A note to my readers.

Hello.

For those who are checking in wondering what's up with the week-plus with no post, rest assured. I am merely taking a bit of a break and will return soon.

Wednesday will remain my 17 month sobriety date; I haven't screwed that up ... but believe me, if I did, it wouldn't take a week to let you know.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the weekend,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety eight ... Love, always.

Time has always amazed me.

I enjoy how definitive it is, how it can be pinpointed down to the last fraction of a second, and how we all are tethered to one pendulum--always moving, always progressing for ever and ever, regardless of if anyone is around to notice. I also enjoy trying to stretch it's limits on a daily basis, which is, in itself, contingent on the aforemetioned method of assessing the progress of our world.

In fourteen minutes it will be my dearly departed mother's sixty eighth birthday, the third she hasn't been around for. I just went back and reread the post from last May 14. I had, on that day, focused on a happy time--the pedicure that I got with her in 2005--because I had just learned of my aunt's state of health. I was a mess over it all, to say the least, but I was focused and had gotten a few months of sobriety under my belt. That made everything so much easier, and continues to do so.

There were so many questions to be answered. There were stories to dig up, rumors to put to rest, people in old photos to identify, and promises to accept. We spent four months doing all of these things, and when I look back on it now it seemed like it took a good year or more to move through the different stages of my aunt's illness to get to the point where it ends, and the rest of the story begins.

That's probably because it happened so fast it didn't give me time to attach a chronological framework to the process. It just happened and then it was over and I was left with a house full of clocks and no reason at all to be anywhere on time.

And now it is eleven minutes past midnight and I just had a good cry over a picture of my mom. 

Happy Birthday, Mom! Stolat!

And the seconds just keep piling up and in a little less than 24 hours from now it will be May 15, and her birthday will technically be over.

But before that, I have a little celebrating to do. 

Lobsters and steamers. These two things were my mother's favorite thing in the world. Perhaps it's because they both come with melted butter, perhaps it's because it is so unbelievably representative of New England, just like she was.

Editor's note: And just like that I find myself awake at 8 a.m. on the couch I fell asleep on about fifteen minutes past midnight, as if my dear mother was saying, "Alex, go to sleep ... we can celebrate in the morning ... you've been going all day ... ".  

Sometimes it's all too much.

I went home yesterday to mow the lawn; the grass was getting to the point where I had no choice. I pulled the rider-mower out of the garage and filled it up with gas. I put in the clutch and turned the key.

It started.

But when I tried to drive it it just sat there like an old lazy dog that want's to do anything except play.

I poked around until I couldn't figure out what to do and so I went down to the power equipment repair place right down the street. My aunt had all of her outdoor stuff serviced by them, so I know they would know the machine and may even be able to fix it quickly.

Sara, the boss, came by and took a look at it. It was agreed upon that it was the drive belt that needed replacing, and that it would take a good week to get the part in and get it fixed. I told her I needed to get the lawn mowed and asked if there was there any way I could rent a mower for the day.

She said no. I picked a bad week to need a quick fix.

That's when she called Rob C. He was a good guy, so she said, who had bought all his equipment from them and was starting his own company. She said that he even took care of a couple of cemeteries in the area as well. She was going to see if he could help out.

Lo and behold, when she called, he answered his phone. Not too many people in business answer their phones when you call nowadays. Nothing's live anymore, as it were. Everybody has to leave a message. And then, even at that, you get to hear it back and erase it if you don't like it. You get as many takes as you need to leave that "perfect" message. And while you're doing that, the person you are calling has all the time in the world to decide if they want to call you back. Hardly anybody does it live anymore.

Sara gave him my info and she took off. She didn't have to have come down. She didn't have to do anything until Tuesday when they do all the repair pickups, but she left with the rider-mower that would start but wouldn't go anywhere.

Rob called me and I told him where the place was. He showed up ten minutes later and already knew a bit about the property as his friend was part of the crew that did the tree work two weeks ago. We walked around and I showed him what I needed done.

I waited for the estimate that was going to make me gulp.

Instead, it made me smile.

He said he'd come by today, the 14th, and take care of the whole thing by himself--mowed, weed-whacked, and raked.

I wrote him a check and we shook on it. He seemed trustworthy and I know his dealer, as it were.

Then he told me, "I'm off to Turk's to get some steamers."

And I smiled again.

"Me too," I said. "When do they close?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Then I better get moving. Nice to meet you and thank you so much, Rob."

"My pleasure. Call me anytime you need work done."

"Will do."

Lobsters and steamers. These two things were my mother's favorite thing in the world. Perhaps it's because they both come with melted butter, perhaps it's because it is so unbelievably representative of New England, just like she was.

I was planning, even before I got to the house to find a broken mower, to go to Turk's to get some steamers to bring back to Florence. Jodi has never had a clamboil, and I thought there was no better day to introduce her to one of the finer, simpler, messier things in life.

So, when Rob said he was going there--for steamers, even--I felt it was a sign. In fact I could almost hear my mom saying, "Go home Alex. You did the best you could do and the day is almost over. You can consider hiring Rob for the day as a present for me. You go back to Florence and take care of things there. Because that is where you live. It is your home. It is where your heart is. And you know I am there as well."

So now it is 10:04 a.m.. 

At my mom's house Rob should be whizzing and burring; mowing and raking. And I'm sure the next time I go there it will look amazing. 

In my refrigerator there is life. There is a bucket of steamers spitting and hissing. There is even a couple of lobsters clawing and banging (I thought it would be a nice touch). 

Outside my house there are workmen planting trees, moving boulders in place, and laying stones to walk on. Because this is where I will be spending my life now that I finally figured out how to do it right. This is where my heart is.

And tonight I will have a guest over, adding even more life to my environment. We will cook together and, I'm sure, share a few laughs. The smells of fresh seafood will waft through the kitchen, the living room, and out to the neighborhood in my little landlocked county. I will put out the special little tools that one needs to eat lobster. I will put out extra bowls for the shells. I will put out two hearty portions of melted butter, as well as the requisite broth for dipping. I will put out the potatoes, onions, hot dogs, sausages, and linguica links (a spicy Portuguese sausage). And I will put out a big roll of paper towels.  Any meal that comes with a roll of paper towels you just know is going to be good.

I will do all of this with great love and aplomb, introducing someone new to this very New England tradition. It will be a celebration of all that I know. It will be in honor of my great teacher, my provider, my inspiration, and yes, even, my chef. 

As I do it it will fill my heart with pride and joy. It will fill my house with smiles and smells. It will fill my belly with a food that reminds me of hundreds of shared meals. And all of these combined will remind me that I am alive, and as long as I breathe this air I hold her memory close.

Home is where the heart is, and in my home and in my heart a great woman lives on forever.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Sto-lat!

Love, Always,

~Alex

Rest in Peace Judith Ann Johnson, 5/14/41-1/11/07

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety three ... One more book upon the shelf.

Tomorrow, May 9th, is my birthday; I'll be thirty nine.

It's been a long year since I turned thirty eight. Some amazing and positively life changing events have taken place and I dare say that I have never been happier to be alive.

That said, the start of it was a rocky introduction to say the least.

Last year it was with great trepidation that I drove to my aunt's house the day before my birthday in order to bring her to the emergency room. She had been complaining of abdominal pain for a couple of weeks and we had initially thought that it was just a complication from the surgery she had had back over the winter.

Well, she thought that was the reason; I had my suspicions that it was something else.

I say that now, after the fact, but it is the truth. I had been through the devastation of my mom's cancer a year and a half prior, as well as my uncle in 1998, and grandmother, in 1980 before that. I come from what specialists call a "cancer family" and I suppose part of me was still thinking in those terms when she was describing the pain to me over the phone.

I told her I was coming home and I was taking her to the hospital. She reluctantly agreed. 

And so it went that I got her in the car--my car--and drove her to Brigham and Women's hospital in Boston, parked in the tower parking garage, and walked with her to the admitting area. There we sat for four hours until they finally made room to fit her in. We sat in the intimately impersonal room and talked about all kinds of silly things to get our mind off the reason we were there. We talked together, close, while all around me there were people--some alone; others with huge families in tow--in varying states of distress. 

We talked about my car, and how I needed to get a tune up; we talked about our plans for my birthday and how we were going to go out to eat at a great Indian place; we talked about the asparagus I had gotten for her the week prior and how good it was; and we talked about the possibility that she was sicker than she thought. 

The doctors couldn't initially find anything wrong with her. All the tests came back negative. But they didn't want to let her go yet, so we stayed. And the surroundings seemed so familiar and fresh to me--spotlessly clean with hardly a primary color in sight, save for the control panes of the myriad machines in every room. The walls, though, were different. The walls, the sheets, the ceilings, the floors, the hallways, the tables, the chairs, the bathrooms, the elevators--all of these things were muted neutral colors: blues, grays, whites and browns.

When it became apparent that we would be there for a while, as they ran more tests, they wheeled in a hospital bed for me to lay on next to her; they were all nicer than nice. And my aunt--as was her way--made sure to mention to almost anyone who would come to help her--if their position was anywhere above that of the janitor--that I--her nephew--had just come back from Los Angeles where I had played on The Tonight Show, of all things! And Ellen, too! She said to anyone who would listen how good I was being, taking her to the hospital on the night before my birthday. 

She had gotten used to singing my praises a bit later than my mother, but not without good reason.

And there we drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours side by side in the semi-permanent partitioned area in the emergency room wing of the hospital in Boston. 

When the nurse came in again to check her vitals my aunt noticed that it was just about midnight. She asked for two cups of water and ice. When the clock struck twelve we toasted, and she sang me Happy Birthday, all by herself, in a voice that I will never--for better or for worse--forget. It began joyous, strong and sure, but quickly lost control like a single prop plane running out of altitude and gas, narrowly missing the ground. I hugged her tightly and thanked her and told her how much I loved her. She told me the same. We didn't cry a lot, but we did cry.

The next time I looked at the clock it was with bleary, irritated eyes; the big, round, black and white clock read 3 a.m.. The doctor came in and addressed my aunt. The whole place had simmered down, but it was still nowhere near quiet--kind of like a sleeping humming bird. 

She woke up slowly and composed herself with a grimace. My aunt--like my mother before her--did not like company to show up unannounced, regardless of whose house we were at.

When the doctor sat down on the bed beside her I believe we both knew what was coming next. Doctors don't sit on the bed if they've got good news. No, that they report from a distance, perhaps so the whole family can smile at each other and hugs can come flying forth. But bad news is meant for tight quarters, as it isn't really welcome in the first place. It is meant for complex, slow movement, with shoulders back and jaws agape. 

Bad news may travel fast, but only once it has been laboriously and methodically delivered. 

And so it went that I hugged the other parent in my life and absorbed the bad news, slowly, incomprehensibly, but undeniably rife with devastating implications. And I call her "the other parent in my life" because she absolutely was. My mom was most assuredly my mom, but my aunt was more than just her sister. In conversation, when I referred to my mom and aunt, I would always call them "my folks". Because thats who they were. 

Due to my tendency towards looking at life with an analogous mindset I see the beginnings and the ends of major periods in my existence as so many books in a personal library. I don't always know when a book is going to officially end if I'm currently reading it, but I have a good idea when it's starting to tidy things up. I can sense when the lighter stack of bound, printed pages is preparing to reunite, en masse, with its much denser familiar reserve. And eventually the pages that your right hand keeps sequestered--the pages that are new but relate, inherently, to those that came before it--eventually these pages slip away under your thumb and you are left with a few blank ones before you finally come to the thick back cover, glossy and stiff. And that is the point when it can't be denied that your book is done, that there are no more stories in it to tell, and you must put it up on the shelf with the ones that you've already read.

I have a lot of these books in my library now. Some are trilogies; some are giant tomes; some have pictures to go with them; some are full of rudimentary sketches and are barely comprehensible. But they have all been read, and they all have a beginning and an end, for that is what makes any book a book. 

I wasn't aware that I was at the end of one book last May 8th. I had a feeling, but I won't say I was sure of it. I just knew that there was more of a chance of the worst case scenario happening than something else. And if that happened--if it was a mere case of diverticulitis, or an upset stomach--then I would have been pleased to find that there were a few pages that had been stuck together waiting for me to continue--possibly enough to take up years of my time. But that's not what happened.

And from 3 a.m. on May, 9 2008, until 1:00 a.m. September, 7 2008 another book was opened, read, and closed. It wasn't an easy book to get through, but at least I knew where I stood. And it made me sit up and pay attention and understand that I held in my hands a very short book, but one that was as important as any collection of consecutive pages to come before it.

And in the end it did get put up on the shelf with the rest of them, in chronological order but certainly not in order of importance.

And here I am, somewhere in the midst of another adventure. The book I am currently involved with, I am pleased to be able to say, documents one of the happiest times of my life. I never thought I could live my life like this. I never thought I could rid myself of all the stress and worry I used to carry so close. I never thought I could open my heart up for someone else like a faucet, letting the tap run for so long that the DPW puts my address on alert--"they must be doing work on the old Johnson house ... this meter's off the charts."

And this year I have a magical birthday in store for me. I will be spending it with a woman who I love with all my heart and soul--someone who my dear mother and aunt never got to meet, but perhaps that's only because they were so busy on the other side of this mortal stage calling the lights and pulling the curtains. The wings don't usually provide the best view, but it's always where the superstars gravitate to watch the show. I have to thank them, wherever they are, for what it's worth. It would be rude of me not to. 

So tonight I will allow myself to be awake and aware at the stroke of midnight. I will allow myself to embrace the natural but orchestrated documentation of the passage of time into my thirty ninth year of life. I will remember the women--my folks--who sang to me, as they had for every single one of my birthdays prior, and reflect on all that has happened in the past three hundred and sixty five days. Then I will embrace and kiss my true love. I will protect with all my attention, awareness, and affection someone who didn't have to enter onto my stage when she did, as I admire whoever it is that is writing this play, and thank heaven above that I haven't the faintest idea how it will end ... 

And as far as this book goes ... thanks so much for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day four hundred and ninety ... Doing the little things right.

We live in short sentences, six words or fewer.

Do or die.

How sweet it is.

Eyes on the prize.

One day at a time.

Live for today.

May the force be with you.

Live fast, die young.

Don't worry about it.

It's a decidedly American concept. We like our mottoes, our slogans, our chants. It's like we can't keep quiet and mindful for longer than it takes to think of the next thing and then we're off like a firework on the fourth of July. When they go off every year I sometimes feel as if they are a code of some sort--a speech or a monologue, ending with a rousing ovation by an already converted audience.

But we like to keep it brief.

And so, as a product of this culture and one of it's proponents (despite my frequent criticisms), I have one of my own.

"Do the little things right."

Yes. I know. It goes against the idea that we mustn't dwell on the minutia of the world--that the big picture is what is of most consequence.

But if the wall hanger that the big picture is relying on for support is installed with haste and indifference, then the big picture, as it were, is only one strong slam of the front door away from ending up on the floor with a shattered pane of museum quality glass.

Do the little things right.

I have some nice guitars; I've had some of them for more than twenty years. They're pretty durable, but each and every one of them are at all times under immense tension from six thin cables running lengthwise from tip to tail. They all have protective cases, but I like to have them handy so I can pick them up and play them when I'm home (out of sight, out of mind is a six word phrase that comes into play all too frequently in this situation). A guitar stand costs $25, give or take. I had a couple stands that each had a small but significant problem with them. It's possible that I could have used them for a long time without an accident. But I went out the other day and bought two new stands. I didn't want to spend $50 on something that I technically already owned. But the way I see it, if one of my guitars should fall and the neck should snap because I was using something that, by definition, did not, and could not perform its purpose (to "stand" my guitar up when I'm not holding it), then I just ruined something more valuable to me than one could fathom.

Do the little things right.

The coasters I own, if left unused, could ruin an otherwise flawless tabletop finish.

A price tag, if not cut with scissors but, instead, ripped out forcefully as I am so accustomed to doing, could--and most often does--rip a shirt collar.

A sink with a few dirty dishes could so easily be left at the end of the night for the morning. The idea is so delicious that I swear I get a high just walking away from them. But more often than not I will do them before I go to bed. I don't live in a restaurant. I don't have a night crew. I made a small, contained mess that is still malleable and open to a quick scrubbing ("clean as you go" is a four word phrase a wise man in an apron once told me). When I get up in the morning the last thing I want to do is dishes. No, I want to use them ... clumsily. And it makes the start of my day so much nicer when I'm not picking up from the night before. 

Do the little things right.

I'm not trying to write a self-help book here, unless you take the literal meaning of that and apply it to how I'm trying to impart the ideas and practices that I have used in my recent past to help myself improve. And I don't mean this to, in any way, be misconstrued as nagging or chastising to the reader. I just can't not talk about it, because it is so unbelievably simple and consistent that I feel I would be remiss to not focus on this seemingly small but ultimately monumental facet of my newly commandeered life. It works on every level. It only takes a little bit of effort to make a huge difference. And the best part about is that it gets easier the more I do it.

That piece of paper on the floor is still going to be here the next ten times I walk by it ... 

And the thing I like most about doing the little things right is that if you take care of the seemingly insignificant details of the average existence, then the big things don't seem so big anymore. They have fewer conspirators to compare themselves to. They have fewer places to hide, and, as a result, have more sides exposed leaving unseen weaknesses in plain view. And when that happens, they lose their swagger and pomposity. They lose their bravado. They become last year's model. They begin to cooperate. 

They become a littler thing.

Time is like a small child. If left unattended it may wander off or, worse yet, be taken away right from under you.

That said, it's time, once again, to do the little things right ...

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and eighty six ... Sitting at the feet of the giants.

Stravinsky, Brian Eno, Genesis, Return to Forever, and The Mahavishnu Orchestra. 

These are the five artists' records--vinyl records--that Jodi, my girlfriend, brought over to my house on our first "real" date on February 10 of this year.

Those who know who these artists are will surely understand how unusual this grouping is from a typical female music listener's perspective. All except for the Stravinsky fall into a category called "Progressive Rock". This category of music is typically enthusiastically enjoyed by a predominantly male demographic. Not that there aren't plenty of women who like the stuff, it's just a bit unusual.

Those people who know me will undoubtedly understand that this was a biggie--a landmark discovery in my life. A shocker like this doesn't go by without notice--not from a progressive rock geek who grew up wearing out his Mahavishnu John McLaughlin records sporting a Brian Eno t-shirt, while breaking up weed on a Return to Forever gatefold.

Let's just say that things went well mostly from the get go. And when, on February 20, I spied an opportunity to buy two front row center seats to see John McLaughlin and Chick Corea (Mahavishnu Orchestra guitarist and keyboardist for Return to Forever, respectively) and their Five Peace Band live at the Berklee Performance Center in Boston, I just couldn't say no. 

I held on to the tickets and kept my mouth shut for three weeks before I sprang the news on my then new lady friend. When I ceremoniously gave the ticket to her (uncovering post-it note after post-it note revealing the date, seat, and artist, respectively) she nearly fainted.

I knew then that we had a good thing going.

Yesterday--five weeks after giving her the news--we drove to Boston to see this momentous show.

Funny thing though, the tickets, when they arrived in the mail, were not what you might expect to be bringing to a concert. They were not small rectangular pieces of stiff cardboard with perforations on either end. No. Instead, what I pulled out of the Priority Mail envelope was merely two sheets of computer paper with an "e-ticket" printed on them. Basically a bar code with some promotional ads surrounding it. It's enough to make a guy worry, especially when he pays a bit above face value for a ticket whose seat demarcation seems worthy of the most lucky man and woman in the world.

And so, we took our good karma, our I.D.'s, and our two pieces of paper with us in my Subaru as we hit the road like a couple of true badasses.

Between Mapquest, Google Maps, the Berklee website, and our iPhone GPS's, we managed to find the place no problem. We found a cheap lot to park in ($12 max for the night) and headed out into the world.

We ate at a pretty good Indian restaurant right down the street. Then we had some delightful cupcakes at a place Jodi can't believe she didn't see before me. The important thing is one of us saw it.

Yes, I know, they look good. The bottom one had chocolate sauce in the middle. 

I give the joint high marks for the quality of the food. However, the lack of public bathroom will force The Phantom to give the place three out of a potential five stars.

Back to Berklee for a gratuitous couples shot in front of a map of the campus. Then it was off to try our luck at the ticket window with our printed out 8x11's with the name of the show on it and a seat assignment that just smacked of a rip-off.

A fifteen minute wait at the door and we were up to the ticket taker. A couple of people in front of us had the same kind of tickets; most did not. Most people actually had hard, small, official looking tickets. But we advanced, and Jodi gave hers to the guy with the scanner.

It worked!

Next was me and that one worked too! We were in. But now it was time to see if the seats were really "front row center."

They were.

They were the most front row centerest tickets you could possibly expect. Twenty seats on one side of me; nineteen seats on the other side of Jodi. It was unbelievable. And when a guy came up hesitantly, with a ticket in his hand, and asked us what our tickets said, I almost swallowed my gum. But he had the wrong row and I just sat back and took it all in. I smiled. Jodi smiled. And then, of course, we publicly and dramatically high-fived each other.

And then the lights dimmed and the show began.

The applause crept in and swooped the room up as one by one the band made their way to the stage. Kenny Garrett on sax; Christian McBride on bass; Brian Blade on drums; Chick Corea on keys; and the one and only Mahavishnu John McLaughlin, one of the best--if not the best musicians to ever play a stringed instrument on guitar. He approached the front of the middle of the stage--ten feet directly in front of me--and held his instrument up humbly as if to offer it to the audience who were ready to accept, graciously, and unabashedly.

It was time to go.

The photographers crept in from either side to take pictures as they knelt down in front of the front row. I didn't take a lot of pictures, but that was only because the performers were so close and could see anything I was doing that I didn't want to offend them, nor did I want to annoy the people around me.

The music was amazing. Long, intricate, emotional, spider webs of songs that gave each musician space to come out to play. Kenny Garrett, on sax, laid back for the beginnings of most tunes--almost to the point where you forgot he was there--and then he'd step up front and just dive in, weaving string after string of beautiful and dramatic runs and bursts. 

Christian McBride, on bass, just wowed everyone with his amazing low key playing. He was sometimes frenetic but never out of control. He could let a low D rumble and make the whole room shake for a few seconds. He was in control whether on five-string fretless, or stand up double bass.

And Brian Blade, on drums, was unspeakably good. John spoke on an auxiliary microphone a few times during the evening. As he introduced the band one time he said, "And can you believe Brian Blade on drums? I mean, look how skinny he is ... and look at that tiny kit ... "

(my apologies for the fuzzy picture, Brian).

It was pretty funny to hear John speak like that--candidly, and a little more gregariously than I would have expected. Nonetheless, Brian was a whirlwind on the little six or seven piece kit he had on stage left. Moving continuously up and down and side to side, he seemed to be sparring with his drums. It was masterful to watch and simply maddening to try to keep up with.

Chick was stellar as well. Organic sounds flew from his keys. He played some actual acoustic piano, but mostly he played a couple of Yamaha Motif keyboards. I couldn't see him so well with them in the way, but he'd occasionally stand up and get in on the action grooving and smiling a bit

And John was just breathtaking in his mastery of his instrument. 

For twenty-five years I have been in awe of his playing. There are plenty of guitarists that I have managed to replicate, somewhat, in both sound, as well as playing style--Gilmour, Clapton, Page--but McLaughlin has always been the one guy that I could never touch. He is and always has been so unbelievably in tune with the way he conveys his musical passion through his hands via six strings (and occasionally 12, but not tonight). To watch him so close gave me a bit of a better understanding of how he does what he does, but that really doesn't help me in the actual execution department. I have so much to learn to even begin to approach his style, which seems to come from a place where key, time signature, pitch, volume, and tempo are merely tumblers in a safe's lock which only he can open up. They move up and down and around in a seemingly limitless number of combinations, but he can open it up like nothing with a turn of his hand. His band has been taught the combination and have been given permission to enter the world created by his ideas. And, not to downplay Chick, who wrote many of the compositions, but I have a feeling that if asked even Chick would defer to the great Mahavishnu on many levels.

The show was two long sets, with the first one being a little over 90 minutes long. The two headmasters chummed around on stage talking about how they had known each other for 40 years, and how Miles Davis had got them to play together on "In a Silent Way" in 1969. There was way more banter than I expected. Even to the point where Chick talked about how this was the second to last night of the tour that had gone on for months and traveled to so many countries that he couldn't even remember if they had played Hong Kong. He said, "... but tonight is really the last night of the tour ... tomorrow we play in Burlington and we're just going to screw around ... ", which got a nice laugh from the lucky ones in the hall.

He even mentioned how they booked the show in Boston because he has relatives in the area and gave them a little shout out. Earlier--as Jodi and I were waiting in line--a woman with bright red lipstick, big, perfect hair, and hoop earrings was joking amidst a group of similarly well dressed older people (and a few kids) about how "... you'll see ... when Chicky calls my name ... you'll see ...". And so it went.

"Chicky"??  ... how adorable is that? Once again, right place, unbelievably right time.

Being in the front row for this show was a surreal experience for sure. The capacity--which was full--is 1,220. That said, I barely looked behind me more than once. It was so engulfing to be so close with an equal distance to the end of the front row on either side and a mere ten feet to where the giants of this great music stomped their respective feet. 

To be there and to be where I was was one thing, but to be there with Jodi, the most amazing woman I have had the pleasure to have met, felt like there was nothing else that could possibly come close to being as perfect an experience. 

The encore was uplifting, and it felt as if the whole place could have erupted into a dance floor. But this was a jazz show and, of course, we all behaved ourselves. It was uplifting, as I said, but it was also a reverential experience--not one to be taken flippantly--and though a couple of people that had been sitting to our left departed before the encore opening up the seats for a couple of younger dreadlocked kids that might have otherwise been a bit loud, we all just sat there transfixed until the lights came up, the instruments came off, and the giants retreated to the hills of the backstage.

And so, we rose with the other 1,218 people in the hall and I hugged Jodi and expressed my joy for being able to be with someone like herself at an engagement such as this that meant so much to the both of us.

We walked outside and around the corner as if it was understood. We took the corner around the back of the building and there was the big Prevost tour bus. There was about fifteen prog-geeky kids waiting on one side of the entrance way with album covers and Sharpie markers in their hands. The other side was practically unoccupied ...

... so we occupied it.

We waited there for about twenty minutes. I looked at my phone and remarked, "Happy May", to Jodi (May being an important month to me as it holds my birthday, my dear late mother's birthday, as well as Mother's Day in its bookends). The security guard was pretty strict with the kids in t-shirts and cargo pants; he left us alone. It's funny what you can get away in a little formal wear.

It was 12:01.

This was the scene directly across from us:

Kenny Garrett was the first to exit. He came out with both hands full--classic. Nobody was going to make him put his stuff down; he looked like a busy dude.

Brian Blade came next. He ended up talking to a couple of people who he knew that, I think, were from New Orleans (Brian is from Shreveport). We shook his hand and thanked him for a great show. Jodi got his autograph and I, for some strange reason, didn't.

Christian McBride came out after that and signed both of our playbills. A really nervous dude (who you can see in the far left against the wall) had a bunch of albums with papers and posters in the jackets that he couldn't get straight and ended up having Christian sign an album he didn't play on, I think.

There was the appropriate amount of suspense as we waited for the stars to appear from the tiny backstage door. I squeezed Jodi's hand each time it opened. It opened a few times with roadies and press people exiting.

Then it opened for real ...

John McLaughlin came out a few feet and was swarmed by the people in the above picture. One guy had five or six things that he had John sign. A couple of kids--real cute, like, fourteen year old guitar players--asked for his autograph. Then he finished with the immediate crowd and came our way.

I swallowed hard and cracked my knuckles.

"I'm a huge fan from a long time back, John," I said. He shook my hand and asked me my name; I told him. 

Then I said, "... and this is my girlfriend, Jodi. She loves your music as much as I do." 

"Well, hello Jodi," he said, "nice to meet you."

And Jodi shook his hand and said gently but proudly, "... I'm the only woman who listens to your music ..."

John McLaughlin smiled and stared at her. There was a bit of an awkward pause as he thought of how to react to that strange statement. Then he said, "You mean most women don't listen to real jazz, eh?" And he kind of chuckled.

Holy shit! I couldn't believe it. He knows he's the man! He knows!

And what's more, he gave us a freaking anecdote.

Mahavishnu John McLaughlin--possibly the world's greatest guitarist--said, "You know, you'd be surprised ... there's an old couple in England, that I'm friends with, who sit around in their house coats and slippers and just love it, you know. They just get far out and put on my tunes. There's a few women out there that enjoy it. Not many though."

And I just smiled at Jodi who was beaming and somehow managing to keep herself together.

"Could I get a picture with you John?," I said.

"Well ... I don't see why not ... everybody else does!"

And I put my arm around him--between his head and the guitar that he had in a gig bag strapped to his back--and pulled him in close. Jodi aimed my camera at the two of us ...

... as I hugged a giant.

And through it all--amidst the melee--I could see from the backstage door the unmistakable curly gray hair of the other guy in big letters on the bill, Chick Corea, who had managed to use his bandmate's fame and flurry of excitement to sneak by and get onto the bus without much fuss. I bet he's done it before.

As John was following suit, and getting aboard the giant hissing tour bus, one of the teenage kids approached him and I heard him ask:

"John ... um ... do you remember giving Jimmy Page lessons ... ?"

John just looked at him and smiled, as he stepped aboard, and said after a thoughtful pause, "Unbelievable, isn't it?"

And who could argue with that?

There was a man who was standing with us who was nearer our age. He was a big fan as well. Jodi asked him to take our picture together.

And as he handed the camera back to us he mentioned how it even had the tour bus pulling away in the distance. It's a nice pic, don't you think?

As I post this blog, on Friday, May 1 at 8:45 pm., the band is in the beginning stages of the last show of their world tour. Thousands of fans from around the globe have marveled at the passion, skill, virtuosity, and imagination that these five men have created. It goes beyond styles or studies, temperament and patience, and cuts right to the heart of why we do what we do. 

I believe that we, as humans, are on a never ending quest to express how we view the world and what we feel emotionally inside us to the rest of everyone we meet. Some of us can and do and, in the process, make the world a better place; some of us can not or will not and, in the process, either do harm, or sometimes, even worse, do nothing.

Tonight 1,218 people behind me watched in awe and participated in heightened emotion and powerful reverence. The woman who sat to my left made me feel like I have made every right decision, and, feeling that strongly hope I can continue to live life as such. The five giants directly in front of me gave me everything I needed to truly believe that music is the most common tool that can be implemented, and that there are some whose methods go beyond mere mortal skill and verge on tapping the energy and inspiration from outside the earth's opaque and insular sheath.

There are five records that sit together in my collection. They have laid tight next to one another for eight days shy of three months. They, together, symbolize my new bond with another. It, to me, signifies that there is a grand box of surprising connections within everyone's grasp--one that may have lettering which seems unfamiliar or confusingly unique. These records are the five that Jodi brought over on that precious night when my eyes started to work again. And, as if I were asked to pick two cards out of the deck, we, last night, laid witness to two of those artists that we so both love and revere, making them even more special in our lives as we do the same for each other.

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

PS: My grandfather, Alex, had many stories. One of his favorites involved going to see Don Rickles in concert many years ago. He went to the backstage door after the show and knocked. When the bouncer opened up and asked what he wanted, my grandfather said, "Could you tell Don that Alex Johnson from Fall River is here?" The story went that the bouncer went and told Don, who immediately came out and hugged my grandfather and palled around with him for a few minutes before giving him an autograph. They did not know each other, and had never met before.

It's funny what a little confidence will get you.

Thanks Gramps. I miss you.

Day four hundred and eighty three ... Never the same, only similar.

I'm planning quite a delightful trip.

Not to be too secretive, but I need to keep the details of it under wraps for a little while longer. I have some plans left to make, but I'm expecting that the whole undertaking may very well be the greatest vacation I have ever been on ...

... that is, since 1985.

In 1985 I took what would be the last vacation of the first phase of my growth as a person. It was the last time I'd go away for an extended time before my adolescence kicked in to overdrive and my "cool" gene took over. Shortly following that--upon entering the hallowed halls of Bishop Connolly High School as a sophomore, getting destroyed by my first love, and discovering the joys of drugs and alcohol--I would start to think that spending time with one's mom was the last thing in the world anyone would ever want to do.

But I remember feeling not at all like I ever did after that trip.

I don't recall all of the details. I know I was fifteen--a freshman no longer--and the world's biggest U2 fan. Their live, four song EP, "Wide Awake in America" had just come out and Bono was sporting a black fedora-like hat in some of the inside cover photos. I wanted one. I wanted his voice too. And I'd sing the impossibly difficult chorus to the song "Bad" at the top of my lungs when I was alone at home, often, much to the assumed chagrin of my next door neighbors.

I remember that Live Aid hadn't happened yet. I remember that because I remember watching it at my cousin's house in Bremerton, Washington, on July, 13 at 5:30 in the morning (the U.S. portion starting in Philly at 8:30 e.s.t.). It was amazing. I'm pretty sure I was up that early anyway due to the time zone difference but U2 was on at some point--that much I knew--and I would have done anything to see them play regardless of when I had to start watching. They were there, somewhere, and I couldn't afford to miss a casual glimpse by the camera of one of them backstage. I was a bit anxious, as they said back in the day.

I remember that west coast portion of my trip quite vividly, partly because my mom would end up having to rent and drive an unfamiliar car (strange, what variables provide aging memories sustenance). From 1977 to the late 1980's she had owned a beautiful, light green Volvo 240 that played an integral role in my childhood. It had an analog clock which I can still hear ticking away, second by audible second, as I sat on the tan leather seats--voluntarily, adamantly, and expectant--while she did her shopping at various farm stands, grocery stores, or clothing stores like Hit or Miss or Fashion Bug. Anyway, we had flown across country and then rented a car--a Buik Skylark, I believe--to travel down the coast to Arizona to go to the Grand Canyon, among other places of intense interest. 

I remember hearing Phil Collins' voice on the radio, singing "You Can't Hurry Love" and liking it. I remember that changing shortly thereafter. 

I remember seeing my first lesbian couple. It was an indoor tourist stop, somewhere near Yosemite. It was an older couple, both slender and with short hair. The exhibit was dark inside--perhaps a diorama of a wilderness scene with lots of dark blue light. Then I saw the two women holding hands. Gasping, I turned quickly to my mom, who was standing close by, as usual, and opened my mouth to speak. I remember her squeezing my arm and giving me the "we'll talk about this in the car" look. She had always been a progressive person and this would prove to be no different as we discussed the idea of two women forming a romantic relationship. "Anyone who has the capacity to love another responsibly, should," is what she told me. "But just because you don't see it where you live doesn't make it wrong." I may have been fifteen, but in Fall River in the 1980's we had no lesbians--certainly not any who would publicly display it.

I remember going to an emerald mine with her, excitedly sifting through for gems. We found a few and I'm sure I'll come across the box of them in my excavation of the old house. 

We explored the national parks. We explored the caverns. We went to gift shop after gift shop where I would beg her to buy me a fedora. She finally relented and bought me a black, felt fedora for somewhere in the vicinity of $40. I remember I wrote my name in the little card that said, "Like hell this is your hat" and stuck it in the inside band in case someone tried to steal it. I remember thinking that the brim was too wide--it didn't look just like Bono's--and so I trimmed it with a pair of scissors--badly--essentially ruining the hat I had begged for and finally gotten. But then again, I had a hard time just liking almost anything like it was as an early adolescent; I had to always screw with it. My hat, my guitar, my bike, my appearance (once even cutting--yes, cutting--my eyelashes off, in an attempt to look more like John Lennon). I just couldn't enjoy it for what it was.

And my mother always talked of that trip fondly. Of how it was the last time she got to spend time with me before she lost the "child" she knew. Not that she held it against me; it was just a natural part of anyone's growth--to run, screaming, from the comforting grasp of one's maker and teacher. She would reminisce about how it was an important time of healing for her. Her mother--my grandmother--had died five years before, and she hadn't taken a full inventory of her emotional situation until she had put some miles between her and the place of her birth and growth and spent time with me. She had put on hold the time of grieving, so as to concentrate fully on the raising of her one and only, her special boy. And she remembered seeing me expanding in inches and in insight as one does after running through the field of pre-pubescence. Because once the playful veil of childhood falls away and one can see clearly the amusement park of sensations and emotions that lie ahead, it is almost always never the same again. 

And in saying that, I realize that nothing is ever the same again. Each moment in time may be remembered, but once it is past we can only move on and add it to our collected and ever growing treasure chest of memories. 

I used to think in terms like, "Oh, it's not the same without my mom around ... " And this is and was the truth. But even the occasions when she was alive were always different. It was never the same, only similar. We can make the same turkey for Thanksgiving but each year the hand that lifts the fork that cuts the first slice has undergone 365 days worth of life. There are a few more wrinkles and a few more accomplishments; a few cuts, scrapes, and nails grown full and cut bit by bit, and a few hard lessons hopefully learned.

And as long as I have her memory in my heart I can enjoy the uncountable moments in my life in a similar fashion. She may not be here, but I can realize my life with her as a giant part of it. And the experiences I go through now, without her, are never the same, only similar. My birthday next week will be the second since she has gone. It will be the first since my aunt passed on. And this year will be different than the last two, and the last two will be different from the thirty six that came before it. This is the way I live now, and it is, I hope, the way I am someday remembered.

The vacation I am planning now, with the woman I love, will be it's own special and landmark event. I hope for it to be an amazing and unforgettable time in my life. And because it hasn't happened yet, of course, it cannot be remembered; it can only be anticipated. 

And this feeling of anticipation--when the clock ticks back from a place in the visible future--is unique. It is in a category all its own. Because it is something that will never grow old, no matter how many years we put in its way. 

That said, here's to the future ... may it be good to us all.

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and seventy six ... Me, myself and I

It wasn't as hard to say then as it is now to remember.

"I can't quit for you, Mom. I have to quit for me."

My mother was going in for surgery--surgery we thought would save her--and she told me how proud she was of me for all my accomplishments in almost every field of my life. She meant it, and I knew it. My mother was generous with her praise, but that didn't diminish the worth of even one word of it.

She said she was as proud of me as any mother could hope to be. How I was kind, loving, funny, hardworking, responsible (to a degree), and trustworthy. But she said that the one thing she wished the most for--the thing she knew even I wanted for myself someday--was to see me as a sober man. Because she hadn't seen me like that since I started becoming a man in my teens, and then abruptly stopped.

On the surface it may seem unforgivably selfish. It may seem like a total copout. It may seem horrifically repugnant, worthy of a severe thrashing or worse, but it was the truth.

I knew it, and my mother, in all her grace, understanding and infinite wisdom knew it too.

This part of the story would seem tragic, even reprehensible, had it not turned out the way it did. But as I sit here at my laptop writing--a mere six days away from sixteen months of alcohol abstinence--I know that it couldn't have happened any other way.

I know, in whatever symbolic or spiritual way, that she can see me when she chooses. And when she does, I believe that she sometimes cries mammoth waves of salt water tears in joyful observance of her boy ... her son, becoming a full and total person and not just a bloated, friendly, class clown with some talent left anonymously on his doorstep.

But when I said I couldn't do it for her I wasn't just buying some time. Regardless of how much I abused myself that year and the next, as I look back on it now, that was the first powerful piece of insight added to my cache of mental weapons--emotional and logical tools eventually put to use fighting what was slowly and systematically killing me.

I knew that if I were to fight this enemy on its own terms I wasn't going to do it overnight. I wasn't going to just up and say, "from this point till the end of time I promise to never drink again. Game over!" No. Of course not. Because I didn't get myself into this situation overnight. I did it over years and years of precious and irreplaceable life. I took my time.

It is said that when you walk into the forest--however far and deep--and you decide you want to go home, it will take you at least as long to get back out as it did to get where you stopped. That understood, I knew that--if done properly--it was going to take the rest of my life to succeed. It was, if you will, a prospect of acquiring power over an ever increasing reign. The more I gained, the longer I lived, or so it would seem.

And this is where I break paths with AA. Because I relinquish nothing. I turn my will over to no one. I refuse to submit. Instead, I become the power. Every sober breath I draw and release brings me closer to triumph over my invited captor. In doing this I defeat him with his most debilitating weapon: disinterest. Because a vice unchecked doesn't always come back to get you in your sleep; sometimes it just gets bored and leaves for good. And as I complete this process I do not consider what I have attained a "recovery" of even one molecule of healed tissue or emotional strength. Because it was always inside me. It never left me. It was not taken like a new bicycle by the bully down the street. It was not lifted from my back pocket like a ghetto thief. It was simply, voluntarily covered with rags--fetid, torn, frayed and soaked with my own degenerative pestilence--but covered and protected nonetheless. And when I decided, voluntarily, that it was time to pull the layers back and dust off what I had put away so many years ago, it was right where I left it.

I couldn't do it for her. I couldn't do it for my band. I couldn't do it for the courts, even.

I had to do it for me.

Because if I did it for anyone else but me, and the fates took them from this world first, then who would I have to hold me accountable? I can't tell you the number of people who pleaded with me to clean up. It all sounded like the same old noise--a garbage disposal, perhaps, activated with a piece of errant silverware stuck inside: unpleasant, severe, and annoyingly familiar.

I have a friend who was concerned with temptations recently because his daughter was away on a trip. He was worried that her absence (among other things) would allow him a dalliance with the enemy. I didn't say anything because it wasn't my place. But, just to expand on that idea for a moment, I feel that to remain sober is to become completely and bullheadedly selfish. And taken out of context that may sound disconcerting. But I firmly believe that in the context of staying sober I am the only person who matters in my world. That's it. Me. Just me. And nobody is going to be able to save me if I want to jump overboard. They may try to throw a life preserver but I have to grasp it with my own two hands. I have to want to live before I can save myself.

I don't have any children. I don't have a hectic job where people rely on me 40 hours a week. I don't have insurmountable debt that keeps accruing interest. I do, however, have a woman in my life whom I love more than I ever thought possible. But even she can't save me if I want to drown. She is an inspiration for me to continue on as I have, for a year and four months, but when I step back and ask myself why I am sober--or better yet, why I am not still a capricious and hopeless drunk anymore--I can only come to the conclusion that in December of 2008--even before the shit really hit the fan--I finally came to believe in myself. Today I actually can't wait to see what happens in my life every time I walk out the door. I stay up way too late most nights because more often than not, my dreams can't even come close to being as amazing as real life. The guy who was using my identity for the last 20 years would rather just pull up the covers and hope the phone stops ringing.

Dependency sometimes is like a cut you haven't seen bleeding yet. You may feel something odd or foreign; a friend might see you first and say, "Hey, dude! You're bleeding!", and you still might not feel it. You might even think they are kidding. But until you either see it for yourself--be it in the mirror, or in front of your face--you don't really feel it.

And then it hurts like hell.

And that's why I couldn't do it for my own mother. That's why I couldn't do it for my friends. That's why I certainly couldn't do it for the courts.

I didn't really believe I was injured until I saw the cut for myself.

It's been a while since I've seen my own blood. Here's to hoping it stays that way.

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and seventy ... Words to live by.

"You're going to miss me when I'm gone."

This was a phrase uttered by my dear late mother on many occasions. It was usually preceded by a moan and an exaggerated eye roll by me following an innocuous reminder of a banal impending task.

"Don't forget you have to call _____ about _____ in the morning."

"Yes ma ... "

"You know, you're going to miss me when I'm gone."

"Maaaaa!!!", I'd say, in a three note lilt like a vocal speed bump about a half note on either side of  the whiniest tone known to man.

I said it, and said it like that, because of a couple of things: I very well may have forgotten to call _____ in the morning and I knew she was right; and, I didn't want to actually give much credence to the fact that it was true that I'd miss this great woman when she left this world--my world and hers--someday in the unknown future.

And now she's gone, and of course I miss her like crazy.

There's a distinct feeling that I haven't experienced in a while: volatile, random embarrassment.

My aunt, Lynda, was able to produce this emotion in me now and again. My mom was good at it too. It's the kind of thing that even your best friend can't summon. I guess it's partly because your best friend knows you as well they do from the things you have either told them, or experienced with them. Your best friend did not know you when you couldn't be held responsible for your bathroom behavior. Your best friend never had to feed you with a spoon and bottle (although some people may be able to refute this, depends on what you're into, I guess). And your best friend probably doesn't know how many times it took for you to learn how to read, write, spell, and remember. 

But your immediate family knows all of this.

And just like I cringe every once in a while when somebody regales me with a story of my inebriated activities that I thought were long gone from anybody's memory banks (and were hardly ever even in my own), you can never be too sure who's going to be around when it happens.

Boom!

Was that a reference to how I used to like to eat my peas balanced on a butter knife?

Did she just tell the guy at the Jiffy Lube how I play in a band that just came back from Europe?

Did I just get goosed?????

Yes. All of these things have happened in real life, at the hand of my mom, in public, on random occasions in which I suffered no immediate nor any long term consequences.

But at the time, it was almost as bad as if I locked myself out of my house completely naked, just in time to catch the attention of the local news team passing by.

And even that scenario I just mentioned doesn't have the deep impaling precision of a well placed embarrassing moment at the hands of a close family member.

I see it all the time these days. People get that look of pale horror when they and their parents meet public spaces that have routines designed for intensive interaction in close quarters with strangers.

A great example would be, waiting at the "Please Let Te Hostess Seat You" sign in any restaurant in the world. You just stand there with your hands clasped behind your back quickly scanning the room for acquaintances, co-workers, or, better yet, prospective love interests. You may be rocking from side to side, or rolling up on the balls of your feet. The hostess comes over, and, if it's a pretty woman, you may start to sweat, because if your mom is like my mom she's never going to miss a chance to try and introduce you to a complete stranger--someone she thinks you'll get along with famously. 

But before she does it--and you know exactly what's coming and there's absolutely no way to stop it short of pulling the fire alarm (whose edges you've already run your hand alongside)--before she calls you by name and asks you something she already knows in an attempt to get said pretty hostess's attention, you will inadvertently feel either the hand of your mother swiftly tucking the renegade tag at the top back of your shirt back in where it belongs, or a large ball of lint or two will get plucked off an arm or collar, sending shivers of anxiety and self-consciousness through your already agitated nervous system.

"Alex here just came back from a tour of Europe ... "

"Maaaaa!!"

"Wow!" says the hostess. "That's great! Welcome back."

"Um ... thanks *cough*, I play in a group of senior citizens and they sing rock songs and they made a movie and we get to travel a lot."

And I scoot into the booth and grab for the water glass in an attempt to calm myself down, inadvertently knocking my knife off the table and getting a cramp trying to retrieve it myself.

And these are the kind of things that I miss from my aunt and mom being gone. Because nobody else in the world has the gall to up and promote me to a complete stranger as if I were going for a job at the school board where she was well regarded.

And she knew she could get away with it. She earned that right. And I'll be willing to bet that her mother did the same to her to a lesser extent. Pride runs deep, and small talk looms large when families travel these temporary plains. 

And I realized, albeit a bit too late, that my mom wasn't trying to embarrass me. Regardless of how much she teased me that I deserved whatever emotional distress her vocal reminiscences of my past might invoke--no matter how far back in my natural and very much dependent development--she was just doing what families do. 

She was extending to the world the evidence that I was a part of her, and she absolutely knew me better than anyone outside of the fold.

I, of course, made whatever concessions I had to at the end of both her and her sister's life over the last few years. I stopped being so embarrassed that the beam of attention was being shown on me to random people in restaurants and at car garages. I learned to simply smile and enjoy the gift of their lives, extended. I learned to gracefully soak in the pride that came from their souls. 

The smallest detail became fundamentally essential for survival. Every motion, every gesture, every utterance and every facial movement was engulfed by me so I could remember them always. 

I see it every so often when I'm out: the high school graduate out for a celebratory dinner with the folks. I see the look of mild shock and annoyance when the mother smoothes his hair with the palm of her hand, like she has probably done since the first day he was born. I see the tiny piece of lint pulled of an otherwise spotlessly black jacket with an air of meticulous ferocity. I see the halfhearted attempt to swat away the hand that determinedly tucks an errant label back inside a shirt collar. 

And I watch as the mother tells her child--her young man--under her breath, "You're going to miss me when I'm gone," and he curtly dismisses her, dramatically rolling his shoulders back as the pretty waitress with the innocent wide smile approaches to place a basket of rolls on the table.

It's so hard to take those words with anything other than a grain of salt when said by a person who is so full of life she could very well still be supplying her full grown child with the essential nutrients and protection for survival.

And she knows that her words will take on a different meaning someday.

Because, for her, at one point in her life or another, they most likely already have.

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J. 

Day four hundred and sixty four ... Ride all day.

It's been said so many times before: this life is like a roller coaster.

And while this is true much of the time--how the long, slow, clunky ascent can suddenly lead to a rapid free-fall, whipping you around from side to side, bumping in to your seat-mate, and generally testing the mettle of ones constitution before coming to a startling and oftentimes unwelcome halt--to me it seems as if life's a bit more like the actual park itself: thrilling rides, games, clowns, sharks, risks, shifty operators, and long, laborious lines.

The amusement park is better than most places imaginable as a child. It's better than the beach. It's better than ice cream. It's better than a ride in the country. It's better, even, than toys. 

If you're lucky you'll get to enjoy a pass for the day to ride all the rides for one price, as many times as you want before the park closes. There are just a few rules: don't tease the operator, keep your hands inside the ride at all times, and don't spoil it for everyone else by making a mess that the grounds crew will have to clean up, essentially shutting down the ride for a while and denying access to those who have been patiently waiting in line to get on.

But this analogy can stretch further. The way I see it, the first time we spin around in a circle, or roll down a grassy hill, or do a somersault a few times in a row and stand up--the first time we do any of these things we get a buzz. We don't know the word for it yet but it feels good. And as we pick ourselves up off of the ground, and our eyes finally focus again ... when we look back at Mom or Dad or Aunt Janice standing there smiling at us we think to ourselves, "Man ... I bet I feel way better than they do right now."

And it's as good a bet as any.

And when you get taken to the amusement park you get your hand stamped (at least we did at Lincoln Park when I was a kid). And that means you get to run around to every single ride and stand in line with all the other kids with their hands stamped. You get to be part of the crew that know how to have a good time. 

There was always one exception: the Super Slide was an extra ticket. It was always the last ride of the day. I could usually see my mom's car from the crest of the ride and lamentably knew that it was exactly where I was going to be adjourning to upon gravity's somewhat controlled demonstration of power. The rush was worth it, no matter how much extra it cost.

But every ride up until the Super Slide was a thrill unto itself. Until I was old enough to go to the park alone my folks or my friend's folks would take me. And they'd be waiting, like clockwork, on a bench next to a giant clown shaped trash can, smiling and welcoming me back to the real world after each go-round. It was always the same as I'd come off the exit ramp holding my stomach, saying loudly into the air, "I want to go again! I want to go again! Please, please, please, can I go again?"

But, of course, you had to get up and get out before you could go again. You couldn't just give the operator another ticket; that's against the rules. Even rides that defy the laws of gravity have rules. 

So you stand there in line again. You can judge how many kids are going to get let in, and you can guess with a certain amount of accuracy if you will to go soon. Meanwhile, you memorize the seat you want in advance, because you are sure that one goes the fastest, or that end car is the one that gives you the biggest belly-rush when it goes down the hill. You want the best ride that you can get. Logic becomes extinct. You don't care about the kid who died last week; he was probably doing something stupid. You're way smarter than that. Stupid closed ride! Why couldn't that have happened next week?

And as you're waiting for your turn, you see the sorry-ass losers who can't keep it together wiping puke from the sides of their mouth. Everybody is staring and pointing at them as they proceed head down towards the colored planks that lead to the exit gate. The kids are pissed because due to a lack of moderation they now have to wait until that brat's mess is cleaned up and the ride is reopened for business.

Lightweight.

And you hope that you can get in and get the seat you want. You hope you don't have to sit in the pukey seat that's got sawdust shavings still circling in the wind around it.

And all day long your parents or guardians traipse along a few paces behind you as you run from ride to ride and wait in line--they may have brought a newspaper or Robert Ludlum novel to read under the tree on the bench next to the lion shaped trash can. And you scream and holler and wave to them from the top of the Ferris wheel or the roller coaster. Your hair becomes a matted mess from the g-force and the wind. Your clothes become rumpled and your eyes water from the dust and the grease in the air. You check your pockets impulsively and obsessively to make sure the change you brought hasn't ended up under the ramp's colored planks. 

Meanwhile, the most important currency is a smudged mark on the back of your hand. 

But you get on and you get off and it's pretty good--not as awesome as the first one, but still pretty impressive.

And your guardians occasionally look at you and say, "I remember when I was your age. We had simpler rides back then, but we had just as much fun." And you just sip your soda and close your jaded little eyes, thinking how much it must've sucked to be them as a kid. 

And you run off again. Meanwhile, they've got their eye on you, showing up slowly and quietly just in the nick of time to fork over the buck or two you need to get you something you hadn't planned on. Perhaps they wish they had people like themselves when they were an excitable spendthrift, too.

And when you eventually leave--reluctantly being dragged away by the hand by the people who graciously spent their day keeping an eye on you amongst the hundreds or thousands of other people there--a little sick to your stomach and dizzy, all you can think about is when is the next time you can go.

You plan and you plan and you plan for the next time. But you know better than to ask about it on the way back from the park too often. Even a spoiled brat has limits.

You can't even think of ever getting tired of the place. You can't see yourself even close to being anything like the people who brought you there--they have no idea how much fun this is--and you go home and go about your life, bragging how many times you got to ride The Comet Coaster to your friends. And everyone has stories about how many times they did it. Amidst it all you suddenly quell your excited tone to mention into the inquisitive air what facts you know about the kid who died on the ride you really wanted to go on, and why because of him the ride is closed for a few weeks, and how you can't wait to get old enough so you can drive yourself, because then, you swear, you'll go every freaking day.

And, of course, you don't.

Somewhere in the back of your head you remember how you felt before you were old enough to ride the big-kid rides. How you stood on your tip toes and feigned being tall as the sign required. How you walked away dejected and ashamed past all the kids that were older or just tall for their age. What a load of bull that was. 

I realize this post is a bit lengthy, and I applaud all of you who have made it this far. But you see, all these ideas put forth in my dissertation on the amusement park in some way relate to the way I've lived a good portion of my life.

I've stood in line countless times to get my hand stamped only to have to wait in line again for a drink or twenty. 

I've watched as those who couldn't keep their shit together were hauled outside past those who could, wiping the vomit from their faces while that part of the club was put on hold--much to the dismay of the remaining patrons--until someone could clean up the mess with sawdust, a bucket and a broom. 

I've pretended I was old enough to get in and play with the big kids, showing my I.D. while I rolled my shoulders back and tried to look as serious as I thought someone who was a mere two or three years older than me needed to look. 

I've believed I could ride the most dangerous ride more times and with wilder abandon than any other person in my peer group. I've talked in hushed tones about those who weren't as lucky as I, and who went way too early because of any number of circumstances. 

I remember brazenly saying that that would never happen to me. Thank god it didn't.

And I remember how my mother and aunt would be there, always, to help me along, trying in vain to inspire me to look deep inside myself and ask if I'd been on that same ride enough times. They were always there, sitting by the hippopotamus-shaped trash can, with plenty of reading material to bide their time until I was through getting dizzy. They even came to my rescue on more than one occasion when I got into more trouble than I had bargained for. And each time, I told them I was done being reckless ... that I had learned my lesson.

And each time I went back out and stood in line again to get that feeling that I just couldn't do without. I felt it was part of my entitlement, that I deserved to enjoy this act of inebriation. I'd rail against the notion that I was in over my head. I'd get to the point where I'd be able to rationalize it and blame the fact that my generation just has more exciting rides and a greater tolerance for the big thrill.

I remember thinking to myself, "Man ... I bet I feel way better than they do right now." 

And it was as good a bet as any.

I'm done with that reckless way of living. That said, I still like to get my thrills and jollies, as it were. I have found that I am able to duplicate, through mundane and innocuous actions, the way I used to feel to a remarkable degree. I think that this is just a natural progression in life if one decides on trying to live as long and as happily as possible. Because the key, for me, to staying sober, is not mainly just in denying myself the things I used to enjoy doing. No, the key, for me, is to find things to put in its place, things that keep me busy and productive while still affording me the enjoyment and bombardment of my war-torn senses.

I enjoy the little butterflies that happen in my stomach when I go over a particularly steep hill. If I try hard I can stretch that feeling out longer than expected. I just have to pay attention. 

I like to dance to dizziness and then collapse for a few minutes while I catch my breath. 

I enjoy a strong cup of coffee, when I need a boost, while keeping in mind that caffeine is a powerful drug. That said, I don't feel like I'm going to steal or lie to get my hands on a cup. 

And yes, I even enjoy rolling down a hill every once in a while. It's just as much fun as I remembered, which I can't safely say about the other things that got my clothes dirty and left me a discombobulated mess.

This is my life now. I haven't changed how much fun I have, I just get it from a different source. It all comes back to what constitutes a new feeling that you can put a label on as good or desirable. 

The best part about the way I do things now is that it seems like the amusement park that is my life just keeps getting bigger, better, and more exciting. Every day I wake up there seems to be a new ride with a whole new spin on adventure. 

And this is good, because I can barely even remember where that giant Super Slide is located anymore. You know ... the last ride of the day. As much fun as that one is to go on, I don't think I want to walk up those stairs and try to spot my car in the parking lot anytime soon.

No, I just think I'll keep riding the ones that came with the price the stamp on the back of my hand.

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.