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.

Life may not be a bowl of cherries, but it sure can be a good bluberry muffin recipe.

Hiya Folks - So glad you could join me. It has been a very busy couple of months in Muskrat Flats. Life is moving right along as it always does. Not too much has happened or really changed. I.E. your reporter has been busy and can not devote as much time as he would like to nosing around in the business of some of our favorite characters who color the landscape in Muskrat Flats proper.

The one constant is that life goes on and everyday a sense of community is reinforced as one helping hand reaches out to another in need. Even if that helping hand is a well deserved slap in the face which will wake you up a bit and help you to "snap out of it," as they say. That's they way they roll in the flats, always has been and hopefully always will be.

This week provided some of those tense times, where there was a disagreement and tempers briefly flared.

There was an incident at the Odd Fellows Hall the other day between Sid Bartleby, Moe Eckstein and a group of onlookers.

Earlier in the day, Moe was driving on the interstate with one of the guys he had met when he was an occupant of the long term care facility he was in when he was doing his treatments for cancer. Bennie Blanco is his name. Due to life's unfortunate circumstances Bennie has found himself to be alone, ill and with very few friends. He was your average cranky old man. Moe took pity on him and began giving him rides when he needed to get out. That day, Bennie needed a ride to his lawyer's office in Dana. He then needed to get back to Muskrat Flats for a doctor's appointment at noon. Moe being the good sort that he is, offered Bennie a ride.

Things took a little longer than expected at the Lawyer's office and there was some construction which had caused some delays as dump trucks moving in and out of the construction zone stopped traffic, on one occasion. Bennie began to get anxious as it appeared that they were going to be late.

When they got to the toll booth they were in a line of three cars. The guy in the first car was asking for directions.

"Jesus, Moe will you look at this shit? Who asks for directions at a toll booth?" He was huffing and puffing.

"Comon, Bennie relax. Here use my phone. Call the doctor."

"I'm not calling the doctor. Jesus Christ!" Bennie barked as the toll booth operator was pointing in one direction while the driver was waving his hands and gesturing in the other direction. This went on for a very uncomfortable 60 seconds or so. The driver finally proceeded.

The car in front of them inched toward the toll booth a little slower than Bennie would have liked. Moe and Bennie watched as it appeared that the driver was taking off her seat belt. She was because her window was broken and could not be rolled down. She opened the door and leaned out to hand the toll both operator the ticket and her money.

Bennie barked,

"Jesus Fuck, will you look at this now? We're never going to fuckin' get there on time." Moe rolled his eyes and looked at his watch.

Much to Moe's horror Bennie then reached over and leaned on the horn. As he did this, the driver - a young African American lass with very pleasant features, turned and scowled at Moe.

Moe recognized the driver as Gina, Kurt Bartleby's girlfriend. Moe put his hands up in the air giving an "oops" gesture. However, his unease with the situation caused him to have the most inappropriate reaction. While he was gesturing, he was also laughing.

The displeasure, once again registered in Gina's face when she recognized Moe and saw him laughing. She took her change, slammed the door shut and sped off.

"About fucking time," Bennie bitched with no remorse.

The next five minutes were spent with Moe and Bennie shouting at each other. Moe took Bennie to the appointment, for which they were on time, and then dropped him off at his apartment after more bickering. Moe then proceeded to go to the Odd Fellows Hall to grab a coffee and blueberry muffin.

Moe walked into the kitchen where Paul and Donnie were embroiled in another one of their nonsensical conversations. This time it was Parallel Universes.

Paul said,

"You mean to tell me you really believe there is a parallel universe. Like, one where there is an evil Mister Spock with a beard?" Donnie replied,

"I'm telling you there are many parallel universes. There may even be one where you're not an asshole." Everyone burst out laughing.

"You're a jerk, you're still pissed off about me being right about the fact that a mountain lion can be a UFO."

"Whatttt? We had that conversation over a year ago."

"Well I was right about opening your coat to make you look bigger. That will scare mountain lions away?"

That was all Moe had time take in. He needed his caffeine. He looked over in the corner and his Sonny Boy, Gomer and Corey Blackstone were deep in conversation. He heard a chime and Corey began fiddling with his iPhone. Gomer took this opportunity to take his phone out and check his mail. As Moe saw this he thought, "These kids today ... so unfocused and rude. Stopping a conversation to fiddle with phones. Who ever needed to talk on the phone in line at the store, or pumping gas?" Moe's heart began to beat a little faster as his temper began to get further away from him.

The stereo began to spew out dogs barking, Jingle Bells. Moe Looked over at the portrait of Sheriff Hawthorne. Above the painting, one of the jackalope's horns had fallen off and was dangling from its head by a thread. This further annoyed him. He stopped to get his coffee and muffin.

"Good Morning, Iva." Moe said. Iva looked at him with a cool expression and simply acknowledged him.

"Moe ..."

She walked away. Her coldness went unnoticed as Moe went to his table and pulled the Jackalope down from the shelf. He took one sip of his coffee. and opened one of his newspapers. He thought to himself, finally, the opportunity to simmer down in solitude and relax, when he heard the door open.

He looked up and saw Sid and Gina walking in the door together. Sid saw Moe raised his hand in the air and bellowed,
"I wanna talk to you!" Gina simply glared at Moe who stood up.

"What's your problem? Why did you honk your horn at Gina?"

"I didn't honk at her!" Gina gasped,

"Yes you did," She turned to Sid, "He totally did. And when I looked back at you, you were laughing about it." Gina shouted.

"Well, whaddya say to that? Moe? You honked or you didn't?

Moe was silent, Sid goaded him.

"Well ... Why did you honk?"

"I didn't Honk! It was Bennie Blanco. He was late and pissed off when the guy in front of her was asking for directions. So when she opened her door at the booth he honked. It wasn't me I didn't honk." Moe looked over at Gina who had her arms folded across her chest. She shot out her hand pointing right in Moe's face,

"I saw you laughing. I deserve an apology." Moe erupted.

"IT wasn't me. I DIDN"T HONK!! For Chrissakes, Sid ... I argued with that bastard, Bennie Blanco. for five minutes after that. I didn't honk."

"But it was your car, right?" Sid queried. He waited for Moe to respond, when he was silent that proved to Sid that was an admission of guilt.

"Sid softened his tone and got a glimmer in his eye as he began to feel badly for his old friend who was placed in an awful situation. After all he was doing Bennie, that miserable prick, a favor.

"Moe, comon, She was late too, the guy in front of her with the directions ... Her window doesn't work, the last thing she needed was to be honked at by a couple of old white guys, one of whom was laughing."

"Now wait a minute, Sid. Don't make this about race. My record stands for itself on the subject of civil rights and racism. I been writing about it for 40 years!" Moe looked at Gina and began to sputter a bit, He took her hands in his and apologized.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh at you, I was just so horrified that Bennie honked my horn, that was my reaction." Gina looked at him with a puzzled expression. She softened too and was ready to accept his apology When they heard a all too familiar voice from the peanut gallery.


"Just face it Dad, you're a Honky." Moe looked over at Gomer as his son started chortling with laughter. Moe glared . Gina agreed, she pointed at Gomer, smiled and nodded her head. Sid, said,

"Sonny Boy's right, kid, You're a honky!"

"You guys are nuts, I'm not a honky." Moe was smiling and shaking his head. Sid pointed his finger,

"But you had one in your car, that makes you a honky by association. "

"Then you're a honky because you associate with me." Gomer was beside himself with laughter.

All the folks at the Odd Fellows Hall had a good laugh that morning. It was a ridiculous situation all around. But in the end, everything was made right. After everyone moved on to deal with their business for the day, Moe grabbed another cup of Joe, sat alone and nestled into his newspapers.

He took a bite of his blueberry muffin. It was light and airy, the blueberries were perfectly dispersed throughout the muffin all except for the one spot where a cluster of berries had congregated. That spot sure looked moist and sweet, much denser than the rest of the muffin. Moe had thought about these muffins on occasion, how consistent they were and somewhat predictable - in a good way of course.

This is because the formula has remained unchanged for over a century, he thought. The blueberry muffins from the Bartleby's Mercantile have been made the same way with the same ingredients all this time. The muffins were a warm buttery oasis which the folks in Muskrat Flats could count upon to be the same - unchanged, a constant in the historical time line. They are, after all, as old as Muskrat Flats itself.

The muffins have remained unchanged through numerous wars, presidents, depressions and recessions. They have remained unchaged through the cold war, McCarthyism, political upheavals, times of temperance and excess, alike. Moe mused that it was unfortunate that living life could not be as simple as following a formula as specific as a muffin recipe -a recipe to guarantee success.

Of course, that would be boring, Moe thought as he noted how satisfying that juicy cluster of berries was sure to be. That cluster wasn't supposed to be there, but it happened. Regardless of the formula and how the muffins were supposed to be, it existed. That cluster was held together by the same ingredients that went into every morsel, kind of like Muskrat Flats, Moe thought. We have the same people, the same routines, but you never know when there will just be that one factor which will change everything. The argument and the comic relief which followed was as dense and sweet as the cluster of berries he was squeezing gently between his fingers.

All of the necessary ingredients to produce the whole were there, but there is the occasional instance which causes an aberration - in this case it was a welcome and unexpected suprise. A rare morsel of sweetness that reminds anyone who cares to notice, that sometimes where you are, is the best place you can possibly be.

Moe looked up from the treat he was rolling in his fingers as he felt a pair of lips kiss the top of his head. He felt warm and strong hands on his shoulders and heard Gomer's soothing voice tell him,

"I love you, Dad. Happy Holidays."

"What're you doing Sonny?"

"I'm going to the airport. Gotta catch up on some paperwork for the jump school. Then I'm calling the ACLU to let them know that the foremost writer on civil right issues for the last half century is a Honky."

"Ahhh, you're nuts!" Moe said. Gomer replied,

"What about them?"




Moe squeezed his son's hand and watched him depart from that warm wood paneled room chaotically decorated with dusty impressionist paintings, and dilapidated taxidermy in need of repair. But the imperfections were insignificant as he looked around at the festive decorations. A menorah over there, Santa in the corner, a lighted nativity across from the fireplace. They all added nicely to warm glow of the room at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets.

Just like his mother he is ... always a joker, Moe thought to himself. How he missed his lovely bride and how proud she would have been of their Sonny Boy.

Moe popped the last morsel of the muffin in his mouth. The cluster of berries he had been musing about was well worth saving as a the last bite of that muffin - Life never had tasted so sweet.

He folded up his newspapers and wondered why any rational thinking person would ever have a good enough reason to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Monday Morning You Sure Look Fine.

It has been a while, since I have written anything. A long time. That is not to say that I have forgotten about our friends who are still congregating at the Odd Fellows' Hall at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets in Muskrat Flats proper.

Coley Blackstone and his dog Chubby are doing fine. They are still going for their morning walks to the Odd Fellows' Hall. Coley still occasionally indulges himself by deftly yet discreetly plucking an interesting piece of paper out of a trash can he passes. I say indulges himself because he is working very hard to get to the root of his obsessions and compulsions. Chubby always offers never ending validation as he looks up lovingly while chewing on his plastic banana.

Moe Eckstein and Sid, his best buddy, are still holding court in the Banquet Hall every morning amid the the omnipresent aroma of freshly baked blueberry muffins.

The Memorial Day concert is still quite the topic of conversation when the town was overrun as word got out that the featured band for the evening, Odorono, was in reality the hippie jam band PRY.

Police were called in from local counties to control the crowd, early on. So things never really got all that out of hand.

They had a little mini Woodstock situation on their hands as about 10,000 more people than expected showed up for the event. The food vendors and local merchants were elated as their business for the day was brisk, giving a much needed bump in revenue during a period where the local economy had slowed down.

PRY did their best to keep everyone in line and did a fine job. Gomer was up on stage that night as well, bringing a big bottom to the band as they had two bass players for a major portion of the second set. Sveltie was up front, encouraging him while her husband was isolated in their house, much drunker than he intended or worse - promised he would get, that afternoon.

Later in the summer Silver Days was a success and the residents are now gearing up for the Fall Festival at the Farm Museum. Gomer took a few days off from PRY tour, where he is filling in for their bass player Lester Phillips, to do the annual Silver Days parachute jump and to perform that evening with his Hardcore Klezemer band Gomer Shabbos and the Hook Nosed Satans.

It wasn't quite the same situation as the Memorial Day concert, but there was a noticeable bump in attendance and there were a good amount of concert goers who were sporting PRY t-shirts.

As always, behind the scenes, a frequernt catalyst for shaping current days events in Muskrat Flats is the oft revered and even further maligned prankster, Sheriff Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III.

Gomer meandered into the Odd Fellows Hall, grabbed a coffee and a blueberry muffin. He was greeted by Iva Bartelby with a hug and a kiss. He spied Iva's husband, Sid and his father sitting in their usual spot, the table underneath Hawthorne's portrait and the two stuffed Jack-alopes.

He also spied Sveltie who was giving him that mischievous half smile. He went over and gave her a hug and chatted for a minute. He then reached into his sack and returned the wooden box containing what some perceive to be Sheriff Hawthorne's most recent prank on the modern day Flatlanders. They hugged again andGomer headed to greet his father.

Moe was locked and loaded.

"What's that all about, Sonny Boy?"

"It's nothing Dad ... I was returning that diary."

"Oy, that diary." Moe motioned with his thumb over his left shoulder,

"This guy, the Sheriff - he may have been a genius and did a lot of great things for this town, but he was fucking NUTS. He should have been locked up in some sanitarium or a looney bin. He is fucking with your lives with that crazy book."

"Daaaaddd!" Gomer wished he would shut the fuck up.

"Soooooooo ...." Gomer cringed. Here it comes, the clincher.

"How's Miranda? Does Sveltie know about you two, not that it matters to her since she's an adulterer too."

"Oh Dad, please can't you just let it go? Why can't you just give me a hug and tell me that you missed me?" Moe got up.

"Of course I can do that, I do love you, Sonny Boy." Moe said as he leaned in and grabbed his only son in a big bear hug. He whispered in Gomer's ear.

"I love you more than you will ever know. I just feel like I still need to protect you ... you're my baby." They broke apart.

"I know Dad, I know." Gomer wondered how long he was going to feel like a little kid.

"By the way, Dad, Miranda is fine. I'm going back to San Francisco in two days and she is going to accompany me on the last leg of the tour."

"That'll keep him out of trouble, eh Moe?" Sid chided.

Moe simply clicked his tongue against his teeth and grunted.

"Soooooo Sonny Boy ... " Gomer thought, what the fuck now? I thought we were done. He relaxed and even laughed when his father finished the sentence.

"What do you think about Mackenzie Phillips and Papa John Speedball? And you think your childhood was fucked up?"

"Oh Dad ..." Gomer admonished as the conversation meandered into less controversial territory.

Moe and Sid got up a little while later for their weekly run to Costco.

Gomer flipped 0pen his laptop and went through his mail. He got a correspondence from his buddy Pablo, a musician he had met at a recovery convention in the Northeast.


Hey Gomer, I just wanted to drop you a line and let you know I'm thinking about you. I hope things are going well with PRY. We'll see you at the Satans show in Burlington next month. In the meantime check out my latest blog. He clicked on the link and the blog popped up and began to read.


Monday Morning You Sure Look Fine

It has been a busy couple of weeks. Somehow music seems to have taken over my life. Between my work schedule and my obligation to my kid I don't have much free time. Now music seems to be dominating the landscape and stealing away any free time I may have thought I had.

Any of you who are regular readers here know that I'm a busy guy. But lately it has been insane. Not the kind of insanity that they talk about in the rooms of recovery, but It could be if I don't stay centered in my recovery. For the while, I think this is a good kind of insanity. It is becoming clear that things I have intended to do in my life, for a very long time are coming to fruition.

I was walking into my favorite coffee shop this morning. As I got out of my car I immediately spotted the group of guys having coffee. I knew two of them but this was the kind of group I could spot a mile away, they were all just like me.

I was looking at a smiling, laughing group of junkies and drunks. All of whom woke up one day and through various circumstances and scenarios it came to be that they woke up for the last time to greet the last day they would ever take a drink or a drug.

That's how it always happens.

Call it God's plan.

Call it co-incidence.

Call it society intervening in your life for the last time and letting you know enough is enough in the likely instance that you can't figure it out for yourself.

Call it what ever you need to call it, but believe it.

The one guy of the group I knew well, spotted me. He is one of the old timers in the fellowship which I attend. He smiled greeted me and shook my hand.

He then asked me that inevitable question,

"How are you doing?"

I love that question. But, before I could answer he said,

"I always ask that question but I can tell by your demeanor and body language that you are doing great. It is good to see. So what's going on? Why so happy?" He inquired.

I told him that I had been super busy getting ready for a concert which I played in Bushnell Park in Hartford on Saturday. I was filling in on bass for another band whose regular bass player had a previous commitment. I mentioned that's why he hasn't seen me a too many meetings in the last few weeks because I have been practicing and getting ready for this.

"And you never could have done this if you were using, could you have?"

No, I absolutely could not, I assured him. I used to get high and get lost in my head saying I wish I could do this or I wish I could do that. One of those wishes was "I wish I could play music in front of people."

He was psyched to see how happy I was.

"You see how it works? I remember you when you first came around. Just keep doing what you are doing and everything is going to fall into place for you. It is good to see you," he said as he bid me farewell.

It is true there are things that are happening in my life which I absolutely could not do if I were still using. The joy and freedom I experienced playing on a real stage with a real sound system (Two 500 watt cones on each side of the stage stacked on top of 4 - 15 inch speakers at 1000 watts each) in front of a large and appreciative crowd of smiling faces. All of this would disappear if I picked up.

First, I was playing in a group where the core of the musicians are in recovery. They wouldn't want to play with me if I were using. I doubt would have the motivation to go out and get my own gigs or seek out other musicians. No one would want to play with me because I would be all screwed up. Then I would be back to hiding in the dark playing for myself.

I did something crazy today. I was looking through Facebook and came across a request from and old Deadhead acquaintance.

When I knew this guy, he was a liar, a cheat and probably many other things that I had yet to find out about him. I don't know if he has some kind of mental illness which prevents him from remembering some of the warped stuff he did to me or my friends, but he reached out to me anyway.

I took the higher road and approved the request. I have changed and continue to work on changing. Perhaps he has as well.

They say everything happens for a reason. This is a true story.

I began flipping through this guy's friends list on FB and I came across a smiling face I recognized - David Frieberg. If you are not familiar with David Frieberg, he is a musician who played and sang vocals with Quicksilver Messenger Service back in the 60s and continues to do so this day.

About two years ago, I went to the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love concert at the Fairgrounds in Northampton, MA.

It's a Beautiful Day, Tom Constanten, Big Brother, Quicksilver and Jefferson whatever the latest incarnation of their name is, played. Paul Kantner and Marty Balin were there, no Jorma, Jack or Grace though.



The crowd was small but enthusiastic. David Frieberg played a big part playing with multiple groups that day.

I was freshly out of detox for what would be the second to last time. I was about a month clean, going to meetings and really struggling to do the right thing. I was at the show with a friend who was telling me,

"You need to do this and you need to do that to get your shit together," all the while forgetting that we had snorted oxys together on a couple of occaisions and once asked me if I could cop him some heroin.

I was checking out the musicians to see what they were playing hoping to pick up some licks. I must have looked pretty serious, perhaps even like I wasn't having a good time.

At that very moment, I looked up and David Frieberg was staring right at me making eye contact. Then he pointed his index fingers upward at his mouth, indicating that I should smile and I seem to recall, sing along as well.

It cracked me up and I did smile.

And I did sing along ... Come on people, now, smile on your brother let us try to get together and love one another, right now."

It was once of those special moments where I first felt that as a clean and sober person, I wanted something that someone else had. Something intangible that can not be bought or sold. The only way I was going to be able to do what David Frieberg did for me that day was going to be to break out of my shell and get up in front of people and play some music.

The show was over early and it very well may have even been that night or perhaps even the next Saturday night that I went to an open mic at the local sober club where I got up in front of the crowd and played three of my songs.

All of the musicians there were humble, and encouraging. None believing it was my first public appearance. They encouraged me and told be to keep coming. Where have I heard that before?

It was that night I met one of the musicians who fronts the band I played with last weekend.

The crazy thing I did, which I referenced earlier, was to contact David Frieberg and tell him this story. I have a feeling he will appreciate it as much as I appreciated the kindness in his smile during that warm summer eve.

I want to keep what I have so I am going to keep giving it away. Especially if all I have to offer at the moment is the kindness of smile to someone in the audience who looks like they may need one.

Thanks for your time.

Pablo


"Wow" Gomer thought. He closed the laptop and gathered up his things. He smiled to himself and checked his own inventory and recalled that kind of band audience interaction he had experienced so many times. He vowed to be more conscious of this situation in the future having been shown just how profound such an act can alter someone's path,

He wondered if Sveltie was going to be around. He would like to see her. Then he thought of Miranda and her wonderful smile and loving acceptance of his shortcomings. He had to push thoughts of pursuing some private time with Sveltie out of his head, He then made a vow to himself to make his brief visit in Muskrat Flats to be one where he could take care of business.

He also decided if anyone deserved a life changing smile of his from the stage, the only one he could think of right away was Miranda.

So he went down his todo list and made a hasty plan to get cracking so as soon as possible he would be ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"I've got no chance of losing, this time."

Last week, I faced one of the most arduous tests of strength during my ongoing recovery than I think I have ever encountered. I have faced less lethal situations in the past and failed but those were different times. Then, I thought I could get away with it, I thought I could beat the odds, so to speak. The situation of which I speak was my one year anniversary ... 365 consecutive days without drugs or alcohol.

I say it was a test of Strength because all kinds of crazy thoughts were going through my head in the days leading up to the anniversary including but not limited to picking up that drug and doing just a little more research to see if things may have changed in a year.

But I have been recovering, not abstaining. I have been doing work to insure that thoughts like these, "the thought that pulled the trigger," don't get the best of me. Working at recovery has given me the tools to combat such thoughts.

It was an interesting week that is for sure. There were successes and triumphs as well as setbacks some major and some minor, but I didn't let the setbacks draw me into to a dark mode of thinking or take me to a place where I feel comfortable, alone with my thoughts and would be solutions. That place is comfortable indeed. You see, everyone there understands me. I don't have to yell, I don't have to argue. When I am in that cozy room of solitude, I don't even have to finish my sentences ... yet, I am heard loud and clear like a crisp echo bouncing off of a distant canyon wall. Thoughts of visiting this dark place are why we work one day at a time. As I have found out, I managed to do it one day at a time, 365 times in a row.

The other successes - We finally came up with a band name. It is the Glenwood Mills Band. We play an eclectic mix of jazzy jams, blues, reggae, country encompassing both original material as well as some covers.

I like to call it Sedentary Rock, music that will extricate you from the couch, but not necessarily cause you to get up dance like a whirling dervish. unless you are a 20 something hippie chick, of course. They can wildly dance to music which consists a cowbell, a couple of djembes and someone humming through a black plastic comb wrapped in tissue paper ... and make it look good.

The setbacks were minimal with the exception of my finally coming to terms with the fact that, unless he tells me or demonstrates otherwise, we have lost the rhythm guitar player in the band. He was the catalyst who originally brought this group of musicians together.

I can understand his frustration and He is a busy guy, just like the rest of us.

Our last gig was unorganized, we were playing outdoors in the late afternoon. We were scheduled to play at 3:30. The timing got screwed up and we were put in a position where we had to start earlier. Only two of the folks in the band got the message. When we all got there and set up, we had to alter our two sets of music down to one abbreviated set, half of which the guitar player didn't know because he had missed so many practices. Sounds like fun, huh! After all that is what it is supposed to be, isn't it ... fun? We ended up playing a great set of music in front of about 10 people.

A few days later, I was talking to Stuntman Steve Sanderson, a professional musician who has been on the front lines of performing with his band Drunk Stuntmen, for the better part of the last two decades. He asked me how the gig went. I told him of the woes with the timing and two of the musicians showing up when we were supposed to start, the frustrated guitar player who was upset about the set list which included songs he really didn't know, and the fact that there were four more people in the audience than were in the band.

He started laughing and simply said, "Welcome to my world. How does it feel?"

How does it feel?

It feels fucking GREAT!

I want to go out of the way to make sure that the guitar player feels at ease about his decision. I understand. I really do. At the same time, I need him to understand how profoundly I have been affected by his early willingness to lay the foundation for getting the band together. My life has changed dramatically.

I have always been into music. I have "jammed" with various people over the course of the years along the way absorbing different musical nuances and styles. I have figured out the type of musician I like to play with and who I Don't want to play with. I have picked up aspects of music theory, some licks and most importantly confidence in both my voice and what is happening with my hands. The funny part is, it took me twenty years rather than the few short years of suffering through music lessons and an unyielding practice schedule most people endure.


I have taken music lessons in the past. For the most part they were not fun. This probably had to do with the teachers I had.

This is also partially due to the fact that I have always had other artistic interests. Between the writing, flame working glass and music, I have developed a self imposed brand of creative schizophrenia. I go through phases when one aspect of creativity is always in the foreground while the others swirl around in the background, jockeying for postition on, at the very most, my list of priorities: at the very least my list of whims.

Right now the music dominates the landscape. I've been writing intermittently and for now, the torch sits idle.

But getting on a schedule with all three seems to be the natural progression of events fulfilling a goal I have set for myself.

When I rented studio 33 1/3 in Building 2 at the Indian Orchard Mills, someone asked me if I had a goal?

I set out to create a space where I could do glass work, writing and music. The goal was to make it all work within 5 years. By work, I mean, income generated by my activities at the studio would pay the rent, not necessarily my bills, but the rent and the minimal overhead associated with the Studio. I remember Jerry Garcia belting out that encore which everyone hated in the early 80s ... you know the one that had the lyrics,

"Keep your Day Job until your night job pays." Good advice Jerry.



It is happening. I am gaining notoriety as a glass artist. An example being, I am doing a Flame working presentation at a Child Care center next week. (Please ... No Clown suit jokes from the Peanut Gallery.)

I am going to put together a powerpoint presentation along with some tangible examples of what I do. A few weeks later I have a three hour lesson planned as well as inquiries from others regarding lessons and renting torch time and the time is upon me when I must begin to build up an inventory for the Fall Show and the upcoming Holiday gift giving season.

Greg Saulmon of Local Buzz fame, a free Arts and Culture newspaper which is no longer in print but thriving online as a featured department on Masslive.Com, mentioned my writing in an article he wrote a few weeks ago. It was in an article which was a salute to may father Garry P. Brown. The passage read

676: Number of words into Garry Brown offspring Paul Brown's stunning essay "State Fair" when Coliseum Charlie makes an appearance: "They would be sitting in the same seats where 'Coliseum Charlie' would sway behind his tower of empty beer cups drunkenly swinging his tee shirt above his head cheering for the Indians as Eddie Shore looked on in disgust and yelled for him to put his shirt back on, but he let Charlie come back every week. At least his feet weren't on the seats."

That day my website got over 80 hits from curious onlookers. Hopefully they read something that made them laugh, cry, think, cringe, and perhaps even turn away in either embarrassment or disgust. Who knows how they felt when they left?

And, again there is the music. I was at an open mic the other night, as an audience member, when I walked by a stranger and he greeted me by name. A good friend who just finished a tour, with his band, in Europe simply said,

"Get used to people knowing your name first ... It is part of the parcel with this whole "notoriety" thing. You deserve it."

I described how I got to playing music, slowly - at my own pace. I never stopped doing it because I wasn't good enough or it was too hard. I love doing it.

I finally broke out of my shell getting up there on stage and wanking on the guitar singing my songs at a couple of different open mics. As my guitar playing skills improved, apparently so did my latent bass playing skills. People have noticed. I have been asked by one of the folks who I met through an open mic to be the alternate bass player in her band. It is a band which plays Recovery/Sober Festivals. My first gig with them is September 25th.

As it stands now, three years into the 5 year plan, things are starting to come together and not seem quite as schizophrenic.

Even though my friend has decided he no longer wants to play in the band, his efforts to initially get us together was the catalyst for manifestation of the wonderful things which are about to happen because I now know I have the skill, confidence and willingness to get on the stage and do my thing.

As long as I have my noodles and my fingers cooperate, that situation is not going to change.

Perhaps my higher power put him in my life in the context of the band to give me the opportunity to grow. Just as his higher power may have put him in this situation so he could better understand concepts of patience and tolerance.

I love him and consider him a dear friend, none of that has changed. Hopefully he benefited from the shared experience in ways which are neither obvious to others and will be cherished for a lifetime.

Finally, I want to mention the passing of a friend, Jennarow Jerome King, who died a young man as he lost a battle with cancer. I understand it was a battle, as he fought to the very end.

J.J. was a fine man. He was a loving husband, father, child and sibling and will be missed by all who had the unique pleasure of meeting him, knowing him and loving him.

I send my love and blessing to Heidi and JJ's family.

It is a beautiful day outside. I think I'll slow it down a bit and take a leisurely stroll rather than speeding things up and ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Pablo