Day seventy three...Clean as can be.

A great part of the springtime is being able to keep your windows open for a change.

So much stale air and dust collects in our respective confines over the long depressing winter. The inevitable buildup is neither healthy nor attractive.

Cobwebs are the worst.

It took me years to differentiate cobwebs from spiderwebs. You’d think having a science teacher for a mother would have given me a leg up, but no. No, for the longest time, despite my mom's best efforts, I believed all webs housed live spiders. Be they a finely spun and taut lesson in thrifty ergodynamics, or a limp dusty, incongruous shadow of a formerly stealthy fortress. I always thought somebody was home; somebody who would give me a nasty bite if I came too close.

In reality though, the cobwebs are just vacant buildings waiting to be demolished. In reality they are merely boarded up, run down, falling-apart-at-the-hinges kind of houses. The immediate danger is gone from the premises. They may be unsightly, but they are mostly dust. And dust is easy to remove when you can see it.

When displaced, the crafty, voracious, and very patient spider moves on to a new part of town at a moment’s notice. It doesn’t ask the housing board if it needs to file papers. It doesn’t think about the delicate aesthetic balance which may exist between the refrigerator and the wall. It just puts down its stakes and moves in. It has ultimate authority over the helpless, hopeless, one track mind of the average insect. They have no voice; neither in life, nor in death.

And when displaced and thrust into a new, unfamiliar situation, the spider will forget all that came before. It will not retain memories of where it used to live. It will not crawl by the cobweb it once spun with care and pride and think of all the good times and delicious meals it made for itself in the past. It will immediately forget that part of its life no matter how fond of it it may have once been. Some spiders even eat their former homes removing any and all traces of occupation as they metabolize the precious nutrients contained within the walls.

But the spider regrets nothing. She has no master. She is a killing machine and keeps busy by constantly securing a new fortress; a new lair; a fresh, strong and inescapable trap where she will sit slowly, methodically scratching her legs together, spinning silk, distilling poison and laying eggs. Eggs which, in some cases, the father won’t live long enough to see born. For he too will be in the belly of the beast.



And sometimes, we only notice the cobwebs when we have company over.

Oh, our visitors probably wouldn’t notice anyway. But we see them. And we can’t believe they escaped our careful powers of observation. Our guests are most likely too busy scanning the perimeter for the clues we all leave, consciously or not, of what we’re all about; what we represent; and what represents us. Meanwhile all we can think about is: "How did I not see that cobweb? I cleaned the whole house and it figures now, when I’m trying to make a good impression on my guest, all I can see is the mess I didn’t notice."


The mess from a life lived long ago.


And, unfortunately, the dusty, dormant cobweb is much easier to spot than the silky, sleek, active spider web; the one you have to look out for; the one that harbors the living, breathing danger.






It’s so easy to fall back into the patterns we develop. Especially when we’re busy trying to create a new life with new distractions to keep us safe from the thoughts that got us to have to change in the first place. We experience the satisfying daily discovery of problem solving techniques that we once only dreamed of. We develop new tools to aid in our inescapable interactions with people; with situations; with desires and regrets. And we sometimes mentally mark these things on a chalkboard and stand back and gaze at it and clasp our hands together and crack our knuckles with authority. And sometimes we accrue these achievements and think, "I wish _____ was here to see me now." We wish we could hug them and hold their head gently in our hands and smile and celebrate the joy together. And sometimes we cry our fool heads off. We cry because we are both overcome with joy, and numb with longing. We cry because we are celebrating what once seemed no more attainable than the power of flight, and now, we are high above the world looking down as the earth absorbs our falling tears.

And we know that eventually, we have to come back down.

And we have to do it all over again.


F.A.J.

Day seventy two...Make them come to you.

I wear a lot of black.

It's not that I'm excessively morbid or a professional roadie. I'm just a guy who realized long ago that one's weight is a reputable litmus test for which colors should be at the forefront of their closet.

Skinny people can get away with white clothes.

I can't speak for the rest of my overweight brothers and sisters in the fattest country in the world, but I can't wear white.

White items have a place at the very back of my closet. In fact they are the very back of my closet.


The walls.


And the rest of my wardrobe is made up of dark blues, maroons, grays, olives, rusts, browns, and of course, blacks. T-shirts, jeans, jackets, scarves, and gloves, even my socks tend to be a dark color.

One of my trips to Europe afforded me this nugget of wisdom from an Italian girl living in London:

"You know how we can spot an American? We look for the white socks."

It is an amazing discovery when you start to notice it.

Europeans wear beautiful dress socks to almost every daily event. Because they live the credo that there is no time to look bad. Absolutely none. Look your best every moment and you will be your own V.I.P. pass to the world.

I was well aware that Nightline was going to be at the Young at Heart rehearsal on Wednesday.

I made sure to wear my finest black; even my spiffy new hat.

I didn't know that they would be waiting in the rehearsal room ten minutes early with the cameras rolling as each of us walked through the front door. But that part didn't matter.

The part that mattered was that they made sure that we walked through the front door by arranging for the other entrances to be locked.

Hmmm...that's a pretty obnoxious thing to do. They must be from New York.

It's not baseball season and I'm already cursing the Empire state.

But they were the press and the press, unfortunately, don't always play by the rules.


I walked in with the Chorus' bass player and sometimes pianist Ken Maiuri (a musical Houdini) and we set up our stuff. I noticed the man who was pacing in the back of the room. He was wearing a fine cotton dress shirt, blazer, jeans, and well broken in laceless shoes (not loafers, not sandals, not inexpensive) and he had his hand up to his chin and was sort of looking up to where the ceiling meets the walls of the Florence Community Center. He was composing himself. He was going over his plan of attack.

Because he knew that he was quickly going to have his hands full.

The Chorus are used to these kind of details; more so outside of the States as I've outlined in previous posts, but with a major nationwide movie release coming up, the big boys have started to paw at the door.

Enter John Berman.

John Berman is a nice guy.

He is blessed with kind, smooth features which inhabit skin the color of creamy peanut butter;
Skippy, not Teddie.

If you've watched more than a couple of Nightline's you will definitely recognize him. He's the likeable one. He gets the softballs; the public interest stories; the "you're never gonna believe this, America" kind of stories. I just saw a segment in this evening's broadcast of him interviewing author, James Patterson and the two of them yucking it up at his Palm Beach mansion.

Let's just say, I don't think he'll be getting sent to Iraq anytime soon.

I just unearthed a clip from a pre-Christmas segment John did on the rarely seen and quite corny, "Star Wars Holiday Special", from 1978. It included a discussion about how the first ten minutes of the show was completely in Chewbacca's native tongue. Another clip I found focused on the Youtube phenomenon and how thousands of people put up mindless footage of themselves doing next to nothing. He then demonstrated with 5 seconds of dead air.

That kind of stuff.

So it only makes sense that he is a huge Barry Manilow fan.

The rehearsal went well. The Chorus is always in rare form when the cameras are rolling. Not to say they ham it up, but they kind of give a "two shots of espresso" performance. It's always fun to be a part of.










We have a tradition when new people enter the cave to witness the magic we conjure up.


We make them sing.

We had done it one week ago to the Today show correspondent's, Bob ("I've been doing this for 35 years") Dobson. We did it to the segment producer and then to the sound man Paul who executed a heartfelt rendition of the Beatle's "Don't Let Me Down." Right on Paul.


Well, Mr. Berman wasn't going to get off any easier.



"What kind of music do you like to sing John?" Bob Cilman asked.

"Oh...no...I mean...I couldn't possibly..."

"Oh come on John", Bob implored, "You've got to have a favorite song."

"Well, I've always been a big Manilow fan."

Cue Ken Maiuri on the piano with the "Copacabana" intro.

Our guy steps up to the mic and thrusts his left hand in his pocket. Then he puts his right hand around the mic stand and starts to sing.

Earnestly.



"Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl..."


And the Chorus, men and women alike, jump to their feet and start whooping and clapping.


"With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there" -This last line required the all important run of the index finger from the shoulder to the mid thigh region.


Someone's done this once or twice before.


"She would merengue and do the cha-cha"

Now, I've seen these things happen a lot. Most of the time the unsuspecting uptown dandies try to back out of it. Not our guy John. He sang the whole song with unbelievable feeling. Thankfully, the cameraman got it all on tape.

"Across a crowded floor, they worked from 8 till 4. They were young and they had each other. Who could ask for more?"



Well, I couldn't just keep my camera in its pouch now could I?













He did some solo interviews with some of the members. I got to hear Lenny tell him one of his favorite songs to do was "Purple Haze."


How cool is that?


We finished the afternoon off with some sandwiches and sodas provided by Fox. I even got to take a few home as the opulence of Hollywood traditionally overdoes the catering detail. Not something to complain about. Not even a little.

Stuntman Steve and I realized we had to keep an important appointment with our publicist and had to leave the party. But not without a souvenir. Much like the Europeans, I try to live the credo that there is no time to look bad. Absolutely none. Look your best every moment and you will be your own V.I.P. pass to the world. And this V.I.P. wanted a memento of my day of music, sandwiches, and the hottest spot north of Havana.

I asked Steve to take a picture.


I'm glad he did.



















I'm F. Alex Johnson. This is my new pal John Berman. And for all of us here at Nightline...goodnight America.

See you tomorrow...at the Copa....don't fall in love.

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

Day seventy one...Sit right back and you'll hear a tale.

Not too much surprises me anymore.

I watch the news every night. I listen to NPR almost every day. And I obsessively check CNN.com every twenty minutes or so to get updates on any number of late breaking stories which may have piqued my interest.

But this one was a keeper:

"Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island busted."

Oh no, not the smart one. She was my favorite. Why couldn't it have been Ginger?

Back in the day, there was two options on almost every popular TV show. You could be into the bimbo, or you could dig the practical and innocent one.

Ginger was the much too breathy and aloof debutante with the impressive coconuts; the Marylin Monroe wannabe who seemed like you could easily score with if you had enough clout.

Mary Ann was the one your mom would most likely get along with. She undoubtedly would score points with an award winning coconut cream pie recipe. She also, despite her outwardly innocent appearance, always gave me the distinct impression that she would be a demon in the hammock.
It's always the ones you least expect.

As I have been traveling along this road of sobriety, trying to recapture some of the essence of my innocence along the way, I have been pleasantly surprised by the flood of memories which has washed over me.

Fortunately, my mom wasn't one of those hippied out "TV is bad for you" kind of parents. She understood the important balance of entertainment and education. As a child I used to read oodles of books (some with accompanying record), and I also got to watch a fair amount of TV. A lot of it was permitted, but there were some shows I definitely was not privy to.

Saturday Night Live was not only on way too late for a 7 year old when it debuted, but it was also filled with questionable humor; drug references and unnecessary violence and the like. My mom never watched it but she did watch the news every night, and sometimes she would stay up late enough to at least see the celebrity monologue. The ensuing theme song changed my mind briefly on the obnoxious caterwaul of the saxophone. John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown band quickly changed it back a few short years later.

Quincy was another one. It was chock full of medical drama and peppered with cautionary tales of drugs, alcohol, suicide and an occasional sexual situation. But it also was my first realization of how one could successfully can jump horses in the middle of a stream. From disheveled sports writer, right on up to medical examiner. Wow, the amazing options of a television personality. College smollege, I wanted to be on TV. They couldn't stop my robot building plans then.


I could see it as clear as day: "Fred Johnson: Robot Doctor."

It would have been a classic.

"Dallas", of course, was huge. My mom liked the show and was swept up in the "Who shot JR" along with the rest of America in the early eighties. But it was an adult show and definitely off limits. Dallas in present day real life isn't really as much fun as they made it seem. Hippie bands and skyscrapers dominate the city as far as the eye can see. That's their specialty, at least from my experiences.

My childhood bedtime rarely stopped me from catching a precious glimpse of a show on past 9 in the evening if I wanted it badly enough.

My bedroom was connected to the living room where the TV was. If I was stealth about it I could catch a few minutes of whichever program my mom had on. I'd hop out of my bed in my Popeye jammies, tiptoe on slippered feet, and standing about chin high to the door knob, I'd peek through the sliver of space afforded by the imperfect doorjamb to watch the visual contraband. The combination of the three inch speaker and doorway barrier made for a muddled and inconsistent entertainment experience. But to me, at my precious single digit age, it was like witnessing the eighteen and a half minutes of the lost Watergate tapes. It was, in a word, delicious.

Invariably, my reverie would be broken as I'd hear the creak of the springs in the gold upholstered easy chair which signaled the approach of my mother. She had to walk by my room to get to the bathroom and would peek in every now and again to check on me. I'd hear the sound of that chair and jump back under the covers at a breakneck pace; not unlike an inmate who had just heard the approach of the warden whilst attempting some rudimentary prison wall remodeling. I'd furiously pull the Star Wars sheets over my head with my tiny but plump hands and wrap them around my head; as if that looked like a comfortable and natural way to mimic the involuntary muscular submission of sleep. I always used to wonder if the action of my eyelids forcefully grinding against each other made a sound; a gentle but tell tale sign of overcompensation for the disregard of bedtime rules and regulations.

"Go to sleep my little one", she'd gently coax, "Go to sleep."

How on earth did she know?

I never considered the absence of snoring to be my incriminating evidence.

Because later in life, unfortunately, I was made aware of the fact that I habitually snore.

My whole family does it. It's how, in my teens and beyond, I used to be able to tell when my mom was asleep. I'd listen for the gentle but ever present rhythmic sounds; the sounds of a very relaxed and content woman in the land of dreams. Then I'd quietly tiptoe past to my room. I'd put my giant gray Nova headphones on and listen to "Headphones Only" on WBRU or some other college radio stoner-specific show. It seemed to be a big fad in the late eighties.

But my world both then and now never had the capacity for the comprehension of a headline like: "Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island busted."

No, that was something I really couldn't believe until I saw it on CNN.


From CNN's website: "On October 18, Teton County sheriff's Deputy Joseph Gutierrez arrested Dawn Wells, who played Mary Ann on the popular show Gilligan's Island, as she was driving home from a surprise birthday party that was held for her.

According to the sheriff's office report, Gutierrez pulled Wells over after noticing her swerve and repeatedly speed up and slow down. When Gutierrez asked about a marijuana smell, Wells said she'd just given a ride to three hitchhikers and had dropped them off when they began smoking something. Gutierrez found half-smoked joints and two small cases used to store marijuana."


Wow. How both unbelievably altruistic and supremely prudent of her.

She was so happy after the surprise party that she felt obliged to pick up not one, but three hitchhikers on her way home. I can only imagine what the conversation must have been like if this oh so sad occurrence by my TV sweetheart actually happened in real life.

Dawn Wells: "You guys might remember me from television."

Hitcher #1:"Oh yeah, I thought I recognized you. Were you the one that played Shirley?"

"No, no, no, I was Mary Ann on Gilligan's Island."

"No waaaaayyyyy! That's so cool. We were just watching the episode where they develop the strain of super vegetables and were wondering if...like...maybe the Professor was like...growing super weed on the side cuz...well, you know...there weren't any cops around."

To which in my supposed conversation she'd respond by saying: "Well, I don't know about growing it, but the professor did always have the best stuff in Hollywood...er...I mean on the island."

Cue the giggles. Cue the nervous baggie rustling. Cue the sound of the lighter wheel against flint; the sparking of the doobie from the back seat. Cue the slow but steady creep of white smoke and the long audible inhale by hitchhiker number one. Cue the shock and horror of one Mary Ann and the subsequent pull over on the side of the road with the jostling of the hippies and backpacks and rain sticks.

Scrreeeeeccchhh!!!

"Get out! Get out of my car now!"

Hitchhiker #2:"Whoa! Looks like Mary Ann's not down with the Mary Jane. Sorry lady, we thought you were cool."

And then, of course in my mind, they get picked up by WKRP in Cincinnati's, Bailey Quarters, who would definitely be cool about it.

And then of course, in my mind, they'd get picked up by Bailey Quarters from WKRP in Cincinnati who would be totally cool about the whole thing.

But that probably would never really happen.

And as far as the courts are concerned regarding Mary Ann and the hitchikers, that's definitely not what happened.

Not in real life.




No, in real life Mary Ann failed her sobriety test. In real life the cops found some weed and containers and paraphernalia in her car. In real life she was sentenced to 5 days in jail and ordered to pay a $410.50 fine. And in real life she was put on probation for six months.


Seems even the most innocent of prime time family television characters are capable of late night behavior.


Who's next?

I'm keeping my eye on Quincy.

Hitchhiker #1: "Hey, you're Quincy aren't you?"

Jack Klugman: "I sure am. But aren't you a little too young to remember that show?"

"Yeah, but we were just watching it on DVD and wondering if...like...you know...you guys had any of that medical marijuana on the set..."

"Oh sure, we had medical everything on the set back in the day. Sure has been a while though."

Hitchhiker #2: "Um...we happen to have some medical marijuana on us right now Mr. Quincy."

"Well guys, as a former TV medical examiner I can safely and quickly diagnose myself with the onset of acute sporadic temporary glaucoma. Now make with the kind bud."

"No waaaayyyyyy!"




Fearless by Default was filmed before a live studio audience.

Thanks for being part of it.

Stay tuned for... "Fred Johnson: Robot Doctor."

See you tomorrow.


F.A.J.

Day seventy...Void if removed.

It was all over the nightly news.

It was one of the top stories on the Internet.

I had heard it from the DJ on NPR in between pledge drive pleas.

And I heard it while I was waiting in line to buy milk.

The old man in front of me who was buying 50 scratch tickets of varying prices, colors, complexities, and sizes had been spitting the words out along with little bits of chaw on the counter of the DB Mart.

"Don't forget to turn your clock back before you go to bed...ya hear me s-s-sonny?"

Well I oughta...I'll turn your clock back old timer. Now outta' my way with your golden tickets. How about buying some milk with that scratch ticket money and strengthening them bones. Time's a wastin'.

Yeah, I was in a hurry. But I didn't realize I had forgotten about it until I spied a glance at the clock on my computer after getting up early, (or so I thought) having a nice breakfast, and checking my email.

What the hell? It's eleven o'clock already? How the hell did...oh...yeah...the old man...he warned me.

I wondered if he'd won.

Scratch tickets have been a source of anxiety for me for years. The whole Void If Removed thing on the bottom. It's like it's just tempting you to intentionally screw it all up. It's like saying, I don't think there's anyway this ticket is a winner so I'll just make sure of that before I see for real. Kind of takes the fun out of gambling.

I sometimes wonder if people really only know the meaning of the word void as it pertains to those paper Vegas postcards.

Oh there's nothing actually preventing you from ruining the whole experience. But nobody in their right mind would ever do that intentionally. That would be stupid.

But the whole daylight saving time had freaked me out. It snuck up on me and bit me in the ass after I had been warned about its impending appearance by numerous sources.

One little hour. Sixty whole minutes. Three thousand six hundred brief but important seconds.

Gone. Evaporated into thin air.

Well I guess I can't really complain what with the extra day we just got and all. It's only an hour. I can give up a measly hour in exchange for some longer days. What's an hour between friends?

Well I know one soon to be former New York Governor who wishes he had a certain hour back.

Yeah, that guy. What the hell was he thinking?

"I'm the most powerful man in all of the Empire State. I live in a mansion. I have a beautiful wife and I'm respected and revered by thousands of people not only in my state but around the country. I think I'll spend a few thousand dollars on a prostitute. My secret will be safe with her. What have I got to worry about?"

"Um...Mr. Spitzer...all the news networks are calling. Well sure, they said they'd love an interview, but if you don't have the time they said they're just going to go with stock footage. Governor Spitzer...Gover...oh my god, somebody get the smelling salts. Hurry!"

I bet he'd do anything to get that hour back. I mean he not only has ruined his career, most likely for good, but he let down a lot of people who had invested a lot of time an money into the man. People that believed he'd do the best job that he could regardless of the temptations.

Well, I too have an hour that I'd do anything to get back. It happened last year. I'm not going to go into the details. If you were there you will remember. If you weren't, I wish I was you. I, like Gov. Spitzer, indulged in my vices and was caught in a very public manner.

It had started innocently enough, years prior, and progressed to the detrimental stage. I had complete disregard of the warning signs that it would affect my job performance at an appearance in my home state. The place was filled with my constituents and close friends. Hell, I practically had a podium. And I was asked to leave my post. It was for the good of the group; implemented so as to not tarnish the rest of the representatives from my area.

I made the choice to take my vice and bring it outside of my house and flaunt it in plain sight; to dress it up and parade it around and hope I wouldn't get caught. Because sometimes when you do something you know is wrong enough times, you start to believe that it really isn't wrong. You start to feel like nobody understands you and it might be them who are actually in error.

But, unlike the Governor from New York, I was given a second chance. I was given an opportunity to show the people in my life that I could and would change. And up to now, I certainly have been making good on that promise. Everything is riding on it and it has nothing to do with luck.

But like a scratch ticket there's always that little spot on the surface that's poking me in the belly egging me on to seize defeat; to do something supremely stupid. Its consequences are spelled out in plain English:

"Void if removed."

Damn straight.

Thanks for reading.

Now back to your regularly scheduled program of politicians, whores, and rock and roll.

F.A.J.

Day sixty nine...It all comes out in the wash.

What a rude and selfish person.


That's what I said to myself this evening as I stood folding my first of 3 dryer loads of freshly cleaned clothes at the Masonic St. Laundromat.

I was referring to a very high profile female who made me mad as hell.

Those of you who live in Northampton will probably know who I am referring to.

Those of you who don't are lucky.

She's tall, she's thin, she has beautiful long curly brown hair, and cheek bones that scream good breeding. She always wears dresses and carries a Coach handbag. And she is one of the few people I have seen in town who actually wears nylons.

They look so weird; like a plastic doll or a mannequin, which, I suppose, ultimately is a plastic doll.

She's a feminist and a Republican. Her car has a "Strong Men Don't Bully" bumper sticker on one side (the left) and a "Bush/Cheney '04" on the other.

She strides around in high heels downtown like she's got an appointment with the Governor.


And like a wild animal she has absolutely no regard for laundry room etiquette.


I like doing laundry. It gives me a chance to slowly and carefully re-appreciate my collective public sense of dress. I mean sure, I have a lot of pajamas which only get seen by my band mates or my sleepover pals, but everything else is up for grabs. Everything else gets seen one way or another.

Of course you can only really enjoy this part when your clothes are actually clean. It would be kind of gross if you held each dirty t-shirt or pair of pants up to the light, shook them open, admired them with a sense of history, and then sent them off to the agitator with a good luck wish.

But at the other end of the process it is more than OK.

So I'm standing there with my favorite "Black Death, European Tour" t-shirt with the big orange rat on the front when my peripherals ran up the warning flag.

Someone was messing with my duds.




It all started with a rude exchange.

It was 7:30 on a Sunday evening. The place was almost empty. There were two empty carts under the folding table and I was standing in front of them folding my clothes. She came over and without looking up at me, without saying a word, put her hand on the cart, and pulled it an inch or two to indicate that she wanted to use it.

I looked down expecting an "excuse me" or maybe a "can I grab this" from her.

Nothing.

So, I graciously stepped aside to grant her access to the precious carts. She grabbed one with a jerky motion and moved it over to the bank of dryers where my other two finished loads of clothes were luxuriating.

I let it go. She's one of those girls in town that I've always kind of wondered about; what her story is; what her voice sounds like; will it match the pretty exterior?

At that moment I was wondering if she could talk at all.

And as I turned to the left, towards the long row of dryers which housed my pampered Guess jeans and Gap t-shirts, I saw it. I saw Ms. Lefty Righty picking the last of my clothes out of one of the dryers and putting them in the cart she so rudely acquired mere moments prior.

In fact, she took one of my nicest dress socks, one from a pair that Diane from The Chorus had recently given me as a gift, and was holding it like it was the tail of a rat which she had the unfortunate responsibility of disposing of.

I wish it had been. That would have been apropos.

I looked at the dryers on the left. There were six empty ones.

Six.

She put her money in and turned the knob and sat down.

I said, "You know...if you had asked I would have done that for you."

And out of the prettiest pair of lips, accompanied by fluttering eyelashes, came a voice made exclusively for green slimy monsters on Saturday morning cartoons.

"Whaaaaatttt???" She said.

Understandably, I was taken aback.

"I...I said. If you had only asked instead of just taking my clothes out of the dryer I would have gladly done it for you."

She said, "Oh, it says on the sign that if the dryers are stopped you can take the clothes out, so I did."

"Oh" I said, and looked in the direction of the six open dryers on the other wall.

"There's a whole wall of empty dryers you could have chosen from." I incredulously explained.

To which she replies, "Oh, well most of them don't work anyway."

Well I'll be.

I looked around the laundromat for the sign which vested such territorial power in Ms. Lefty Righty and found none. I also could find no sign signifying that the other six dryers were out of order.

I watched her put a few items of clothing on the closed lid of a running washing machine. I watched as she feigned ignorance when the owner of the clothes inside came back and asked whose they were. He was polite. It was nice to see.

It was a pair of satin panties and a halter top.

She just sat there and read her book.

So the guy had to move her unmentionables to get his clothes and get on with his mundane task.

I folded the rest of my clothes and watched her play with her curly hair. I watched her read her book all the while ignoring the world around her.

And as I came across my favorite Red Sox shirt which I'm going to keep clean until opening day, I stood there and marveled at such an unaware person.

She sat there while I hauled my clothes out the door and stepped into the cold air. Her see through plastic mannequin nylons seemed so much more revealing.

See, you can dress like you were brought up right. You can hold yourself like you're confident and secure. And you can walk like you've got somewhere important to go.

But a simple act of unnecessary selfishness can really ruin a good fake.

In the end, it all comes out in the wash.





Thanks for reading.


F.A.J.

Day sixty eight...Sometimes it just rains.

Last night I got to play a big gig with the Young at Heart Chorus.

The magnificent college auditorium was packed with over 1,000 screaming fans in a somewhat out of the way location on a rainy Friday night. All the press people were there including a camera crew, host, and production team for the nation's top viewed morning news program.

And for a change, it happened in our own country.

You see, this kind of thing is standard in Europe. We get the red carpet treatment everywhere we go. We get the four star hotels and the full on catered meals complete with local specialties that the chef can't wait to serve up with a smile. We get the 12 nights in a row sold out with the mayor making an unusual appearance with his wife in her finest furs. We get the front page in not just one, but all of the papers. And we get the throngs of people at the merch table hoping for a few words with a chorus member or two, or better yet, an autograph.

For real.

It's not anything like, "Oh honey, these folks were so cute and cuddly. I think it would just make their day if we asked one of them for an autograph."

No, they get it.

Say what you will about the snooty Europeans, but they understand art and the benefits of expression of emotion a bit quicker and a bit more on their own than we overstimulated and spoiled Americans.

More often than not we just look for the biggest crowd making the loudest noise and raise our hand and say "I want in!" and just hope for the best. And if it doesn't live up to our expectations (which change from minute to minute) we cry bloody murder and ask for our money back.

So, it is nice to see that after 26 years of having to outsource an audience for one of America's most important artistic endeavors certainly in my lifetime, the Motherland is finally taking an interest.

Because personalized, independent undertakings seem to be going out of fashion.

Or I should say, out of business.

Take, for example, one of the finest music magazines in the country, No Depression. After thirteen years of covering Americana/Roots music (and just plain music in general) thoroughly, professionally, passionately, and with a touch of humor, they are being forced to cease print publication.

New laws were enacted giving an upper hand to the big publishing houses who have larger circulations. Add to that the fact that people just don't go out of the house for their needs anymore and it spells disaster for those doing something a bit different. The brick and mortar is coming crashing down around us. You don't have to bend down to pick up a piece though. No, you can order it online and have it delivered right to your door. No Reserve.

No Depression featured my main band, Drunk Stuntmen, a few years back. They gave us 8 pages of attention. They sang our praises as a band of road warriors doing what we do because it felt more right than anything else possibly could. The magazine's editor, Peter Blackstock, came to many of our gigs when we'd travel through the South. He had been the man, in fact, to write the aforementioned 8 page spread. But one night, before he paid his money at the door of the club, he made a stop at the local Kroger to buy us a box of Creme Puff pastries. We had been turned on to them a few nights prior at an after party. He had noticed our amazement at the delightful regional treats and decided to do more than he had to just because he could. We were thrilled.

Peter understood that it only takes a little effort to make a big difference.



One of our favorite places to play, Middle Earth Music Hall, is unfortunately closing up shop as well.

Chris and Susie are the club's gregarious proprietors. But they aren't just club owners, they are family. We met them a few years back at their then new venue in central Vermont and quickly bonded. They built their club for musicians and fans alike. The stage is the right size, the PA is top notch, the acoustics are close to perfect, and the lighting even makes some of us look better than we should. They booked top notch entertainment both national and local; some of the same artists in fact that play at the club in my town that's been around over 25 years. They added a menu of fresh foods incorporating local ingredients and served the finest beer, tea, and sodas. And yes, they publicized the hell out of the place.

But attendance is down lately. Enough so that they decided to cut their losses and close up shop. I'm going to guess this has something to do with the ease at which we are able to obtain our entertainment. It's way too easy to stay home and devour any and all kinds of music on the computer. In fact, with minimal searching, you can actually watch Drunk Stuntmen playing there from a show in '06.

If this trend continues, pretty soon we'll all end up having to watch concert footage online filmed in empty clubs because everybody had the same idea: why buy a ticket and leave the house when you can watch it for free at home?

We'll be playing our last Middle Earth show on May 17. The venue will be sorely missed.



Today I walked into one of the better music stores in the area to poke around as I do, and see what there was to see.

What I saw was a big sign in the window that said "Store Closing. Everything Must Go."

My heart skipped a beat.

I have bought many items at Blue Note Guitars on Center St. in Northampton. The owner, Howard, has always had a fine selection of used instruments, amps, and accessories. He charges a fair price and you can usually talk him down a bit if you have cash in hand.

He told me that he couldn't justify leaving the house every day anymore. He wasn't making a profit, what with the high rent in town, and he was fooling himself if he continued to stay and sell in real time when most people buy in cyber space. He had a touch of resentment in his voice and I can clearly see why. It makes me mad too.

When I was a kid I never thought much about buying something I couldn't actually hold, especially a piece of music equipment as personal as a guitar. I mean, how are you going to know if it's right for you if you can't sling it over your shoulder, crank up an amp way too loud, and hear it for yourself. Let alone catch a quick glimpse of your bad self with the prospective new accoutrement in the distorted reflection of a black plastic bass drum head. You can bet Elvis did it.

You don't see too much in the way of used gear anymore. Guitar Centers and Sam Ashes make a lot of their money selling to birthday boys and girls out shopping with Mommy or Daddy. Junior might much rather have that 1975 Fender Jaguar hanging on the wall in the little store on the corner, but you can bet your money that he will be receiving something new; something wrapped in plastic rather than sweat and cigarette smoke; something with a warranty.

Just in case.

'Cause you know Guitar Center isn't going out of business anytime soon.

And the rest of us, myself included, find what we need online and fill up our cyber shopping cart and let the postal service do the rest.

Thankfully, the Young at Heart Chorus live show is something you can't order from the comfort of your Ikea office desk. You have to get up out of your chair and see them for yourself. You may have to brave the rain and brisk winds. You'll have to find a parking space and find your way to your assigned seats. And you'll have to do it on their time.

It's a personalized independent undertaking; something that seems to be quickly going out of style.

The documentary on the group will be showing in major movie theaters starting April 18 and I'm positive it's going to be a smash success. It's got everything going for it. Hell, it's good enough to win an Oscar. We'll find out in a little less than a year. Yeah, it's that good.

It's something the likes of which has never been seen.



Not in this country at least.



They say that when it rains, it pours.

Depending on how you look at it, sometimes it just rains.


Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day sixty seven...Foreplay and commitment.

I'm somewhat of a chameleon.

I always have been. It's kept me out of a lot of trouble and allowed me to see parts of peoples worlds without actually signing the papers and moving the wife and kids, so to speak.

It's quite important in the world of performing arts; the ability to achieve an understanding of as many musical styles as possible; to retain as much as you can when you're standing in front of someone who's doing something very much different from yours. Because there's a good chance you'll run into them again and it's best to have a grasp of the dialect they speak so you can communicate when they're not on stage.

In other words, it's best to pay attention the first time so you can just enjoy the ride when it comes around again.


I went to two uniquely different shows last night.

The first one was a spur of the moment collaboration of three musicians who are legends in their respective fields. It featured The Grateful Dead's Bill Kreutzmann (pronounced: Kroytz-man) on drums, The Allman Brothers' O'Teil Burbridge on bass, and Max Creek's Scott Murawski on guitar.

All monsters. All musical gods. All worshiped by many in the world of the Jam band.

I spent many years going to see Max Creek at the Living Room in Providence. They used to play there on Wednesday nights and it was always a good time. I'd drive the 20 minutes or so to Providence, park in the lot, score whatever I wanted and go to the show. This was when the Dead were still around and the balance of hippie power was still right and just.

I kind of saw the Allman Brothers when they played with Tom Petty a while back at Riverside in Agawam. I don't remember much except stumbling out of the park and accidentally finding the car I came in. I waited there with my head spinning until my group came back. I wasn't on my best behavior that night but at least they didn't have to go searching for me.

The closest I got to seeing the Grateful Dead was in Boston in '91. I was with my then girlfriend and we tried to scale the 15 foot wrought iron fence in the backstage area not once, but twice. Both times we got caught by security. They were nice enough to not call the cops because my girlfriend was so cute. Lucky guy.

The aforementioned trio played a surprise show downtown at Pearl Street last night. My good friend Paul encouraged me to go as it was a night I would be happy to say I had been a part of for years to come. The place was packed. It had been announced only two days prior and it was quite obvious in the faces of the hippie masses.

It was as if they had been thrown a surprise party and were kicking themselves that they left their stash at home. You know, they were super excited to be there but they wish they had had a bit more warning so they could do it up right.

I'm sure a lot of the dealers there felt like they'd just won the lottery.

It was almost like a reverse intervention.



It was a great show.

They came out to little to no fanfare and took the stage. The vibe in the room was a mix of curiosity, excitement, nervous expectation and awe.

Nobody knew what would play out because this had never happened before.

They played for two hours straight before they took a break. There was a ton of intense soloing, some communal interplay, some recognizable songs (mostly Dead but not exclusively) and some rocky endings. You could tell they had worked on the intros, the verses, some unison riffing during the solos, and the segues that were sure to elicit madness from the crowd.

But, like a drunk gymnast, some of the dismounts fell short. It was okay. They were stellar and no one is going to slight them for not being perfect. Not even me.

Clueless people always amaze me. I wonder if it is uniquely American and is indicative of our lust for everything all the time; an unfortunate byproduct of our tendency to grab blindly and then look at what we have in our grubby little hands; to take first and then assess if it was worthy of the time, energy, and money it took to attain it.

Clueless people like to come up and ask me questions. Same thing with the insane and homeless. I must have an honest face.

A kid approached me in the middle of an intense jam. He was in his mid twenties; not clean cut but not exactly a dreadlocked miscreant either. The jam I am referring to was currently being held together by one of the most famous drummers in the genre; a man who had played with the Grateful Dead for forty plus years; the man whose name was in the biggest letters on the playbill.

The draw.

So this hippie kid comes up to me and he says,"Hey man...um...do you know who the guy playing drums is? He's sick."

Oh...my...god.

I look at him. I check his eyes for traces of sarcasm and I find none. So I tenuously tell him Bill Kreutzmann's name as if he were standing right in front of me and I'm introducing him to this guy. I didn't want to screw up the pronunciation because that would have made me almost as clueless as the kid who had asked the question to begin with.

He's still looking at me with a big, blank stare.

I say, "From...from the Grateful Dead."

And he says, "Wow...he's really amazing."

"Yeah", I say, "He's pretty good."

And he wanders away.

I still have a funny feeling he was fucking with me, but at this point I don't care. I could barely wait to share it.





Two hours later, and I'm about done. Thankfully they stopped to take a break. I said goodbye to Paul and Charms and headed out the door past the patchouli patch kids.

I used to have dreadlocks. I really liked them and enjoyed the freakout factor it had on the uptight people, but I grew up and realized that a brush feels good on your scalp, and wearing a hat is more fun when the clasp snaps in the back. So, after about 5 years or so with a natty mess on my head, they had to go. Steve Sanderson painstakingly removed them for me. He had colored them orangey blonde a couple years before. Yeah, I know, it sounds pretty rockin'. It was, and I was sad to see them go. Steve did a great job and I'll always remember that day; a return to normalcy. Sort of.

Like I said, I'm somewhat of a chameleon.



So anyway, I took off, walked about 50 feet and headed into the Sierra Grille to see Spouse.

Spouse is very much the antithesis of the trio I had watched for the previous two hours. Passionate, angular, visceral rock with an amazing frontman named Jose and a crack band of local heroes flanking him on either side.

Mark Schwaber on guitar and bass, JJ O'Connell on drums, Ken Maiuri on keys and guitar, and Jose as mentioned earlier on guitar, bass, and vocals. The old guard; the boys I came up with in this music scene over the last 15 odd years. My friends.

They were playing music I knew in front of people I knew at a place I used to go to 4 out of 7 nights a week. It made me feel immediately at home and I got big smiles all around upon making an entrance.

The music:

The songs are intricate organisms born from an unpretentious and very talented man. You can easily tell Jose loves his craft more than most. Jose writes memorable, boisterous, sometimes playful, sometimes sad, and sometimes angry pieces which may or may not be sung in English. He speaks fluent Spanish, and incorporates it in some of his writing.

The solos, when there were solos, were short, furious affairs with a rapacious, acid attack of the pick and squalling feedback; eyes rolling back to reveal a loss of intent due to a momentary rush of energy from the vibrations flooding the perimeter.

Upon Jose's prompting I volunteered to hold a stopwatch and time one of their songs. They were attempting to break their personal best of one minute forty seconds.

They did.

By five seconds.



I was told that the Kreutzmann trio show went on until almost two in the morning. If I want, I'm sure I could hear the second set from one of the many people taping with high priced digital recorders and microphones. It's probably already online for the masses who missed it.

And I'm sure I could catch the part of the Spouse show that I didn't get to see from the people I knew there who were recording the show for their own edification. All I have to do is ask.


So when I say that the two shows I saw last night couldn't be more far removed from each other this is what I mean:

At the first show there were three guys from different bands and different parts of the world. They were on an unfamiliar stage playing other people's music to fans of the genre in general.

I probably wouldn't have gone to the show if either of them had been playing solo. It just wouldn't matter to me.

At the second show there were five guys, all from a small town. They were on a carpeted floor in a club as inviting and comfortable as your living room playing the frontman's original music to people who were fans of them in particular.

Nobody came up to me asking who the singer was. His name wasn't on the posters but we all knew him. Although his band was the draw, I would have gone to see him if he were up there all by himself. We knew his name because he's been slugging it out on his own terms for a very long time.

And instead of checking my watch to see if the show was almost over, I was holding a stopwatch to oversee a test of brevity.

Get in and get out and get on with it.

I'm glad I made it out to the big hippie show. It was a special event and I feel privileged to live in a town where this kind of thing would be possible; a town which can sustain two very different kinds of shows for two very different kinds of music fans.

But as I walked home through town at 1:45 in the morning, there was only one band's music that I was humming to myself.

The band I'm definitely going to go see again.

The band who was as happy to see me as I was them.

The band that made this chameleon definitely feel like he fit in.



Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day sixty six...7 years of bad luck.

A black cat just crossed my path.

No foolin'.

I was making my way back on bicycle from Young at Heart practice around five o'clock when it happened.

Minutes before, I had been heckled by some roustabouts from the Florence Community Center. One of them had yelled something like "get a license!" and I plum near rode into a snowbank. It was pretty funny as he was the passenger. Crazy kids. All hopped up on goofballs I'm sure, and out looking for trouble. Ahh, the life of a teen aged ruffian.

But it made me stop and think about how I used to think those things about people just like me; people who just scream: "I got a DUI and lost my license. Otherwise there's no reason on earth I'd be riding around on this Walmart bicycle with an inordinate amount of stuff on my back, huffing and puffing in baggy Wrangler jeans, a black jacket and winter gloves. Stupid laws."

Don't get me wrong, I like riding a bicycle. I like getting exercise. And I was excited to be able to ride from Florence to Northampton with my guitar, a couple of effect pedals, all my cords, and everything else in my bag that I bring around town anyway. My tools if you will.

But I know how I looked, and I know what I would have thought if I had driven by in my car a few months ago. "Poor bastard. One of the unlucky suckers that got pinched. Hasn't happened to me in almost twenty years. Whew! He's probably on his way to AA or something." and I'd hastily search for something wooden to knock on; in this case it would have been my guitar and it would have been in the backseat.

I made this connection only after I saw a few people out on bikes who actually seemed like it was their choice. They had the helmet, the spandex (yuk), the special shoes, and the two thousand dollar Trek ultralight forty-two speed with the extra reflectors and the mirror and all that bullshit.

As for me:

I was on a rusty bike that my former neighbors left under the porch a year ago. I had a Sox hat on my head, a guitar on my back, and a black laptop case bursting at the seams around my neck. And no, it did not contain a laptop. It contained my portable analog office; papers and pens and such; the stuff I used to carry around in my car.

Yeah, I know, one of those unlucky suckers who got pinched.

"Get a license!"

Well, starting tomorrow, I very well may be able to do just that.

It seems that the forty five day suspension I was given on January 23rd is finally here and I can't wait to go to the registry and get laughed at. Hysterical, milk out the nose, tapping-the-co-worker-next-to-to-you-and-pointing kind of laughing. Laughing at the guy with the laptop case full of papers that's expecting to get his license back.

"Step right over here sir, I need to take your picture. What? Oh, no. It's not for the license, you have to wait another couple of years for that. No, I want this for my collection of suckers who think they're different from the rest of the second offenders. I have a whole album full of 'em. Smile please."

Click.

And then they'll tell me I should call my lawyer on the payphone that's right outside; the one with the three guys on bikes waiting in line to use it.

At least that's what I expect to happen. You know, prepare for the worst.

I'm actually going to wait until Monday to go there.

Tomorrow I have more important things to do.

Tomorrow I'm going to practice guitar all day. I'm going to go to the gym (on my bike), come home, get dressed up, and go play a sold out show with the Young at Heart Chorus. It's on a beautiful college campus in a breathtaking theater. Oh, and I was told to ignore the cameras. Actually, we all were. The Chorus, Steve, and the band were all told that "Mugging for the cameras is illegal." We should be used to it by now but it's so easy to forget.

Because the Today show is going to be there. Yes, the Today show from the TV.

And Nightline is coming on Wednesday.

And they're going to arrive in giant Hummers full of massive recording equipment. They'll unload all manner of cameras and laptops and buttons and ribbons and boxes and bowses.

And I'll roll up in style.

On my old neighbor's bike with everything I need to pay the bills slung around my neck and strapped to my back.

The guy who definitely looks like he got a DUI and can't believe his luck.

Well, I can't really believe my luck.

But in this case it's a good thing.

But yeah, the black cat. Never seen it before in my neighborhood.

I'm not a super superstitious person. But I always knock on wood whenever I proclaim good fortune aloud. It's just a good idea. It's usually not too hard to do. There's a lot of wood in the world. Good thing too. Cause plastic guitars sound just awful.

Thanks for reading.

See you tomorrow.

F.A.J.

Day sixty four...It came to me in a dream.

I'm slowly writing my best record yet in a very unusual way: unconsciously.

For as long as I can remember I have abhorred waking up early. My constitution on this subject is quite traditional and unpopular among my fellow body parts and I really need them all to be on board for this procedure to properly work. I have, in the past, made resolutions to voluntarily get myself out of my oh-so-comfortable queen size bed before 9 a.m. Usually it works for a couple of days; just long enough to get a few extra things done and feel good about myself. Then, on the third or fourth day, upon prying my eyes open with a mental crowbar I would incredulously identify the alarm clock as mine, assess my recent advances in personal productivity, and fold faster than Superman on laundry day.

But I haven't had to set my alarm clock for a while now and I've been getting up earlier than ever. My brain has been responding to a call to arms; a desperate request for new musical ideas to go along with my new found lust for creative writing.

It all started happening last week. I had stayed up until around 3 am typing a story for something called a "blog." I slept for about 4 hours and then semi-consciously began the frantic and unrelenting pillow folding procedure that I employ to figuratively give the middle finger to the conscious world's reveille. It didn't work. It didn't work because I had been dreaming I was recording a song in a big beautiful studio. It was a song I had written and was listening to a playback of in the control room. The walls were littered with the many gold records I had been awarded over the years, presented to me by various musical icons including, but not limited to, Tony Orlando (sans Dawn. Although when I was a kid, I thought they were three people), Bruce Springsteen, Gloia Estefan, and Charo (yeah, I'm kind of a weirdo, but a gold record's a gold record).

I opened my eyes and slowly came to the usual conclusion that I was indeed in my bed. But unlike most days, I had been given a present in my sleep. I had been given a new melody. A melody which I could not place as familiar. A melody which I very much liked. A melody which I immediately whistled into the tape recorder I keep plugged in and at the ready near my bed.

It has happened 4 days in a row now and I think I really like a lot of it. And I'm not just saying that because I'm a megalomaniac and I believe my every excretion is worthy of preservation. I'll have you know that I'm presently working on reassessing that unfortunate condition by making public my every waking thought in something called a "blog." I'll give you the URL someday...oh, wait...never mind.

They're not full songs yet; not even close. But they are indeed examples of a method of creating that I have always been jealous of. I have read countless stories of artists who write in their sleep and then create some of the world's best music. It always seemed like that would require the ability to roll around in bed knowing that one's only obligation that day was to play their instrument; both mental and physical. And now, unbelievably, I have that life.

I have believed for quite some time now that worrying solves nothing; that working yourself up into a lather over situations which you have no control over is tantamount to mental suicide. Prepare for the future, of course, but deal with immediate problems as they come to you, not from afar. They usually are much smaller than they appear anyway. Usually.

But the key here is action, because there truly is no time to waste.

The world lost an amazing musician three days ago. Jeff Healy was a unique performer. Blind from retinal cancer since age 8, he went on to turn the world upside down with his slide guitar playing. The man had a niche. Admittedly, in 1988, there wasn't much competition for the title of "best white blind slide guitarist" but Healy wasn't just a gimmick. Healy was a force to be reckoned with. He seemed to be everywhere in the late 80's from the Billboard top 100, to the house band in the movie "Roadhouse" and everywhere in between. I didn't get the itch to play slide guitar until recently, but I always did revere Jeff's playing.

He passed away on Sunday at the age of 41 only weeks prior to the release of his first album in 8 years. According to news reports there is not word yet on whether the record will be posthumously issued.

I realize we live in a world in which heartbreaking tragedies occur on a daily basis. I realize that we as a people have become increasingly numbed to such events. And I realize that one must prioritize their daily tasks to allow for a productive life to flourish and survive. But we must not lose sight of why we are put on this earth.

We are put here to create.

Whether this means to bring a new life into this world, or to construct a menu to delight an otherwise pedestrian appetite, or to drive a bus connecting commuters to their respective destinations, or even to foster new ideas by teaching a student using passion, conviction, and honesty, we are creating something with our kinetic energy that wasn't there moments before.

We are producing something which oftentimes we aren't even aware of.

We do this when we kiss a new love for the very first time and wonder if they are the one. We do this when we realize, in the thick of a lunch rush, that our specials menu makes us feel good about ourselves because we can, by taking a chance with an odd pairing of flavors, delight a bank of taste buds in a stranger long dormant from mindless repetition. We do this as we facilitate the unpredictable process of serendipity in an overfull public transport vehicle providing the necessary contact with a person we may very well have avoided, realizing that we have more in common with them than a one dollar fare. And we do this when we disregard the real and present danger that exists within the halls and classrooms of our worlds and fearlessly challenge a growing mind to expand beyond the glossy pages of a Houghton Mifflin textbook.

And sometimes, we do this in our dreams.

I just did it again and I think I like it. I think I'll take the rest of the day (after the gym and some housecleaning) to foster this simple melody that came to me around 5:30 this morning and try to create a song; something that someone might eventually hear in a completed form someday.

Something that may be heard in the heat of passion, in the heat of a kitchen, in the heat of an overcrowded bus, or on their way to a classroom overflowing with willing participants. Which of course, we all ultimately are. And we hold in our book bags a daily homework assignment; the simplest of tasks due in the most immediate future.

To create something from nothing.

Because there simply is no time to waste.

R.I.P. Jeff Healy 3/26/66-3/2/08


Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

Day sixty three...Places everyone.

I've been cleaning my house for a week straight.

It's almost done now, but for a while it seemed like it would never end, and I have a really small place.

I live in an intimate but quite sufficient one bedroom apartment in one of the nicest neighborhoods in all of Northampton. In spring and summer, the sidewalks are bursting with precisely planted wildflowers. Children play on foot and on wheels in the street. Dogs and cats have space and permission to frolic and chase critters both real and imagined all day long. It's the kind of place where you don't have to lock your doors if you don't want to. In winter, it's always one of the first of the side streets to get plowed. There's a whole lot of money in this neighborhood and I'm sure the Mayor would like to keep it that way.

By right, I shouldn't have found this wonderful apartment, but I did. And for the last seven years, I have lived here; in bear country; at the end of a one way street; around the corner from a former Presidential mansion.

Yes, our buddy 'Silent' Calvin Coolidge lived right down the road in a gorgeous multi bedroom house overlooking the Meadows which features a breathtaking view of Mt. Tom and the Holyoke range.

Like I said, there's a whole lot of money in my 'hood.

But I didn't find this place because I wanted to move from where I was. Oh no. Seven years ago I was asked to; very nicely and tactfully, but firmly and with good reason. I was asked to move out of my place because I was a disaster; a walking, talking, vodka swilling disaster. And the whole time I thought I was the coolest cat on Market St. Hell, I'd even make fun of the guys on the porch of the halfway house on my way back from the package store with a 30 pack on my shoulder; the guys who were trying to clean up; the guys who had a place they were welcome at as long as they stayed sober and helped out around the house.

That was definitely not my situation; not even close.

I was drinking all day, every day. I was eating other people's leftovers. I was leaving trails of food that an average person could live on for a day or two. And my housemates stopped having people over for fear I would be on a tear. And when I was on a tear, which was every day, I'd be prone to doing things like taking an unsuspecting guest on a tour of the basement which we (they) cleaned out a month ago, just to show them how much better it looked. That sounds like a good time right? Or maybe, I'd break out my video tapes of me from when I was in a Portuguese wedding band and make you sit through me singing "Wonderful Tonight" because it was sooooo funny.


Right. Funny.


My housemates didn't make the final decision though; I was given a choice. I was actually given the same choice I had to make when I was 20 and still living at home with my mother and aunt.

Clean up or get the hell out of the house.

And I made the same choice both times. The part incorporating the word "hell" in it.

The reason I bring all this up is that for the first time since I made both of those decisions, I am living like I really mean it.

Let me explain.

I watch a lot of television. I have pretty much all my life since I can remember and it's taught me a few things. I learned about conjunctions, adverbs, congressmen and Superheroes from Saturday morning cartoons. And I learned about bars, taxi depots, and 50's diners in prime time. One of the things I have always loved dearly about television shows is the painstaking effort the production designers have to put into a stage set. If it's a restaurant, they have to make you believe that someone would be eating there. If it's a courtroom, they must take every measure to ensure that the casual viewer would not find glaring cues that they are on a sound stage in L.A.

Well, I had to make it look like someone was really living my life in my apartment in the beautiful neighborhood around the corner from a presidential mansion; a productive person with a positive outlook on life. Someone I aspired to be.

For years, as my addictions increasingly took over almost every facet of my life, I have had one constant; my apartment was ready for the cameras to start rolling.

The magazines were painstakingly fanned out on the coffee table. June's issue was perched on the top as it should, meanwhile I hadn't gotten around to reading the one from March. The record player had a record on it and the sleeve was propped up in front of the stereo cabinet, even though I'd been passively listening to the radio for months. An impressive looking book such as Brian Greene's "The Fabric of the Cosmos" would be splayed open upside down on the table just where I left it after opening it up in the middle, turning it over, and putting it face down never actually reading a word; the way I'd hurriedly left it when I knew company was coming over.

In other words, I was living a lie; a painstakingly premeditated lie.

I was ready to let almost anyone in my house and they would never be able to tell that it was all for show; that the only thing I had managed to bring from beginning to completion was clear bottle with a red metal cap on top. And even at that, the accompanying rocks glasses were slowly disappearing due to recent accidents.

What a ruse. And the worst part of it all was that I was fooling myself first and foremost. I cleaned my house and set the stage with props as needed. Then and only then I could lie on my couch and stare blankly at the TV; at the gray-green screen that would reflect my ever progressing dopey smirk each time they'd fade in and out to black, dragging me along with it.

I recently brought about a hundred pounds of magazines down to my basement. If I need to get one for something important, I can find it easily enough.

I keep my food items in the cupboards where they belong. I don't mind leaving a dish or two in the sink knowing I'll get to them by the end of the day. I'd much rather have them dirty from use than spotless from neglect.

I put my record player in my bedroom. It's there now because I will use it to play music on rather than to provide the appearance of some sort of retro cool bohemian. It's OK that my records and the player aren't in the same room; I know they're there.

The next thing to happen is to take the violin down from the wall it's hanging on and try to play like I did when I was 10; like a pro. Because I used to be an amazing violin player. I even had a partner. Her name was Lisa and she was my first girlfriend.

We're both wearing gold medals we won from a violin competition that was held at the High School. If you win three gold medals in a row they give you a medallion on a necklace called a Sunburst.

I have one of those.

Like I said, I was good. Real good.

And yes, I had a certain flair for plaid. It was my thing.

You didn't see many televison shows back in 1980 that had two kids with violins competing for gold medals; the one sensible one in a pretty dress; the confused romantic one in his Superman t-shirt and plaid dress pants.

No, I wasn't living a television show back when I was learning how to be real.

And I'm glad I've come, once again, to that same conclusion.

Applause always sounds better when it isn't asked for in lights anyway.



Places everyone.





Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

See you tomorrow.

Day sixty two...Silence is golden.

I've got a big mouth.

I always have. I think it has to do with being an only child and having to invent my friends. Not that I didn't have real friends, but sometimes, for logistical reasons, they had to be at the house that they lived in and do god knows what. So I improvised.

As real as imaginary friends may seem to a 10 year old boy, they have an inherent flaw. They don't talk back. This is, of course, for obvious reasons. But this non interaction can lead to cognitive distortions. Not only do you sometimes get mad at these imaginary people because they can't hear you, but it allows for gratuitous boasting. "I have the best tank in the world. It's got a super sized gun on top. It cost a million dollars. And I didn't have to pay for it. My grandfather gave it to me. Hah!"

They won't ever tell you to shut up. And somehow, they can never top you. You can just go on, and on, and on, at what an amazing tank you are armed with. And in your head they are smiling and nodding and are jealous as hell. They could save up all the imaginary money in the world and they'd never acquire as nice of a tank as you possess.

Suckers.

Boom!

You're dead. Should've come better prepared.




When I was 12 or so, my grandfather gave me an exceptionally nice ring. It was solid gold with a ruby on top and little sparkly diamonds surrounding it. It was his pinkie ring but it fit on my fat middle finger. Barely. It was like the Muppet Show; once it was on, it was not going to be removed without a fight. That second knuckle was a formidable checkpoint and used to infuriate me on a nightly basis until I gave up one day and decided to keep it on until further notice, much to the dismay of my mother.

I took guitar lessons at Fereirra's Music Store in a section of Fall River called, The Flint. The store was owned and operated by a fast talking Portuguese man named Ed Fereirra. Mr. Fereirra had a phenomenal toupee, a big smile, and an impressive selection of musical instruments.

Directly across from the music store was a place called Wally's Steak Shop. It was just a little hole in the wall that was mostly kitchen, separated by a wall with 2 windows; one for ordering, one for pickup.

And then there was the Galaga machine.

Galaga was one of the more entertaining space fighter games, loosely based on Space Invaders. Large, colorful, and ready to accept your money. It was also kind of like an only child. It could play all by itself. You could stand there and watch the screen and witness the game replay a well fought scenario for hours if you wanted to; no quarters necessary. It didn't need you. It had plenty of fun just sitting in the corner of the room practicing by itself. And since you were like an imaginary friend to it, with no way of practicing stealth moves and increasing your life expectancy on your own, when it said "Insert one quarter" it was hard to resist.

I had gone up the Flint one fine day (as they say in Spindle City) to ogle the Moserite guitar that Mr. Fereirra had recently acquired when I got the itch. I needed to see my pixelated foe, Galaga. And so, I stepped outside the store and walked past the wrought iron security gate; past the learner's drum set and the slide whistles in the window, and made my way across the street and stepped into Wally's.

There it was in all its glory. My opponent. My tall, colorful, shiny, noisy, only child of a video game, just sitting in the corner playing all by itself. It offered to compete, and I stepped up to the machine. I tauntingly jogged its red topped joystick and tapped the "one player button" playfully to let it know I wanted in. I inserted a quarter in the coin slot with my jewel encrusted 10 year old paw, and began my attack.

I was good. Very good. Many an hour had been spent either at Wally's or at the "Pinball Wizard" on South Main St. practicing my moves.



As I was about to advance to the next level of competition, I felt the sunlight from the window to my right disappear, quickly cooling my freckled right cheek. It provided me with an even better view of the monitor within. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of him. Tall, greasy, curly black hair, fourteen or fifteen years old, sleeveless shirt with sinewy muscles and beady eyes set in a permanent squint.

I attended to my game.

"Nice ring." he said.

"Yeah, thanks. It's real gold with those cool little diamonds."

My left hand fired a volley of staccato shots into the oncoming onslaught of alien swarm.

"And that's a real ruby on top." I said. " My grandfather gave it to me."

"Huh! Must be worth a lot of money."

"Oh yeah. I'm not supposed to even be wearing it out of the house." I proudly explained.

And he left.

I finished my game. The aliens had won this round, but I'd be back.

I left Wally's Steak Shop and walked around the corner to begin my short journey back to 1073 Bedford St. The intoxicating smell of steak and onions had reminded me that it was almost dinner time and Mom was making burgers; Momburgers as she called them. Not to be missed.

I didn't really understand what was happening until after the second punch. He had run up so quickly that I only heard the last few rapid footsteps from behind me. I caught the tail end of his shadow eclipsing mine on the sidewalk. It was like a hawk dropping fast over a mouse.

The next thing I knew, he was furiously pounding me in the face from behind. His long skinny arm curling around and dropping quickly with his tight, right fist. His other arm firmly wrapped around my neck.

"Gimme the ring! Gimme the ring you fat bastard!"

I saw a few thick drops of blood hit the tar speckled cement sidewalk. I felt and heard my head hit the cinder block music store wall as he threw me against it. He wasn't far behind as he slammed against me, smashing my left shoulder against the graffiti covered store wall.

"No! Lea-mee alone!" I yelled. "Help!" I screamed, and he hit me again.

He took a break from beating me and grabbed my fat hand and started pulling on the ring. It wasn't going anywhere. The little bastard pulled at my ring with the might of a giant and I felt it cut into my soft, piggy, middle finger.

"Gimme the fuckin' ring!"

"Lea...me...alone...ahhhhh!" I cried into the mid afternoon Fall River sky.

I saw a couple walking towards us on the other side of the street. They pointed and shouted in our direction. He hit me twice more; hard, and then, all of a sudden, it was over. He ran quickly away and around the corner of the music store.

I was laying on the sidewalk bleeding from my lip, clutching my still barely connected finger, complete with solid gold, ruby topped, diamond speckled ring.

"Are you alright?" the onlooker asked me.

"I nah no." I said as I felt my tears sting my split bottom lip.

"Did you know that kid?"

"Uh-uh." I told them. They helped me up and asked if I wanted them to call the police.

I told them no . . . but I would like to call my mother.

Of course I did.

So they helped me up and walked me to the Flint Library which I can vividly recall each and every inch of to this day, including the librarian who called me "George."

She took one look at me and gasped.

"Oh good heavens, George! What happened to you?"

"A bully beat me up," I said, sobbing, "and tried to take my ring . . . and I'd like to call my mom."

"Oh that's awful, George! Of course you can call her," said the librarian who put a Kleenex over the receiver as she dialed my home phone and got Mrs Johnson on the other line.

And if you don't believe any of what you've just read then all you need to do is take a look at the police log from the Fall River Herald News from June 4, 1983.

Needless to say my mother was in shock. She cleaned me up and held me close and put the burgers on hold. I wasn't going to be eating any sandwiches for a couple of days. Not with a split lip like I had.

My grandfather came over and we went downtown in his white '68 Caprice. We went looking for my attacker. We drove by Dave's Steak House. There were a couple of kids inside playing Galaga but neither one of them was our guy.

We drove up and down and all around and I couldn't spot the kid. He looked like a thousand other skinny kids from the projects. But I'll never forget that early evening drive looking for vengeance; looking for the kid that attacked the grandson of a proud man. A very proud, very angry man. We drove for a while longer, and he took me home.

I started taking Karate lessons the very next week. It was a class offered at the YMCA run by a man named Mr. Botelho. He looked like a cross between Scott Baio and Tony Danza; two of my favorite actors.

He taught me some moves; roundhouse kicks, punches, how to drop an attacker, how to roll back and bring down a would be knife-wielding foe, pulling him over you while your foot sat planted firmly in his midsection. And he taught me the spin-around, back hand smack.

I wasn't bullied too much in school. I was lucky. I played the harmonica. And anytime I felt threatened, I'd pull out my harmonica and start tooting along, making up a fun, happy, frantic song. I don't know if they were entertained, or if they just couldn't understand what I was all about and didn't want to find out. Sometimes, the unknown is more frightening than all the palpable power humanly possible.

And then there was Jason Rego.

Jason Rego went to James Madison Morton Middle school at the foot of President Avenue. He was a blonde, skinny punk of a kid with a face somewhat reminiscent of Tom Petty. He was rude, crude, smelly, and whiny. And he didn't like me at all.

He was in a lot of my seventh grade classes. I, unfortunately was forced to follow the same flow of students he inhabited on my way to class each day. And each day he would taunt me.

"Nice overalls Fred!" He'd say.

"Thanks Jason. My mom bought them for me. She has a job."

And of course he would become infuriated.

One day he was behind me as we walked to geometry class; to Mr. Meehan's big room with the Star Wars posters and the fish tank.

"Hey Fred." Jason said, "You smell like a turd."

"No I don't. But you do."

Point goes to Fred.

"You like girls and none of them like you."

Now this made me mad. It was true that I did like girls, but he had no right to imply that they felt differently about me. Little punk.

"Leave me alone Jason, or I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Are you gonna get your mommy to do it?" He said. "Is she gonna come down here and beat me up for you?"

"Jason, I'm warning you. I know karate." I said, and I clenched my fist.

"Oooohhh...fat Freddy is gonna beat me up. Nyah nyah na nyah nyha...you look like a girl...a fat girl...you look like a fat ugly girl, Fred."

And I hit him.

Not just hit him. I stunned him like a stuck pig. I swung around with all my chubby might, pulling the back of my hand from the furthest position on the other side of my body, swinging around and smacking him right across his stupid face. My hand hurt pretty bad, but I'm sure his face hurt even more.

I heard him start to cry.

Just a whimper at first, but soon a full on wail emanated from this skinny oh-so-tough punk.

"What's going on here!" yelled Mr. Nicolletti, the Principal of Morton.

"Jason was picking on me and I used karate on him." I calmly explained.

"You used karate?" Mr. Nicolletti asked. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I could." I said.

And as I looked around at the crowd that had gathered; the crowd that was presently ignoring Mr. Meehan's frantic attempts to break it up, I felt strong.

Because I could, said the short, confident, chubby, auburn haired kid in the overalls. The kid who was now being talked about by the 50 or so boys and girls that had gathered around the whimpering Jason Rego; blood trickling off his nose, forming a small pool on the dark linoleum floor.

The janitor would soon arrive with the sawdust.

Word spread around the school. I had used a weapon that none of them possessed, and that none of them could take away from me. In fact, Mr. Nicolletti couldn't even take it away from me. If I was alive, I knew karate. And if I knew karate, I could kick some serious ass.

I didn't have to use my harmonica so much after that; only when I felt like it.

How sweet is that?





I recently celebrated two full months of abstinence from drugs and alcohol. It is something I am very proud of, something that I value, and something that I have worked hard for.

It is not unlike the ring my grandfather gave me that I used to wear in the roughest places in town. It is something that I know is desirable. Not everyone is willing to do what it takes to obtain this small but priceless treasure. I myself was certainly not willing to work for it over more than 20 years. And just like the ring, if I flaunt it, I will be opening myself up for attack; for assault from stealthy foes who move fast and silent, both real and imaginary.

It is a skill that at present cannot be taken away from me. If I am sober, I have control of my life. If I use, I will become ill again and will most assuredly spiral out of control. This I know without a shadow of a doubt. So I remain strong. I take each precious day and noisily suck the last bit of life out of the bottom of the cup with a straw; skimming the surface for any remains.

I may have forgotten how to execute a back handed spin-around smack, but I sure as hell remember how a furious volley of punches to the face feels. And they feel even worse when they're self inflicted.

I may have a big mouth, but recently my brain has begun to call the shots. And they haven't involved whiskey, not even a little.

Hmmm...maybe a burger is in order.

Yeah, I could definitely wrap my big, fat mouth around one of those suckers.


Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day sixty...One for good luck.

"February Twenty-ninth."

Wow.

It looks so strange.

Like a person you know that has unusually big ears. Not just a little big. Really big. Like two halves of a bagel.

You maybe see them once every few years.


And this person, this big eared person, is always very much welcome. In fact, each time you see them, they help you do something you thought you didn't have time for. They give you a hand. And they never ask you to repay the favor. They just help you.

A lot of times you don't even realize that they've helped you until they leave; until they are on their way with their big ears sticking out from under their winter hat. And you say to yourself, "Next time ol' big ears come around I'm going to have to remember to thank him for giving me a hand."

And you always forget.

And they always come back.




I love leap years.

I love leap years for a lot of reasons. My rent is a little cheaper. My gym membership is a little longer. And March is put off for one more day. Don't get me wrong, I love the Spring, but March always makes me antsy. It sounds so commanding. So Alpha.

I also love leap years because they make me do math, which I do not like at all. And I'm trying to get better at doing things I don't like. Or at least not complain about them so much.

My Mom taught me long ago that if a year cannot be divided evenly by four, you cannot have a leap year. What you have is a "common" year as it's called in the textbooks. A boring old, run of the mill, three hundred and sixty five day common year. I learned that was when I was probably about 7 years old. Thirty years ago. Actually make that thirty years and one week; for good measure.

Prisoners must hate it.

"I sentence you to twenty eight years in jail...and that includes an extra week because of leap years."

What a mean judge that would be. It would be sure to make headlines.

"MEANEST JUDGE EVER POINTS OUT LUNAR LOOPHOLE: MIFFED FELON TO SERVE EXTRA WEEK."

But that would never happen.



I'm enjoying my leap day. I've been more in touch with taking each day on its own merits recently; trying not to confuse today with what happened yesterday, and what might happen tomorrow. I think you know what I'm trying to say.

This process isn't easy. I'm attempting a stunt that has never been done; not in my world anyway. This is definitely the longest jump in the history of my career as a stuntman and I have more to lose now than ever before.

But I have a good team behind me. All the measurements have been taken. All the possible outcomes have been explained to me. And every attempt has been made to ensure the most favorable conditions. I certainly cannot predict the future, but barring the unavoidable or the supernatural, I have great faith that my mission will be a success. But as you know, I won't know if it is a success unless I make a mistake. And mistakes are easy.

I have a great and loyal fan base. An unprecedented amount of tickets have been sold. I should have a capacity crowd assembled to watch this daredevil try to attempt the unknown. And surprisingly, my fans are not following my progress wondering what the odds are that they will witness a fiery, spectacular disaster. Because that's what sometimes happens in the world of extremes. We like to see the crash. We like to see fire. We court danger with a bucket of popcorn. The anticipation and excitement sometimes masks the fact that the consequences are real. The danger is real. And it's just a minuscule miscalculation away.

I've been enjoying a bit of a break from my focus. I've been having fun pulling out old newspaper articles and pictures and digging deep within my gray matter to recount my formative years of making music. It has been quite an unexpected pleasure. I still have a bit more to tell as we approach the time in my life when substances became not unlike a new pack of strings. I could get through a bunch of gigs in a row back then without changing them. But when I put on a fresh set I enjoyed how much better everything felt and sounded. After a while I had to have a new set on every day or I just couldn't pick up the guitar.

I know that I have said before that I started this whole writing thing for me and me alone and if you wanted to come along you were welcome but that's as far as it went.

But it has come to my attention over these last forty five posts in sixty days, that what I've been revealing about my past, present, and future has touched upon certain people's emotions. It has helped a few folks who were having a hard time. And it's given some, who were not aware, a better idea of what can happen to someone who has all the right moves but forgot to put laces in their shoes. I know this may seem like I am honking my own horn here, but I feel it is not. This is what I have gleaned from comments people have left online, letters I have received, as well as hearing it in person. I couldn't even honk my horn if I tried because Steve and Michelle have my car. And that's a very good thing indeed. Because that means that not only did I not destroy it, but I'm able to help some friends whom I love.

No, I guess at this point, saying I'm doing this for me alone would be like saying that I just learned a new way to play guitar and I don't want anyone to hear it; to sit in my room and develop a new technique that is helping me play better and faster each day and not want anyone to find out how I'm doing it; to steal the secrets of my breakthroughs. That would be selfish. I'm done being selfish.

And, of course, I wouldn't be able to share this precarious success if there weren't people who were asking me how everything's going; keeping tabs on my adventures. Be them friends, family, or those who only know me from what I reveal. Be them people who simply read my words and realize they are not alone, or those who patiently listen when I have a rant that I can't express in Times New Roman, and tell me what they really think. People who care about me who have their own time and life consuming struggles but make the time to read of listen. People who help me do something I thought I didn't have time for.

People with big ears.




Thanks for reading, thanks for writing, thanks for listening, and thanks for helping.

And thanks for having such enormous freaking ears.

Ah, I remembered to thank ol' Big Ears.

Ain't that something.

See you tomorrow.

F.A.J.