mainly the NPR contributing liberal types. East Forest park is solidly middle class. North of Sumner is mostly inhabited by the lower income crowd. As is the South and North Ends, and the Old Hill Neighborhood, Indian Orchard and parts of Hungry Hill .

Needless to say, you knew this was coming didn't you ... you just didn't know when I was going to bring it up or where I was going to put it. These are the sections of the city where the drug trade is most prevalent. And when you have drugs you have all of the other good things that go along with them. All of the components which keep the drug economy viable. Components such as tricks, hustlers, schemers, scammers and manipulators and thieves.

In my active addiction, my MO was to find a trick to procure my drugs if my regular connection was unavailable or in jail. This seemed like the best bet because ... A) the last thing a Puerto Rican drug dealer wants to see a big bald headed white guy walking into the hallways of his building. B) the Big Bald Headed white guy who looks like a cop doesn't want to get shot walking into said dealers building, and C) A hustler does just that. You are lucky if you get your drugs at all never mind getting at the very least ripped off by paying too much or at the very worst, getting stomped, stabbed or shot before they take your money, wallet and car.

So, the tricks seemed like the best bet. Yes, they may rip you off, there is always that possibility, but once you establish that your intention is to get them high if they cop your drugs and you really are not all that interested in paying for sex, the playing field is leveled. They won't rip you off because you just gained a little bit of their respect with their realization that you are just like them ...an addict trying to get through the day using all of the ways and means and resources at your disposal to do so. Another addict, just trying to get that next hit, no matter what.
It is then that they tell you their real name. Do you think they are really named, Peaches, Star and Candy? They'll tell you how many kids they have and more often than not their hopes that they can get away from "the lifestyle" because they know that they can only run so long before they end up in jail, or dead. It seems odd that my motto in my active addiction is the same as my motto in recovery ... "Just for Today."

With all of that said, I guess I can't really feel too bad about what I'm about to tell you.

I was hanging out at my favorite convenience store on Monday night at about 9:45. I was there with a bunch of other people who are closely associated with the franchisee either as friends, employees or both.

A male about 6 foot 1 with a black doo rag and a gray t-shirt covering his face came in with a gun. He began shouting over and over, "Give me the fucking money!"

I was petrified. All I saw was the gun. After everything was said and done, nobody got hurt. The robber got a little bit of money, enough to get high at least. When the police showed up, they were, pretty much, incredulous that I didn't get a "good look" at the guy. I'm sorry officer, but all I saw was a fucking gun ... pointed at me and my friends. When I was copping with one of the ladies they would say ... "Whatever you do, don't eyeball this dude." So that's what I did. I looked at the gun long enough to see what it was and that it could kill me. I saw the guy's basic height, weight and ethnicity, but in the end, I followed the previous advice and looked away.

Sure, the scenario's were running hard through my head. I could have taken the fire extinguisher next to me and sprayed him in the fucking face with it, before I heard that wonderful hollow pinging sound of bone stopping a recently evacuated hollow metal cylinder cutting an arc through the CO2 dusted air. Yes, that melodic resonant ringing tone, as the extinguisher I was swinging found its home. But that would have been messy and a little over the top as far as heroics go. Not my style.

I was up all night processing the information of what I had been through in that very short 45 seconds, and was pretty screwed up the next day.

What I had to accept and reconcile in my own head was that guy with the gun was just like me. I have never done anything close to an armed robbery to feed my addiction. But, what if I hadn't found recovery when I did? I could have easily gotten to the point where I could have done something like that. We all could, if we are desperate enough.

Perhaps in a few years, I will hear the robber's story in a meeting, as he is trying to work through the wreckage of his past and find recovery. There may be some jail time for him between now and then. Perhaps he won't be so lucky and rob someone who also has a gun, one that is loaded, who wants to send the message - "Don't try to rob that guy he is a maniac and blew some one's head off last time they tried to rob him."

Take it down to another level, perhaps karma will come back to bite him in the ass in the worst way, as he uses the measly chump change he robbed from the store, far less than $100, to get his fix. Perhaps it will be his last hit of crack before he has a stroke and experiences irreparable neurological damage. So damaged, that he becomes a ward of the state - just another number in another nondescript underfunded institution. Maybe the insanity of his disease has already taken him to the needle, where he will be alone and frightened when he uses, perhaps that one bag too many, as he drifts into the big sleep, only to have his breathing stop.

These situations, I do not wish upon anyone, they are the sad facts of living a life in active addiction. You act out beside yourself. Nobody wants to mug, steal, or shoplift as ways and means to get by in active addiction. The amount of money he stole, would just get him through the night, and what is he going to do in the morning? Try the same thing in a different location? Insanity. No woman wants to hop into your car at 5 AM or worse after you get out of the bars at 2:30 when you are at your best. Insanity. They call getting high, a chase, for a very good reason.

Yes, I'm no better or worse than that guy who robbed the store. I just have some different shit to deal with than he will, if he finds the right path, as I have, and begins the walk down the road of recovery. The best part is, anyone can do it, even that guy.


Just for Today ... I'm Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats

"Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play ..."

Like it or not, baseball is in my blood. I fancy myself an artist. Whether it be culinary, my writing, my glass work or music, I try to bring a finesse and personal touch unlike anyone else to my endeavors. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Yes there are those out there that are more talented, but I do what I do and it works.

I am fortunate to have immersed myself in a like minded community of artists and musicians who lead me to believe what I am doing has substance and worth. Perhaps people compare my work to Josh Simpson's because he is the only famous glass artist they know. Either that or they are uncomfortable trying to pronounce Chihuly (Shh-HOO-lee). Either way it is a compliment and I will take it. At the end of the day, whether or not I have been to the studio, done any writing or played my guitar, one thing will be there, the one component which will always bond my family - baseball.

Last week, my parents, my brother and his family, my daughter and myself, all piled into a rented 13 passenger van and headed west. Our destination was Cooperstown, NY, home of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

My father, Garry Brown, is a sportswriter. He has been doing it for about 56 years. A major portion of those years have been spent covering the Boston Red Sox. He is a member of the Society for American Baseball Research (SABR) and the Baseball Writers Association of America. The latter membership means he votes on who will be inducted into the Hall of Fame.

One of the great treats of being so close to some one who has such an intimate look into baseball are the stories and memories which have accumulated over the course of the years.

Yaz in 1975

One of my favorite baseball memories was the time that Carl Yastrzemski was miffed about the way the umpire was calling balls and strikes. After striking out, in protest, Capt. Carl squatted down at the plate. Looking like a little kid who was playing in the sand at the beach, he grabbed a couple of good handfuls of dirt and covered home plate, obscuring it from view. I guess since the umpire was not using the plate as a guideline for how he was assessing the pitches, there was no need for the plate to be visible. Yaz was promptly ejected from the game, to the delight of the crowd.

Golden Brown next to Capt. Carl

Another Fenway memory involved the on field altercation between Billy Martin and Reggie Jackson. It was June 18, 1977. Rather than charge a fly ball, which was the product of a Jim Rice checked swing, right fielder, Jackson, let the ball drop for a base hit. He then made a bad judgment call by sending the ball back to the pitcher's mound, allowing Rice an easy, and undeserved double. Martin went out onto the field and pulled his star player for "not hustling." In the dugout, Martin had to be restrained from belting Jackson by Yogi Berra.

Another memory was from the 1975 World Series. The image of Pete Rose barreling around second base like a freight train and diving safely, head first into third will forever be etched into my brain. I saw one of Pete Rose's uniforms in the Hall of Fame. I can not recall seeing such an awesome player who approached the game with such fervor and reckless abandon. Sadly, his uniform's presence at the Hall of Fame will be as close as he will get to induction.

As I was carousing the plaques of those players immortalized in the Hall., I came across that of Mordecai "Three Fingers" Brown. I guess he really did have three fingers, but this name was always a source of amusement, for me, as Red Sox hurler, Bill Lee would refer to his contemporary and gold glove winner, Sixto Lezcano as "Mordecai Six Toes Lezcano" What else would you expect from a pitcher who won a World Series game after downing a bottle of Robitussin.

Anyway, I was checking the plaques and I overheard a guy, clearly a Red Sox fan, telling his children the story of Eddie Gaedel. Eddie Gaedel was the only midget ever to appear in a major league baseball game.

Bill Veeck, the owner of the St. Louis Browns, was a marketing mastermind. In 1951, the season his team would go on to lose 102 games, Veeck employed the services of a midget - a local actor and showman named Eddie Gaedel to perpetrate the ultimate publicity stunt in baseball history.

On August 19, 1951, Gaedel signed a contract with Veeck for $100 per game. This contract was wired to the commisioner's office for approval, after the end of the day's business.

The crowd of 18,369 in attendance for the double-header against the Detroit Tigers was there more for the celebration of the 50th Anniversaries of both the American League and the Falstaff Brewery. The festivities included free beer and cake.

During the festivities, between games, Gaedel made his first appearance by jumping out of a cake suited up in a St Louis Browns uniform numbered 1/8.

In the following game, Frank Saucier, a Browns slugger was due up but had injured his shoulder earlier in the game. Gaedel was put in as a pinch hitter. The decision to play Gaedel was opposed by Detroit coach Red Rolfe but was finally approved by umpire, and Holyoke, MA native, Ed Hurley, as he surveyed a valid contract.

Detroit pitcher, Bob Cain was laughing uproariously as Gaedel crouched into his stance offering Cain a 1.5 inch strike zone. Cain, described as "almost falling off the mound with laughter" threw four balls - all high and Eddie Gaedel advanced to first base. Seeing as it took him almost a minute to reach first base, a few tips of the hat and some bows included, he was replaced by a pinch runner.

The baseball is bigger than the strike zone!

It was the only game Gaedel would play, as the following Monday, the Baseball commissioner voided Gaedel's contract and set new regulations pertaining to a minimum height for the start of the strike zone.


On a side note, Ed Hurley, the umpire officiating that game was talking to "a reporter" at Fenway Park toward the end of his career. He had been officiating baseball games at Fenway for over two decades. Beyond the grandstand, there was an advertisement painted on the side of a building for "Buck Printing."

Why an umpire, would ever admit such a thing is beyond me, but he leaned into the reporter and said, "All these years I thought that sign said Buick Printing."

Such is the world of baseball.


Now ... time to finish watching the Red Sox win 18-5, that is 18 runs folks, not games.

As Always you will find me ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"I picked up my bag and went looking for a place to hide ..."

There was a very vibrant and welcoming energy in the air on Saturday, a vibe not usually associated with such a rough and tumble silver town such as Muskrat Flats. As you know, if you keep up with my exploits, leaving the Flats often involves a Hard run. Not so yesterday. The carnival was set up in Muskrat Flats proper. It was an odd day where the natives co-mingled happily with the interlopers. They extended the olive branch of welcome to the tattooed and sparkle dusted tribes as they negotiated the once crumbling and rat infested pier, The barnacle crusted wooden effigy which would exude its sulfuric flatulence as low tide left it exposed to the sun is now replaced with a modern, easily navigable wharf, with a very nice tent where the music can be enjoyed.

The Tribes marched smiling into to town, with their glass beads, and patchouli soaked hemp accessories and various contraband. Heard above the music was the colorful patois you can only decipher if you have spent some time on the road, with the carnival. The vernacular was as colorful as their dress and as non conforming as their flapping unrestrained dreadlocks.

As always, behind the smile and the glazed eyes there was a plan, an escape strategy which would have to be implemented if the wrong pocket was picked, if the wrong custie was burned or if the seasoned and equally prepared constables finally decided enough was enough.

The cops were prepared, they had done this before, back in the day when it was a less family oriented scene. Now, the cops, just like the rest of the world, are faster. Armed with their two wheeled segways and the latest information technology in the palm of their hands, they are a formidable opponent. I haven't even discussed what type of God Awful weapons they possess these days.

The Deadheads remembered those days when they and the police were more or less on an equal footing. A few lies and some slight of hand often provided the necessary minutes to disappear into the scene and more so, high tail it out of Dodge. The Deadheads remembered the days when a hard run was in order. The days when the constables would steer their Harley-Davidsons five abreast down the main thoroughfare intending to run down any pitiful fool who lacked the good sense or sobriety to move. This was always a slap in the face as it put an end to the good times which were being had. The party was never quite over when the sense of self preservation kicked and the hard run commenced.

Saturday night, the tour kids, freaks, and Heads of all shapes, sizes and economic brackets shared in the party as they danced, sang and plied their wares and listened to the music. There were the classic hippie looking chicks with their patchwork skirts and flowers in their hair. There were the harder core tour kids with their dreadlocks and their omnipresent cases of glass pipes and jewelry. There were the Hippie/Raver kids with their Hot Topic gear accesorized with Shakedown Street chic wearing knee socks and multi-colored Chuck Taylors. There were the Hip Hop Hippie kids with their urban wear. There were the 50 year old Republican Heads with their $10 glasses of Pinot Grigio taking about "what a disappointment" George W. Bush turned out to be. There was the hot shot guitarist I have seen many times at the local venue , mesmerized by the chops displayed by multi-instrumentalist Larry Campbell. The music flowed freely. And then there were the folks on the stage. They weren't all that different than those in the audience. They were having just as good a time as the concert goers.

Phil Lesh and his Friends were in town and He was joined by fellow troubadour Levon Helm.

It was a rejuvenating experience for me. You may say to your self, Paul Brown ... Mr Muskrat, What were you thinking? After all you are an addict - you got no biz associating with that crowd.

People Places and Things aside, I felt safe; much safer than I would have been had I stayed in Springfield ... alone. With my daughter off with her mother and my folks out of town, I really would have been in the worst company possible, alone with my thoughts. I was in mortal peril

There is credence to the idea that a Grateful Dead scene is probably not the best place to hang out of you have a problem with substance abuse and you feel vulnerable.

For a very long time. I was just like the rest of the population at the shows, drinking, smoking herb and if the feeling was right, getting ripped on LSD to provide for the most spiritual and transcendental journeys any living human can experience. For a long time this was the status quo, I was a weekend warrior working hard and playing hard.

Through circumstances which are too extensive to explain here, things began to unravel in my life. I put on a good mask and kept up appearances. But I was slowly succumbing to the progression of my dis-ease. I turned my back on my friends, and the scene which had provided me with so much positive spiritual energy over the last 20-plus years. I became isolated. My drugs of choice became more dangerous, more addictive and more expensive; too expensive to share, that is for sure. My gift of desperation was that I had very little left in my life other than a few material possessions a family I was rapidly alienating, a job and car I miraculously was capable of holding onto, and my drugs. It was me, alone - with my drugs.


As I cruised through the crowd, I kept my eyes wide open. There was weed being smoked every where, and yes I was tempted. There was even more alcohol. I spotted a couple of folks with scars and bruises on their arms which could not be explained away by saying they went to donate blood recently.

But none of that mattered. Because I was heading to an Oasis in a sea of insanity. At Phish Shows, this oasis was called the Phellowship. In my book about the fictitious jam band, PRY, the oasis is called the Priory. In the world of the Grateful Dead this safe haven is called the Wharf Rats. As you may recall, the Grateful Dead song "Wharf Rat" is a tale of a sick and suffering alcoholic named August West. He has what it takes, the only requirement ... the desire to stop.

You can find the Wharf Rats, a group of clean and sober concert goers, by looking for yellow balloons. As others stumble around, or are cranked up to 220 volts of psychedelic mayhem, we are standing in a circle with our backs to the insanity, protected by the strength of each other's shared experience and hope.

In the back ground, I heard,

"What's that?" a head referring to the circle.

"A bunch of fucking weirdos."

Yes, you could say that. I sure as shit used to. I was thankful for their perspective. The dismissive head probably would not have vocalized that opinion if he wasn't fucked up. Perhaps he shared the same sentiment that I had harbored for many years. I was respectful of what the Wharf Rats were trying to do, but I saw them as a threat to the lifestyle to which I had grown accustomed. They were, no doubt about it, a threat to my lifestyle. Back then I could not conceive living a lifetime free of drugs and alcohol. To this day, I still don't. That is why I have followed the suggestion to take it one day at a time. Worry about tomorrow when it comes. I doesn't seem so daunting to approach it that way. Stay clean just for today. Once you master that philosophy, you can try to wrap your mind around a statement that my Great-Grand-sponsor made.

"Don't forget, wherever you are, it is always today. At 12:59 PM you may think that tomorrow is right around the corner, but it comes and it is still today. "

I am thankful for all of the heads who stopped by the Wharf Rat table. We had a good meeting. It inspired me to get through the rest of the night. It inspired me to simmer down thoughts I had regarding the never ending occurrence of svelte and slinky 20 something hippie chicks dancing
freely and sexily in the row next to mine. That definitely makes me want to get high. The meeting helped to simmer down the lies my disease was telling me as a 60 something Obama supporter was casually sharing a joint with his wife.

Perhaps I could just smoke weed, and get away with it. If I got high, I know weed would not be good enough. I have lingered at the fence around the lush poppy field and tasted the nectar of the forbidden flower. No high will ever match the warm numbing feeling that is provided by opiates before you are enslaved by that feeling and the physical need for more. It is best that I just stay away.

No, I've been high more than half my life. I need to try it straight for a while and see what
happens. Good things, I suspect. Good things indeed. And definitely, more good music.


As always, You will find me ... Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Today's Topic - Bring a Friend.

Hello Stuntfans - Thanks to all of you who made it to the Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River Last weekend. The show was great. There were a lot of old familiar faces in the crowd and a few new faces.

One of these new faces belongs a Stuntfan to whom Stuntman Steve describes as a "State Fair fan. A new era of Drunk Stuntmen fan." This would be Bill Cyr. He professes to have seen the Stuntmen more than any other band. Welcome to the club, wish we had a vintage Soup shirt to give you for your efforts and dedication. By the way if you come to Hartford, bring a friend or two, or five. In fact that goes for all of you. It is bring a friend week - actually, it is bring a friend year. No, wait! This is the Bring a Friend Tour.


Another opportunity to see the Drunk Stuntmen is upon us folks. And what a perfect opportunity to help is fill the venue, by Bringing a Friend. The fellas are playing at Black Eyed Sally's in Hartford, CT, Saturday June, 14. Showtime is at 9:30 PM.

Now we play a lot of places that have food, but the food at Black Eyed Sally's is worth coming early and getting a table.


Hope to see you there.


State Fair, the latest and greatest album from the Drunk Stuntmen is available online at Barnes and Noble. If you really want to help us out, go to your favorite retailer and request that they order the album for you. Oh wait, you will need to order two, one for you and one for "your friend" who will be so enamored by the delightful and sincere musicianship that they may very well attend the next show, and bring a friend, as well.


Keep an eye out for the Young at Heart Chorus as they sing the National Anthem before the Red Sox game on June 21. The Stuntmen won't be there however, they are going to be in Haverhill roasting a pig.


Coming up in the next newsletter, the Roadhouse, Bourne, New August dates and why Stuntman Steve was disqualified from the 69th annual Polygamy Games in Muskrat Flats. The organizers didn't believe that the Young At Heart Chorus were ALL his Grandparents.


Stunts! Do 'em for your own self.

Pablo

"Whatever you do, Take care of your shoes."

I did something totally spontaneous the other day. Spontaneity has been slowly disappearing from my life. I'll attribute that to a growing sense of responsibility as I continue to work on bettering myself.

Although I am not the type to rigidly schedule myself, down to the point of when I am doing laundry or what time I have allowed myself for an afternoon nap, my life has begun to have some structure, a routine if you will. Coming from a past where spontaneity would find me making a drunken decision to take some Orange Sunshine at 1 AM on a Friday morning, I welcome a little boredom.

LSD is bad ... mmmkay?

I do consider myself a "free spirit" or a "Beta" as my friend Freddy would call it. I do demonstrate Alpha characteristics occasionally, albeit a pretty lazy Alpha, if there is such a thing. Let's put it this way, I would probably do much better in life if I had a personal assistant, then again, who wouldn't? A "Gal Friday" or a "Miss Moneypenny" would fit the job description nicely.


I like the way things are going in my life these days. I have turned another corner in my road to recovery, once again rediscovering how easy it is to allow the insanity to rule your life. And that can happen without even picking up a drug. Lack of insanity lends itself to serenity, or at least an opportunity to spend some time in a boat on a smooth lake surface void of high winds or choppy waters.

The spontaneity, to which I refer was a change in plans on Saturday night. My daughter and I were supposed to go to Six Flags New England to take advantage of our newly purchased season passes. She was with her mom all day, and I had to work an extra hour to prep for some heavy duty catering on Sunday. This meant that by the time we arrived at Six Flags, we would have missed the opportunity to go to Hurricane Harbor, which would be closing about 45 minutes after our arrival.

"So, Daddy, I was thinking, I don't want ot go to Six Flags it is too hot, can I go swimming at Aunt Kathy's (her Mom's Aunt)"

"Sure, Honey. What do want to do tonight, after that?"

"I don't know ..."

"Wanna go to Fall River to see the Drunk Stuntmen it is an all ages show at 8 o'clock."

"REALLY!?" Sure, I thought why not, It is only a 90 minute drive. I had driven further in the past to see a band. Once I decided to make that trip, I felt different. It was not going to be just another mundane evening. I think I actually got goosebumps thinking about the possibilities of what the music might bring especially in a venue where my kid was welcome.


So, we went to Aunt Kathy's to hit the pool only to find a disappointing situation. The pool was pretty nasty littered with pollen and at least four dead tree frogs. My daughter kind of freaked out. She made an attempt to clean the pool up a bit, but in the end I think we both agreed that it would be best that she not go swimming in the festering murkiness. I firmly believe that if she did go swimming she would have gotten ill. I already had images going through my head spinning similar scenario's to when in the movie The Wall, the young Roger Waters type character found a rat and made a nest for it with his sweater, only to find the rat deceased a few days later. He disposed of the rat, put on his sweater and later found himself with a searing fever as Comfortably Numb accentuated the video back drop.

We bid Aunt Kathy, who was pissed that we thought the pool was gross, farewell and headed East. What seemed like minutes later, we were getting off at the Atwells Ave. exit in my old stomping grounds Providence, RI. We went down Federal Hill now rife with swanky upscale restaurants and bars with names such as Artini's. Federal Hill still had the character that it always had when I was going to school in Providence 20 years ago, it just wasn't as down and gritty as it used to be. It didn't seem like such an adventuresome and dangerous place as it used to be. It just doesn't seem like the Patriarca' s live there anymore.

If down and dirty were what I was looking for: it really wasn't, I just wanted to continue on my nostalgia trip, I sure found it as we went down the hill into Olneyville. It is a good thing I was with my daughter, because Olneyville is a haven for junkies, and hustlers and tricks. But that is not why we were there. Olneyville may have its share of n'er do wells, but it also has one of the most fantastic culinary treats ever devised. The New York System Hot Weiner.

These culinary delights are without a doubt the worst (wurst?) thing you can possibly put into your body. The weiners themselves probably have maybe 50% "meat" in them. I don't want to know what kind of fillers makes up the rest of the soft, spongy morsel. It could be sawdust, maybe even tofu, but most definitely it was some "class of beast" which has been put through a mechanical separator. The guy who is making them also adds a little flavor to the bun as he lines eight of these up on his sweaty arm before adding the rendered suet mystery meat with their own special seasonings, mustard and onions. Then with a flair and a flick of the wrist they are passed through a cloud of falling celery salt. I practiced some restraint and only ate 4 of them. My daughter loved them. I kind of felt bad exposing Rayna to such an aberration in proper nutrition, but the side trip was worth it and she enjoyed them, arm sweat and all. They are so damn tasty. It was definitely worth the side trip, even if it was in a section of town my disease would prefer, I remained.

After that, it was off to Fall River a short 25 minutes away. We crossed the bridge from Swansea and saw Battleship Cove. We took a wrong turn and had to pass the Lizzie Borden B&B, but we easily found Anwan St.

I won't spend too much time on the music, It was fantastic, the Narrows is a great place to see a show and its is highly recommended.

During the set, Stuntman Steve explained to the audience why he and Bow Bow were wearing flip flops. Okay, I didn't notice until then. Steve I could see wearing flip flops, even though he usually sports boots either construction or cowboy. But Bow Bow? He is a big imposing looking guy who looks like you would expect a bass player in a band called Drunk Stuntmen to look. The flip flops were way out of character for him.

It turns out they slept at a hippie's house the night before and some how managed to get back on the road without their shoes. Well, that is life on the road, I guess. At least they can rest assured that since they did leave their shoes at Chez Hippie, they don't have to worry about said hippie wearing them.

That story reminded me of a Phish show I went to at Hampshire College in the early 90s. The band was playing in the gym. Whoever produced the show printed tickets in the form of business cards, which weren't numbered. So, of course, day of the show there are about 500 more ticketed patrons in the show than the number of tickets had sold.

Part of the deal, since the show was in the new gym was that only stocking feet were allowed on the newly varnished basketball court. As you walked in, all you saw were piles and piles of random birkenstocks. How would they ever figure out that mess at the end of the show?

Further proving the statement from the Phish song Cavern, "Whatever you do, take care of your shoes."

Until we meet again, and hopefully it will be sooner than last time around, you will find me ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.