Day seven hundred and ninety seven ... Belting it out.

I've been buying a lot of belts lately.

It's kind of a new fetish. I like shoes, too, but belts hold a different significance for me. I think it's because when I was a kid I I used to wear all kinds of crazy belts. I was always heavy, but I think kids exhibit a different kind of overweight up to a certain age. Your stomach doesn't really obscure your waistline by dropping down like an extended upper lip when you're a kid, so you can get away with things like tucking in shirts and showing off the turquoise and silver--which is something I liked to do very much as a precocious child of the Seventies.

But as I got older the belts became less and less important. As their visibility decreased so did the care involved in picking out a new one. I mean, who cares what your belt looks like as long as it's holding up your size 40 jeans. That was the main job of belts in my life for the last twenty-five years or so: hold up those damn jeans ... or else!

I've lost about fifteen pounds since Christmas, and so, all of the belts I've owned for the last few years have become obsolete as they're just too damn big. But really, I don't even still own too many old ones. They all either broke at the buckle from undue stress or I threw them away in exchange for a larger size. That's a big reason that I'm enjoying getting new belts that actually fit me comfortably.

But I've realized recently that belts are such an important part of our lives. It kind of bowled me over the other day when I stopped to think of how many needs a belt can service, as well as what symbolism they hold.

When we get our first belt it means that we are ready to start being dressed in outfits that are more than just a button-up or zippered safety pouch. It's our first fashion-oriented responsibility and our first step in learning that our clothes can be adjusted to our liking. We can't do much to our shirts or pants but roll up the cuffs, but with a belt we sure can tighten up that ol' midsection.

For some children a belt can be used for punishment. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to get spanked with a doubled-up belt to the behind, but I know that it has happened to many who were not so fortunate.

As we grow, our belts get longer. Our wardrobe expands as we do, and, if you are a boy, you will inadvertently acquire the iconic reversible belt with both colors--black and brown--to go with any occasion that may arise in our early life. It happens to the best of us.

It has been said that belts have found a use by some Lotharios as a scorecard for documenting romantic conquests--with a notch being carved in for each one. I think the Old West had a lot to do with this trend, as belts then held up more than just pants--they held up guns and ammunition. It was a sign of machismo. It was a sign of security. It was a sign of virility. And it helped remind the forgetful of the times that were important to them and allow them to boast to their peers. It has become more or less a tacky bit of misogynistic sediment but I'm sure there are plenty of guys out there (and perhaps some women) who still utilize this function of the everyday belt.

When we go through airport security we have to take off our belts due to the inevitable metal buckle on the end. To be belt-less in this capacity is to embody a feeling of helplessness like no other. It may be the only time we, as humans, get to see a random slice of others begin to undress and then dress back up in front of each other without a logical context and with countless authority figures on hand to make sure we do it right. And then in a matter of minutes we go from wearing all of the items that keep us held together to having every last scrap of our wardrobe's adhesiveness stripped from us. I have felt my pants come far enough down my midsection on occasion as to cause me to blush. Conversely and just as embarrassing, there have been times when I was so heavy that the belt I was wearing was merely as a backup in case my button popped off of my pants. My, how times change.

When someone gets arrested their belt is taken away so, presumably, they won't hang themselves in their cell. This has got to be the most powerful significance a belt can hold by far. Something that, for all the time we are alive, is used as a practical accessory--to hold our clothes on our body; to protect us from the elements--now becomes something that the authorities are concerned we will use to commit suicide.

All in all, when you stop to think about it, the lowly belt holds many high-level positions and wields some serious power.

It can connote safety.

It can inflict punishment.

It can imply sartorial and societal responsibility.

It can document growth.

It can provide a record of life experience.

It can provoke embarrassment.

It can aid in taking one's life.

To me right now my belts are something that I'm excited to start showing off again. I have eschewed the turquoise and silver of my 1970's youth in exchange for high quality leather, clean lines and polished brass. The form has changed little though. It is still what's holding me and my clothes together. And as they start to fit my body better and my body, itself, begins to shrink down to a height-proportionate size, my heart will beat stronger, my blood will course freer, my brain will think faster, and my feet will tread surer.

And much like life belts are adjustable. You can even make one smaller if you need to with a trusty awl. But just like life they only go in one direction.

If you wear the same belt long enough you'll eventually develop a marking where the buckle found its niche. That line tells its own story. It shows the comfort zone, the average, the usual.

Maybe that's why I've been buying a lot of belts lately. Perhaps it's not just because I'm changing my shape in the middle, but that I just don't want to wear a mark in the leather where its easy to see where I settled in.

And anyway, the buckle's edges cover up that line when you're wearing it so nobody knows except for you ... that is, until you begin to change again.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and ninety ... Batteries not included.

I learn something new everyday. Really and truly I do.

But I have to make a conscious effort to identify it when it happens or I run the risk of just letting it slip through the rusty colander that is my brain. I can tell myself that I'll "never forget that" and not write it down, and then the phone will ring, and the UPS guy will come to the door, and I'll break a string on my guitar and wonder in the middle of the day what the great revelation was that I had that was seemingly so important that I'd absolutely never forget it.

And that's why I wrote today.

I have more than a few things that run on batteries in my house. More and more these days the items that do, run from a battery or a charger pack that can be replenished with energy when it becomes depleted. They usually tell me that they're running down with either a light that changes color, by a system of gray bars that start to disappear, or by an auditory sound. Either way it's easy to see that I need to plug it back in to the wall or I'll run the risk of disappointment the next time I need them.

Not so with my clocks and radios.

They just run down.

And these are the things that I use the most in my life. I have a few clocks on my walls, and, as you know, hardly any wall clocks run from an outlet anymore. The cords are unsightly, running all the way down the wall. And it seems unnecessary to power them this way in a world where things are lighter, stronger, and use less power than ever before.

The same go for radios. I have an old 1930's "tombstone" radio I inherited which I've installed a speaker in from my home stereo. I like the irony of its use. That is to say that I enjoy the idea that a compact speaker from the digital sound system in the living room runs its sound to an 80 year old box which used to only get A.M. signals and was one day plugged into the wall by a cord that looks like a fragile mouse tail.

But today the radios that I use the most are two little ones that I have in the kitchen and bathroom, respectively. I have reached an age where public radio has become my "home of rock and roll." I do not like commercials and I do not like brash, boomy DJ's. That being the case I leave it on my local NPR station and just turn the "on" knob when I want to hear anything from the outside world.

Well, just the other day both my radios and my clocks started to give me trouble.

I had sent away for a cool Lexon radio that is covered in thin rubber. It's perfect for the bathroom and I don't have to worry about it getting wet if I bring it into the shower.

I had installed the generic Korean batteries that it came with, and it had been working just fine for a few weeks. But last week it started making a sound--a horrible rumbling sound. I picked it up and shook it as I do with most things that don't work (it's part of the caveman in me that just won't seem to go away). That did nothing. I gently banged it on the sink--nothing. I turned it on and off; I flicked its underside with my index finger; I squeezed it together at the edges for what reason I will never know. And then I put on my bathrobe to go downstairs and call the company that shipped it to tell them how upset I was that they would have the nerve to send me a defective radio!

And then I took a big breath ... and I went downstairs and grabbed four new AAA batteries and a screwdriver and replaced the ones that were in there.

I pushed the "on" button and it worked perfectly.

I have a clock that has been in my family for three generations. I remember my grandmother standing in the kitchen calling me to dinner from the living room and me looking at that clock to judge how long I would have to suffer through her delicious food before I could go outside and play again. I remember coming home at 1:30 am and seeing a parental figure sitting in that same kitchen under that same clock wondering what kind of trouble I had been up to and why I hadn't called.

Suffice to say that it's an important clock ... and it's powered by one little battery.

Just the other day I noticed it was out of sync by three or four minutes with my irrefutably accurate iPhone. I keep my iPhone charged up whenever it's not in my bag en route (and even then I sometimes charge it with an amazing portable power source called a "3G Juice" that Jodi gave me for Christmas. Thanks, honey). So anyway, I never do this but I was in a hurry and so I physically moved the minute hand ahead three or four minutes to where it was supposed to be.

And then the second hand just went insane and wouldn't budge. It kept lifting itself up in a valiant attempt at forward progress but it appeared to be devastated by some internal injury.

I couldn't believe it.

I developed a feeling in the pit of my stomach which I haven't felt in some time. I realized (or so I thought) that I would have to replace this family treasure of a kitchen clock. This was something that I wasn't prepared to do. And so I let it sit on the wall for the day in hopes that it would right itself. Perhaps it was just a bit worked up from being manhandled. Maybe it needed a dusting. Maybe it was telling me that it had done it's duty for forty years or more and needed to be let off the hook and set aside ... to let a new, more efficient guy take its place.

And when I came home that night at 9:30 and saw it sitting there--the second hand obsessively batting upwards with a faint "click" in an attempt to move around the dial--the minute and hour hands mired at 6:45--I was more than a little sad.

So I put down the bag of 9 volt batteries I had brought home from the store--the ones I had bought for the smoke detectors (which beep when they need a new fix)--and took it down off the wall. I laid it face down on the counter and inspected the back for, perhaps, an on/off button I had missed.

And then I saw the battery--the little AAA battery that had been in there for probably three or four years--the battery that had never asked for much and yet had spent its life informing me of my day's progress; telling me how long I had before company arrived; when the roast should be done; how late I was for work; or when it was definitely time for company to be thinking of leaving on their own--I saw that battery and I was filled with hesitant hope.

I delicately took it out and laid it on the table. Then I opened the box of AAA batteries that were on sale along with the 9 volts at the store. I inserted one of the slender cylinders in the receptacle in the back and turned the clock over. Just then I heard the stuttered "click, click, click" that could either mean success or frustrated stagnation. But when I flipped it back around I saw the workhorse of a second hand moving again! Heavens! "It's alive," I shouted! And then I put it back on the wall with a great and wide smile. I had repaired a priceless treasure from my life, and I would not have to begin the dreary search for a suitable replacement which would always pale in comparison.

I had fixed a great problem in my world with a most rational solution. But it was a solution which I had become conditioned to implement only by way of a visual or audible clue that was dedicated to its cause.

And once again, the analog world taught me more than any millions of digital signals could ever hope to.

These things that I do--these lessons that I learn--may just seem like a big deal over nothing. I thank you for reading my tales of progress in making life easier to live. Or perhaps you just finished this story and scratched your head and said, "Huh? Whatever."

But I must say that these two experiences--the radio and the clock--have taught me so much. We all have a power source. It's in every one of us. And every day and night we charge ourselves up so as to be able to tackle what may come next. We become better and better at knowing how much sleep we need, or how much food we have to eat in order to function properly. But those signs are the obvious ones: we feel hungry or we feel tired. But there are times when we start to malfunction and we can't figure out why. Sometimes we feel like there's a mechanism broken inside us. Sometimes we feel like giving up and looking for a new source of inspiration because the way we've been running has become compromised. I know that I did for more years than I care to remember. It's not easy to see when our insides tell us it's time for a change because they aren't as clear cut and obvious as we'd like them to be. Often it's something we used to do or something that used to be a part of our lives long ago that we've forgotten about. Perhaps it was something that we found from the world around us that gave us energy and hope at a time when we needed it, that has been overlooked for so long that we forget it was ever there to begin with.

So before you go banging your radio on the sink and doing real damage ... before you take the clock that your grandmother put up on her kitchen wall 40 years ago ... take a quick look in the space where the batteries go.

Make sure that the thing that is broken isn't the thing that you knew you'd have to change one day.

You may be surprised to find that it's an easier fix than you could have ever imagined.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and seventy two ... Lucky at any age.

I'm getting so old.

I'm ancient.

You kids today!

Oh, woe is me.

Blah, blah, blah.

I hear it all the time and it makes me wonder if everyone forgot how amazing it is that they're alive enough to complain.

I'll be forty years old in a little under three months--May, 9th to be exact. It's quite a milestone for me to say the least. And in saying that I must add that I'm extremely excited to go through it. I'm delighted to enter a new room--so to speak--in the aging process of my life. I'm really, truly, and with all my heart prepared to sink my teeth into this inevitable occurrence.

Because if I make it that far it will mean that I've lived almost three months from right now.

Fingers crossed.

When we're young things are so different. When we say things like "I'm almost five," or "I'm four and a half," we don't say it with horror, despair, or worry in our voice. We say it with wonderment and awe--with hope and anticipation at the whole idea--because we practically can't wait to get there. Then somewhere around the beginning of our teens we stop using fractions and forecasts. We say it straight up with no hesitation or wavering.

"I'm fifteen."

And so you are.

And so it goes for many years--excluding the inevitable attempts to pass oneself off as 21 for the four or five years preceding, in order to get served alcohol--and we get through our twenties enjoying all the colors on the palate of our flourishing youth--our salad days, as it were. We fall in and out of love twenty times; we fail and ace test after test; we move from one shithole to the next and enjoy the transient nature that is living out of cardboard boxes. We leave as many things behind as we pick up from others who left theirs where we just landed. We argue with landlords and absorb with a raised ear tales of those who were in our indignant position and held out for months without paying rent. We hear stories of how our rights trump those who pay the property tax and mortgage. We are defiant in defense of our undue plight while the world on the other side of our sense of entitlement rolls along not really noticing our disgust. Because the rest of the world is a little too busy to pay heed to the guy with his arms crossed, his head in the air, mattress on the floor, with a milk crate for a table and a self-imposed static tram route from the dishroom to the bar and back to the mattress again.

And as we go through these predictable motions we creep closer and closer to thirty, that haunted island off the mainland that one has heard terrifying stories passed down from generation to generation. We see it and we don't want to even think about having to someday be forced to languish there. We don't want it because life is so unbelievably simple and serene where we are: twenty-something, energetic, and devoid of the expected medical predispositions and familial expectations that accumulate as we age. We have for nine years lived a life where it's okay to not have a plan. It's all right to sleep all day and go out all night and take and hold (or quit or be fired) the menial jobs that barely--if at all--pay the bills. And in our mind we keep checking that departure slip, rolling it around in our head, understanding that there will come a day--very certainly and irrefutably--when we will wake up and we will be looking across at the mainland from afar ... from that spot we had been staring at for almost ten years, shuddering and picturing the darkness and dread, the banality and drudgery of a life where things start to count--both physically and figuratively--where there is no turning back ... and the hills just get higher ... and the days just seem to slip away.

Then one day you wake up and you're there--you are twenty-nine no longer. You don't know how it happened but you are not on the mainland anymore. And as you stand there at the edge of the island--your new home--and peer off into the distance you see you standing there at the edge of the water looking back--arms folded, head up, convinced it'll be different when the time comes.

But as we all know, things always seem to take longer before we've traveled the distance.

And so I'm so very happy to age. I see it now as a goal and not as a predicament. I see the end of every day as a case won rather than a death sentence. Because I really believe that I am lucky to have gotten this far (and anyone who knows even a little bit of my history can understand why). I am here and I am breathing and that's about all I can say on a minute to minute basis. I'd like to say I can make plans for next year, and I most certainly will. But I have no guarantee that I will be here or that I will be healthy or that I will be sober. All I can do is plan for it and hope that I can realize my goal.

And that's why I just don't understand the many people who I hear complaining about getting older. I mean--not to be insensitive--I realize that there are many drawbacks to aging, be they susceptibility to medical maladies and the increasing attrition rate of one's contemporaries as the road lengthens. But I guess I just enjoy the feeling I get looking at the calendar whose markings and fingerprints weigh down the pages of days that came before today's, tomorrow's and all those from here to the end of the year.

It's a game--it really is. And a great, magical, marvelous, mysterious one at that. And we have so many options as to how to handle our time. When I'm in an uncomfortable position in my life--be it being stuck in traffic, or having said the wrong thing to the wrong person--I like to make a special effort to recall it in the future, to see if it was really as bad as I thought it was, and that's assuming I can actually recall it with much accuracy in the first place. These things slip away--that's what they naturally do. And we can move on and move over and uncover the next hidden treasure ... or we can become hardened and bitter and deplore whatever comes next. And unless we die now something will always come next.

Like I said earlier, things always seem to take longer before we've travelled the distance.

I'm hoping what lies ahead of me takes as long as humanly possible.

And when I say "I'm almost forty," I don't say it with horror, despair, or worry in my voice ... I say it with wonderment and awe--with hope and anticipation at the whole idea--because I practically can't wait to get there.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and sixty two ... On the defense.

It's so much easier now.

Really, I truly mean this from the bottom of my heart. It's so much easier to go through my life now facing its daily battles, its seemingly insurmountable challenges, moral quandaries, incongruous rules and regulations, mystifying inconsistencies and quirky interpersonal button pushing competitions.

Because all of these frustrating facets of life seemed to just become a smudge on the window to my world when I stopped trying to kill myself.

Not to be too dramatic.

For so many years before I smartened up and quit drinking I would pretty much wake up, go to work (ugh!), barely scrape by until the end of the day, hit the package store and begin the ritual. It took a little bit of me away each time I did it. But when I was in the middle of it I truly believed it was just the way I was destined to live. I had seen it in enough movies and on television--I had read enough Bukowski and even seen some of it first hand from my friends who could tell me all about what I did the night before when they were loaded beyond belief.

I was the one with the deathwish.

Now, I didn't start writing this post to get all dark and depressing. I started writing this because of a conversation I had with a friend yesterday--an uplifting one. We were speaking about how amazing it is to wake up on a regular basis and get ready for work, travel the obstacle course that is our transportation system, do what we each do, come home, and go out at night and really only be worried about the randomness of the world of everything that exists outside our own heads.

Because for the longest time what was inside out heads was the most dangerous thing for us bar none.

Shocking, right?

But so true. I know for a fact that if I had let the gray matter in my skull keep hold of the wheel for any longer than it had I would not be here to write these things that some have said are inspirational and/or entertaining. I know I would not have been able to travel the world as I have with my musical group. I know I would have missed out on helping my aunt like I did as she was preparing to die. And I sure as hell know that I would not have been around to meet my true love and develop parts of my self in my heart and in my head that I had often wished I could someday aspire to.

That said, I would have most likely never admitted it was me who was measuring, cutting, installing, and shutting the many doors I had come to believe were erected by everyone and anyone else years and years before.

I was just the way I was.

I would have never come to the realization that now the only real and present danger to my existence solely and independently exists on the other side of my eyes and ears. It's all out there. There are a million busses careening down busy roads waiting for the wrong person to cross at the wrong time. There are robberies going on right now and there are, unfortunately, people who will get caught in the middle of it and may likely end up in trouble. There are wars occurring in multiple parts of the world that ensnare the innocent and the brave in its grasp and turn out wounded, disturbed, displaced people. And that's assuming you survive it. There are probably as many ways for someone to end up in peril as there are people in the world. But there is a solace that I can take in knowing that there is one unfortunate outcome that--as long as I stay clean and sober--I will never have to endure.

And that, of course, is self-destruction.

Today I live defensively.

It's not me anymore that's going the wrong way down the highway.

It's not me anymore who's adding a minute amount of poison to my food every day.

It's not me anymore who's peering over the edge of a cliffside wondering how far down it is.

It's not me.

And I understand this because it most certainly was me for almost half of my life, whether intentionally or not. I was that guy. I was laying plans daily to make it possible for me to quit this whole game right in the middle and leave my pieces on the board. And if you ask people who knew me then they'll tell you that I always seemed like such a happy person ... until I got drunk.

But this situation, I'm sure, is common for people in general, not just alcoholics. I realize that my particular problem manifested itself in a way that was easy to observe, but I'm guessing that it happens to many of us to a certain degree which we may not even notice. I'm not saying everybody has a subliminal death wish. What I am saying is that many of us live our lives with an extra added risk. Whether it be the unchecked obesity that eventually took my mother from me, or the self-imposed stress that added to my aunt's risk of cancer--taking her from me as well--many of us have problems that are so much greater than the odds of a car accident or a stray bullet. They are greater than the possibility of a tornado or a landslide, electrocution or a runaway semi.

Because we do them and we don't have to.

And when I realized this not too long ago--that I don't have to worry about me killing me as much as I used to--the world took on a much different hue.

I began to be a little bit more aware of what was going on around me in the lane I was driving in ... and a little less worried that I forgot so and so's name at the party.

I called in a professional to fix the electrical wiring in my 19th century house to lessen the risk of fire ... and put behind me the regret of having never allowed my mother to see me live life as a sober man.

I started to look left, right, and left again, like they showed me when I was too young to realize the clear and present danger of things bigger than I was ... and allowed the line at the grocery store to move at its own pace rather than letting its frustration raise my blood pressure and take away even a few precious minutes of my life.

I know that I can call it quits at any time--we all can. But there is something magical about knowing that that's not what you desire--to really understanding that you want to be here. And not only that but I get a real rush out of waking up every day and being aware that I have to work at it to stay alive. That no one ever gets a guarantee that they'll live long enough to get a degree, or meet the person of their dreams, or star in a movie, or write a timeless melody ... and that's where it all begins to become self-evident and the sky opens up, the sun wraps you in its yellow linen, and you wake up, up, up a little bit more each and every minute until you're standing straight and tall, looking over all you have, can, and are able to do, and you know there's more to come if you live defensively and pay more attention to the world around you and less to the buzzing beehive behind your eyes.

I'm not worried so much about me anymore ... but that's only because I now know I don't have to.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and forty nine ... All you can eat.

Who doesn't love ice cream?

Well, I realize that more often than not I live my life in my head. And in my head there is no room for people who don't eat things that come from cows. I also realize that there are plenty of other ways to enjoy a satisfying desert that doesn't entail milk.

But this grouping of words I'm amassing doesn't really have that much to do with the product, ice cream, itself.

It's all about the little, pink spoon.

If you live in the U.S. you probably have been to a Baskin Robbins ice cream shop. It seems there used to be more of them when I was younger, but that may just be because the supermarket ice cream selection was lackluster at best back in the seventies and eighties--before Ben and Jerry's changed the game--and we had to go out to get the good stuff.

In a world of soft serve machines and Carvel Flying Saucers the ice cream at Baskin Robbins was a bright and shining star. It was consistent, it was open year round, it was damn good, and it was everywhere. Not to mention that they had 31 flavors. As a kid a big part of the experience of going to the ice cream shop to buy a cone that cost a little less than a half gallon of Hood was getting to sample one or more of the 31 flavors available. Regardless of the fact that I always ended up with the same choice of ice cream (Jamocha Almond Fudge) as did my mom, to get to what we knew we liked we would purposely climb our way through a selection of the sugar mountain of flavors. And that required a little, pink spoon ... or ten.

I wish I had one to take a picture of to show those who may not know what I'm referring to, but suffice to say that it was about two and a half inches long, three quarters of an inch wide, thin, plastic, and pink. They would give you a new little spoon for each flavor you wanted to try. This was before anybody actually gave a damn about germs.

The habitual collector I was, I used to save these spoons up in my pocket where they would inevitably collect some serious pocket crumbs. When I got them home I would wash them best I could, then I would put them in the silverware drawer where my mom would find them and then re-wash them and put them back. Then, when I would get a bowl of ice cream on occasion (read: often) I would be sure to grab one of these little, pink Baskin Robbins spoons from the silverware drawer to eat it with.

And here is where I begin to understand what I used to do as a child shapes the way I am as an adult.

See, the reason I used to like to use the little, pink spoon to eat a big bowl of ice cream is because in rearranging the approach I was able to extend the effect. It put me in charge of how many spoonfuls could be carved out of a normal bowl. It took my regular serving of ice cream and stretched it out fourfold. It gave me the opportunity to enjoy something that under normal circumstances I would just wolf down (as my mom would say) and instead extend the feeding session much longer and with greater opportunity for pleasure. I was also increasing the chances to give my tongue a moment to recuperate before I added another tiny shovel full and not only hit it with a temperature drop but also with a sugar rush.

And this is how I take in each and every day.

I like the curve of my computer regardless of if it's a runs little slow every so often.

I appreciate the balanced weight of my guitar even if it's a little tough to keep in tune.

I take into consideration not just the time it takes me to get from my house to band rehearsal, but also that the snow is starting to melt along the sides of the road and little tiny patches of brownish green are able to peek through.

I've been told on more than one occasion that I should be more picky about what I consider to be "good" whether in regards to a song, or a bargain, or even a handshake. During what seems to have been a whole lifetime ago I have reason to believe that more often than not this probably was the case and, who knows, I may not have gotten in the mess I did over two years ago if I had. However, if I hadn't gotten into that mess I would be willing to bet a bigger one would have found me sooner than later.

But today I take in my days with so much less anxiety. I open my eyes every morning and am thankful to a concerning degree that I can walk to my bathroom to brush my teeth. It sincerely gives me a chill of pleasure to notice how I remembered to clean the sink the night before. How a simple action like splashing a little water around the top of the faucet and then wiping it down with a paper towel can ensure such serene sense of place and order the next time I need to use it. And when that moment comes, there it is ... white, silver, dry, and waiting for me as the first object to entertain my needs at the start of every day. It makes me so very happy to do these things.

In keeping with my ice cream fetish I will have to add that I also love--and have since I can remember--the feeling I get drinking a glass of cold water after eating a whole bunch of ice cream. I love this because if you do it immediately after a few bites the water takes on a strange characteristic: it becomes less cold than it actually is to the nerve endings inside the mouth. This, I'm assuming, is because the ice cream has just assaulted them with its swift and merciless temperature drop, and now the equilibrium has shifted. It's different in so many ways in a localized part of the body, but its effect stays the same everywhere else. The glass produces condensation; your hand feels the coldness; your lip understands what's going on; but once it reaches beyond the gates of one's mouth it fools everyone involved for a few seconds as it chases the sweetened perpetrator down to the belly and settles in for a nice laugh at your expense.

These days I often wish I had a little, pink spoon handy. Not always at the dinner table, though I have a nasty habit of finishing my plate/bowl/cup before my company does. But just in general in a more philosophical sense. I wish I could slow things down and take them in at my own pace. I wish I could carve out a little bit of any number of moments in life--a kiss, a hug, a laugh, a personal victory--and take it in on my own accord and not just in the gigantic, emotional truckloads that they are normally delivered in.

But this is impossible in real life. There is no pause button to hit, no emotional Polaroid to capture a snapshot, no portion control. It all just happens and I have to take it in and file it where it goes and hopefully be able to remember the important ones more than a few minutes after they occur.

And as these many, varied, potent events arrive on my doorstep, if you will, I sometimes get so overloaded that I don't know what to do. Sometimes they pile up and come at me so fast and furious that become numb from it all. Though they've mostly been good ones for quite some time now I'm not fooling myself into thinking this is how it will always be. Hell is always closer to heaven, and gravity doesn't help matters much.

So sometimes I just have to sit back and have a big glass of water. I love water in all it's forms. I love ice. I love snow. I love rain. I love steam. I love condensation. And I love the way that I can look at a big glass of it and assume what temperature it is from the way it affects the container it's in. I also love the fact that often times it doesn't feel the way I would expect it to when I take it inside. It all depends on what came before it. It all depends on where the nerves have been roused.

When I'm hot it cools me down.

When it's hot it warms me up.

But when I change things up and confuse my expectations it has a different effect.

I can go through life waiting for it to do to me what I've seen it do to others.

I can take every event at face value disregard the details.

I can let what has happened in the past hold me hostage for a lifetime.

Or I can live life in a way that makes me happy.

A little, pink spoon, a bowl of ice cream, and a glass of cold water.

Who knew it could be that simple?

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and forty ... We meet again.

"Hi! I don't know you really, but you Facebook friended me a couple months ago and I deleted you."

This, I vaguely recall, was what a very attractive, younger girl with a perky hairdo, big, hazel eyes and sly smile said to me on November 14, 2008, at a benefit show for a friend who had a recent personal catastrophe.

"Um ... right. Hi, what's your name?," I said.

"Jodi ... and I deleted you."

"You ... you did?"

"Yep. I don't really know you, but you friended me a while back ... and I have a lot of personal stuff on my profile ... and so I had to delete you."

"Wow!", I said. "I ... I didn't even notice!"

And so it began. So the long strange journey began in my life that would lead me to be here, in my house, lying--laptop propped open--next to a sleeping, very attractive, younger girl with a perky hairdo, big, hazel eyes and a sly smile--albeit a snoring one--madly, deeply in love on the eleventh day of January. But a lot of coincidences had to happen to get me to where I am now--very much awake--and trying to type lightly.

Let me explain.

Today is an important day for a lot of reasons. It is my very dear friend Steve's birthday. Happy Birthday, Steve. Stolat!, as they say.

It is also the day that I walked into the New Bedford, Massachusetts Rehabilitation Center to visit my mother who had been there for two weeks, only to find out she had passed on from this world. My whole life changed forever in that shocking moment, which really should have come as no shock. It was a long, slow, illness and she fought it tooth and nail. She hung on for a whole extra Christmas season that the doctors could have never predicted because she wanted--no, she demanded to be around for it. But almost like she had struck some sort of deal, three days after it was over, on the 28th of December she took a bad fall and was admitted to the rehab center. From that point on she slipped away a little more each day until she was tenderly and thankfully tended to by hospice. And then, sadly but mercifully she was released from this mortal shell, and the lifelong dialog we had between us was over ... and I had to do everything a little differently.

I made it through that year, barely. I've written about a great deal of it over the past two. Suffice to say that I could have killed myself from the stupid things I did with drugs, alcohol, my car, my bicycle, my nose, my mouth and my two legs. But I didn't want to die. If it had happened it would have been through selfishness and stupidity, not a cognizant desire to cease living.

And when I say I made it through that year, "barely" I should specify that what I mean is not only would I almost kill myself through stupidity, but I would not make it to the very end of the year before I would declare myself to be done with a life of drinking. It was officially over on the 27th of December, and I am happy to say that it has remained that way ever since.

The year between that upcoming January and the one that followed it was an eventful one indeed. My aunt would live long enough to see me successfully put down the bottle, but not long enough to witness my year anniversary. Because by September of 2008 she, herself, would lose a hard fought battle with cancer.

That month I would purchase an iPhone and install the Facebook application (or "app" as they say). I would see a girl named Jodi in a tiny photograph on the application's homepage who I thought was someone I used to work with years ago. I would request her to be my Facebook friend and she would begrudgingly accept. She would turn out not to be the person who I thought she was and I would completely forget the whole event ever occurred. "I don't think it's possible that we know each other ... but you seem harmless enough to befriend," was her response to my request.

Two months later I would buy a house and start another chapter of my life.

And shortly before I moved in, on November 14th I would be surprised at a benefit concert by the approach of a girl with a sassy lean and a good dose of moxie telling me that she had deleted me from her Facebook profile. I would then nonchalantly and totally deflate her flirty exuberance by the mere fact that I had no idea it had even happened ... because she wasn't even the person I thought she was to begin with.

And then, one year ago, on January 11, 2009 I would have another very important event happen in my life.

I remember only so much about the day. I remember that I was extra emotional because not only had my mom been gone for two years now, but my aunt was gone too.

I had agreed to judge a battle of the bands contest at the local music club, and I didn't want to go. Strangely enough I recall wanting to stay home and watch the Golden Globes on TV much more than going out and being in the public eye. It was snowing pretty hard and I called one of the other judges to see if there was any way they'd cancel the evening. He said there was no chance but he gave me the phone number of the promoter, Mark Sheehan. I called him and he said it was very much still on. I asked him who the other judges were and he told me there was some woman named Jodi involved who had seen over 400 concerts.

"Oh, jeez," I remember thinking. "This ought to be interesting."

I remember that my old bandmate, Terry, called me up as I was putting my gloves on to leave. I waited by the phone and listened to the machine and heard him telling me he was thinking of me on this important day. I called him back on my iPhone on my way to the club and we talked a bit while I sat outside the club in my car.

Then I got out and trudged through the two or three inches of annoying new fallen snow on the sidewalk and entered the club.

I walked in the door into the dark club and there she was ...

It was the girl from the benefit for my friend who had had the catastrophe. The very attractive, younger girl with a perky hairdo, big, hazel eyes and a sly smile who had deleted me from her Facebook account. And she was about to spend the next three hours sitting at a table with me and three other judges while we listened to a number of new bands who could potentially be good or terrible.

And I just closed my eyes for a second and thought to myself, "Oh, Mamma ... what have you gone and done now?"

And we spent the night flirting. I remember the fateful tap on the shoulder with her pen that got me to turn around during one of the performances. I'll never forget that look ... the look that says, "hey ... you seem like someone who I might like. Come talk to me near my ear and look me in the eyes a little bit closer because I'm not sure, but I sure want to be surer before I prove myself wrong again."

I remember we had this joke about people wearing scarves onstage, under the hot lights--"intentional scarfing," we called it. It was our first joke. And then we took a picture of the four of us (our fifth judge, Christian, being unavailable for the shot) with scarves on our heads, looking silly at the camera.

I remember thinking then, "This is nice ... It's never been this nice before."

And I meant it.

The night soon came to a close and I told Jodi the concertgoer that I was so relieved that we could get past all that Facebook deletion mess and start anew. I suggested that I "friend" her again intentionally, now that we had talked and laughed and had a bit of fun, and I hoped she would accept it for real this time. She said she would. We had a brief but meaningful hug and I went home and immediately looked her up and impatiently--without even waiting the night--requested her friendship at 1:50 in the morning on January 12, 2009.

I remember thanking my mother that night before I went to bed. I thank her a lot for so many, many things. Often it's for something she taught me or a trait she passed on through her genes. Other times it's because my spiritual side feels that she has exerted some kind of will over the events of life here on earth.

Tonight, as I turn off the light, I will thank her for all of these things. Because she not only gave me the sense of humor to laugh with a nearly complete stranger for three hours, but she gave me the confidence and the courage to believe that if I kept a level head about me and was true to myself that there was no reason I couldn't find someone out there to love me like no other.

And when that night came to leave the house two years ago, with the Golden Globes on television, the snow falling quick and sharp, and a heart heavy in the knowledge that new words would no longer be heard from deep within her ever again and hadn't for an interval of time which might warrant me staying home to cry myself to sleep while a panel of judges met at a club downtown that was having a battle of the bands contest ...

Well, I think she knew that she was giving January 11th a new meaning in my world.

Thank you, mom. I miss you more than words could ever express.

Thank you, Jodi. You are my one, true love.

Happy January, 11th.

It's a good day again, forever and ever.

From L to R: Jim Neill, Ken Maiuri, F.A.J. and Jodi (intentional scarfs and all). Taken at the Happy Valley Showdown, The Elevens Nightclub, Northampton, MA on January 11, 2009.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and thirty ... Round three.

"My, how far we've come."

This little phrase is one I have heard a lot in the last few months. Jodi started saying it first and it really was specific to a few developments in our relationship. More recently though it seems to encapsulate so much of the way our lives have unfolded and, for that matter, been voluntarily shaped.

When I think back on how nervous I was on our first date--how I rattled off a list an arm's length long of all the reasons she probably wouldn't want to go out with me; how I fumbled at the restaurant's entranceway not knowing where to sit or whether or not it was table service, almost having a precious little fit when it took forever for a waitress to come over and take our order, only to find out we were expected to order at the register. When I think of these things and the first few months of getting to know each other and then look at where we are now--able to say almost anything to each other; laughing over our previous romantic blunders and could-have-been's; knowing how much cream and sugar is the right amount in each other's coffee; and never for a second feeling that the word "love" is too strong--when I think of things like this I often muse to myself ... "My how far we've come."

It's been two years since I had my last drink. Actually, it's been two years and five days. December 27th was when it all went down. It went down and then it stopped and my life changed forever. And I began the process of learning how to love my life without secretly coveting death.

Two years ago, on a snowy January day, I began to write the journal that you are reading now. It was an incredibly different existence for me then. I remember my strained relationship with my aunt and how tense things had become. I had so much history of failed attempts at getting sober. I couldn't comprehend at the time that to make things better meant to take action, and not just to proclaim abstinence. I thought that just not doing was enough.

Thank goodness she stuck with me and stood by me. I used to wonder if she could ever get so upset at my constant failures that she'd just give up, throw her hands in the air and say "Oh well, I guess he's never going to do it." In fact, in all the madness I used to hope that someday she would just leave me the hell alone, and then I could finally do what I liked and just drift off. And all I can say to that is that it's a god damn good thing that I got my shit together and made it stick because within nine months and a week she would be gone from my waking life. I could never have known that at the time. But I was smart enough to understand that I was losing my grip and I had no real choice but the one I made.

I had plenty of help along this path, but it was a fortunate thing that I at least knew what lay ahead if I were to do it properly. I knew the unfortunate reality that abstinence was truly an ambiguous process. There was no finish line. There was no end. There would be no party to signify that I had successfully completed a life without drugs or alcohol.

That was not an announcement that I would ever hear.

But for a guy who lived life checking his watch every night before the liquor stores closed, planning, plotting, borrowing, and pleading (with the store owner) for a favor on occasion, living a life of alcohol abstinence seemed as far fetched as falling in love.

And now I am in the middle of both of those developments in my life ... and I can't see how I lived it any other way.

My, how far we've come.

It seems to me that every year just before New Year's Day, for as long as I can recall, I've heard people around me proclaiming "Good riddance to _____. You were a crappy year and I'm glad you're over with. Bring on _____." And for the last five of them I have had to agree.

But not this year.

In fact, I was sad to see it go.

This year I tightened my grip on my direction in life without drugs or alcohol.

This year I settled into my new home. I decorated it in such a way that pays homage to where I came from, and indicates firmly the direction I'm heading towards--a clean, modern, sensible, handmade world with fixtures focusing on attention to detail, walls and ceilings painted with colors chosen for their effect, and furniture that lets me think like I do on my feet, while resting the rest of me closer to the ground.

This year I made strides in handling the ownership of my mom and aunt's house--not an easy feat by a long shot. Both of them were organized, intelligent people. But the belongings of three generations of Johnson's are all under my guardianship, and the dwelling that they are housed in is all mine and I have to make sure it stays safe from two hours away.

This year my relationship with my friends hit new strides.

I watched as some formed musical groups expanding their imagination and developing solid skills on the instruments that make them happy.

I watched as others embarked on the process of starting a family--some by adding children, others just by adding each other.

And that brings me back, once again, to Jodi.

This year I found my true love. I found a woman who can be with me but not be above me. I found someone who can know I'm smiling just by the way I put my arm around her. I found someone who, when she leaves the room, takes a little piece of me with her. And I found someone who knows me so well that she can find me even when I'm a little lost, and let me know that she's right there ... that she came back for me ... and that she's returned the little piece that was missing.

It's been a good year.

By the rules of the planets we have to abide by the calendar.

It makes sense to have an order.

It makes sense to have a process.

It makes things work.

It lets us collaborate.

It helps life go on.

And in time if the problems get solved and the anger turns to understanding ... if the anxiety fosters preparedness and the unbelievable becomes something we couldn't picture living without ...

That's when we can look at each other and say with a heavy sigh,

"My, how far we've come."

Happy New Year and thanks, as always, for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and nineteen ... A Christmas wish.

Cars and bags and carriages careen, crinkle, and crash everywhere.

Christmas Eve paces and peeks like a nervous bride with a too-tight dress.

I sail around in traffic with a cart designed to put food inside. I take it out and let it roll and tumble past the wrestler with a temper and on towards the happy man bagging and whistling and wishing me well.

The sound of bells is everywhere.

I sail around with my cart in a different kind of traffic designed to get me home, lucky if I am, and make it indoors. I take it out and put it in different places in my house. Places where I've learned over years of watching, helping, forgetting, and regretting sometimes.

I put the food away and listen as some things claw the insides of the bags they're in.

And I sit waiting for a girl to come by. The girl I love. The girl who calls me everyday.

It's time for our first Christmas.

It was different last year.

It was different the year before that.

It was different two years ago.

And there were never really two years that were exactly the same, come to think of it.

It'll be different next year.

And the year after that.

And if there was one year when it actually was the same as the one before I would hazard to suspect that something was wrong.

So I'll turn the lights on around me because it's getting dark quick. But I'll cherish the four and a half minutes we've gained.

I don't know when I'll call for them.

I don't know how they will get used.

I just know that I have to play this game just like everyone. The game of conjuring up happiness from the bottom of my feet to the tips of my hands on up to the back of my neck and the place where the ruler rests to tell me how tall I've gotten.

At least that's the game I play.

And just like I won't know when those four and a half minutes will get used I won't know when I'm winning the game. Because if we play it right and we play it long enough it ceases to be a game. Its beginning becomes void. And we hop off of the second hand we've been clinging to--stuttering and jolting us each forward move--and run around the face of the clock past the numbers, date, markers, and make.

All I know is that it's time for our first Christmas.

Let it begin now.

Let it be remembered.

And let it be different than every other one.

So far it's always been that way so I see no reason it won't today.

Merry Christmas, and thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

Day seven hundred and ten ... For my aunt.

My Aunt Lynda is definitely smiling down upon me right now.

See, today would have been her sixty-second birthday. She passed away a year ago last September after a valiant battle with cancer. It was a tragic end to a great woman. But this great woman loved her birthdays like not too many people I know.

December fifteenth was always a big day in the Johnson household. My aunt was the third of three children, which meant that she always had to share almost everything growing up ...

Everything except her birthday.

For many years I had renewed her subscription to Cat Fancy magazine. She was known in certain circles as "Catlady J." and it seemed only appropriate that if I got Guitar Player Magazine being a guitar player, that she get her interest-appropriate magazine every month. Some people are hard to buy for; my aunt, not so much.

My mother would always find something nice for her, as well as taking her out for a semi-expensive meal (made extra delicious by way of a 2-for-one coupon, per her wishes). Her cats would inadvertently get added into the mix and get a small present or two, being an extension of herself.

All in all it was a grand time for Ms. Lynda J. Johnson. And for a woman who seemed to have a few too many worries on a regular basis this day was an exception.

Two years ago on this day, I was on tour with the Young at Heart Chorus. We were in France for three weeks with a return date of December 16th. This, of course, was one day after my aunt's sixtieth birthday. It wasn't the most ideal of circumstances but a job is a job and we decided to celebrate when I got back.

My responsibilities were simple back then. All I had to do was make sure that she got a card on time--handmade, of course--as well as a few selected chocolates. My aunt loved chocolate. So, I stayed up late one night with a pad of hotel paper, some magic markers I had brought along, and an active imagination and drew her up a nice one. I spent half a day trying to find some unique chocolate for this very particular woman. Surprisingly, it wasn't too hard to do, and so my next task was to put it all together and get it in the mail.

Sounds easy, right?

Not in France. No sirree.

I found the post office. I found a clerk. And then I found myself at a complete loss for words--French words, that is. And I stood there pantomiming that I had a card and a bunch of chocolate for my aunt and could he please help me find the right box that would get it to the USA on time for her birthday.

Luckily, my mom must have been listening because as I was about to just turn around and walk out disgraced a woman turned my way who had been listening and said, "would you like me to help you?"

Would I? Heavens! Within a matter of ten minutes we had the right box picked out and I was putting the addresses in the right places. I found some newspaper to ball up so that the chocolate wouldn't get broken in transit. I thanked the nice French lady, and then I stood in line with my number--you have to take a number there--and waited, watching the big digital display above me, hoping I could piece together which teller had called out "85."

It's not that they make you feel stupid in France if you don't speak the language. It just happens, regardless.

So I brought my package up and gave it to the nice French postal employee. He smirked and stamped it and put it in a big box in the middle of the row of tellers. He swiped my debit card and gave me a receipt, another smirk, and then he called out some other number loudly as I walked away triumphant.

And I almost got halfway down the stairs before I realized I had used the wrong god damned zip code!

Holy crap! This can't be. It won't get to her on time for the 15th if it gets to her at all. All I could picture was some French postal office back room with four or five employees breaking off big hunks of my aunt's birthday chocolate, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, sipping espresso, and swearing in French about the stupid American who doesn't even know his own zip code. Sacre bleu!

So I swung around and ran back in. I raced to the ticket dispenser and took another ticket. Then I took my place in line again. Again! And I stood like I do sometimes when I know I'm going to be called by someone in an official position, but I don't want to go to them--I want to go to the other person who looks nicer, or better yet, knows me. I stood slightly outside of the line without being in the line--without giving up my spot--and craned my head towards the person I wanted to see, and I hoped for the best. Kind of like when I'm in a wicked rush and am in traffic and I sit forward a few inches almost as if it gives me an edge ... inside my car!

I ended up in front of the man who had taken the package the first time and somehow I managed to convey that I needed that box back--I had made a mistake. Now, this probably would never happen in the U.S., but he walked over, dug into the big postal laundry cart-type container and fished out my package ... the one for the Catlady, and he let me do my thing.

Then he smirked at me again--this time somewhat more relieved than superior--he put the box in the cart again, and then he called out another number as I walked out the door triumphant.

And I called Catlady J. up on December 15th and sang her Happy Birthday, then Stolat (the Polish birthday song), and we chatted on the phone for a while about how excited she was to get a package from France of all places. She loved the chocolate, she loved the gaudy little cat figurine that I had picked up for her at a French truck stop, and she absolutely loved the card I had made for her with hotel paper, some magic markers I had brought along, and an active imagination wishing her a "Happy Sixtieth Birthday" in 5 or 6 languages (I had even called down to the front desk to ask how to write it in French).

And as I hung up the black hotel phone receiver I felt like I had done what she wanted. All she wanted was to get a card on time, a phone call, and a couple of short, happy songs.

It was a great birthday.

So today, two years later, I woke up and I came downstairs and lit a candle under a picture of her. I sang a couple of short, happy songs into the air. I wrote out a check to her two favorite animal charities (Habitat For Cats, and A Helping Paw). And I used a coupon for two dollars off any meal at one of my favorite restaurants. I even brought back something that didn't work to the store where I bought it and I got my money back, no questions asked.

And these are all things she would appreciate.

These are all things that she valued.

Celebration, generosity, thrift, and recompense.

And I absolutely know she's smiling down upon me right now.

Because in addition to those thing that she loved ... she loved a good story with a happy ending most of all.

Happy Birthday, Aunt Lynda.

Stolat!

I love you, I miss you, and I thank you.

~F.A.J.

PS: thanks for reading.

I would be remiss not to give further information on my aunt's favorite charities:

Habitat For Cats

P.O. Box 79571

North Dartmouth, MA

02747

http://www.habitatforcats.org

A Helping Paw

P.O. Box 387

Buzzards Bay, MA

02532

http://www.ahelpingpaw.org

Day seven hundred and six ... The days on either end.

The days on either end of Christmas are so jealous.

I know a lot of people who--for non-religious reasons--could do without Christmas. I can't understand them any more than I can catch a spiraling football thrown at me from 50 yards away. That is to say I can't understand them at all.

But I would hazard to guess that my mother made that happen for me. She was the great orchestrator. She made sure the presents were wrapped and the ornaments safely put up on the tree. She got out the Christmas records and put up the paper cutouts of Santas and reindeer and elves on the wall. She made sure that I had a little something to wrap up for everyone in my family when the big day came.

And she instilled in me that not only is this time of the year special, but if you do it right you can elevate the rest of your days in each year to try to keep up with Christmas--to make them jealous.

It took me almost 40 years to understand, but I finally did. Thank god.

This year, like last year, the coming cold weather reminds me of how I felt right before the big change, when the great orchestrator passed on. I have a habit of saving my calendars. And if I looked for it I could find the date on the same calendar that was hanging on my wall that I got at the bank for free, like I always did, the year before ... when she was still very much here.

And, just as life suddenly changes forever, it somehow involuntarily retains its similarities.

The coats come out of hiding in the recesses of the closet crying for the lint brush. The gloves stuffed into hats fall on the floor for lack of remembering. The scarves get placed around necks, prepared to lose a few thousand strands more on our shoulders. And they all collectively say, "is it that time already?"

When this all happens I can't help but get a little worked up.

When this all happens the days on either end of Christmas get just a little more jealous.

I was never raised with much organized religion in my life. My babush (grandmother in Polish) was the last of the stalwart Catholics. When she died in 1980 there was a big mess with the local priest and what kind of service we should have. Shortly thereafter we actively parted ways and never looked back. So I don't really remember letting god muck up the holidays. Christmas was, for me, not about the birth of Jesus any more than it was about the birth of my aunt on December 15th (that holiday was far removed as if it happened in the summer, as per her request). This was a time for family, food, jokes, soda, T.V. and presents. Oh, and dressing up the dogs in little elf outfits. Although it really was just a switch of type of outfit; they wore at least some kind of clothes--be it a hat, a vest, or a fancy collar--on a semi-regular basis. But like I was saying, it wasn't so much of a religious time of year but a time of year when time was celebrated. When each clock ticked just a little louder. When the sun went to bed just a little bit earlier. And when the schoolwork got just a little bit easier, knowing that the pens, pencils, crayons, rulers, math paper, safety scissors, and lunch boxes would get stowed for a week or so to let overworked brains safely transition from letters and numbers to colors, shapes, tastes, sounds and smells.

In a time before remote controls--before video tapes even--before we could watch our life and the lives of others on screen in slow motion at the push of a button, the holiday season let me take in each frame and document each detail not caring if it would ever come again, because if it were done right the world could end on January 1st and I would feel like I got my money's worth.

It's only the 11th of December and there are plenty of days left of this holiday season. Jodi and I have been hard at work sending out cards and plotting who gets what for whom.

We went, together, and picked out a tree at the same place where I got one, alone, last year. The guy seemed to remember me. I definitely remembered him. We brought it home on her lunch break and put it in the corner of the dining room where it goes, then I drove her the half mile back to work. My hands got a little sticky from the sap. It smelled like cold, excited nature. That, I love.

We made a pot of potpourri on the stove with some cloves and cinnamon and allspice that my aunt had given me a couple of years ago. I forgot I had them until I pulled the pot out to make it. Nothing smells like that. Nothing.

We've been trimming the tree slowly. I now possess so many family ornaments it's staggering. This year we are making a few of our own and, at the same time, trying to use some restraint and choose each one that goes up carefully so as to not overdo it. There are a few that have yet to make their way on that are a must. But there is still--as I have said--plenty of time.

I have each year--for thirty years now--happily honored my very favorite Christmas album with a post-tree trimming listening party. That album would be John Denver and The Muppets: A Christmas Together, and this year was no different. If you grew up with it (it came out in 1979) then you know what I'm talking about. If not you may still enjoy it. It embodies all of what was good and right in the 1970's. John Denver was in his prime and The Muppets were the biggest non-human stars in the world (only to be rivaled by Chewbacca, C3PO and R2D2). It's got some holiday classics and some originals played by studio greats (orchestrated by Ray Charles!) and sung with welcome restraint by a master of the sentimental. The whole album affects me and there is a certain gravitas that accompanies its debut every year.

I laid on my living room floor with my girlfriend in front of a roaring fire and pushed play ... and then came the tears. I cried and cried and cried. Because, for me, the 45 minutes of music it contains reminds me of so much. My babush would pass away a year after the album's release. She loved The Muppets, she loved Christmas, and she loved me. And each year following my mother tried so very hard to not let her absence overshadow the holidays. And each year we listened to this record. Needless to say it marks the end and the beginning of a way of life for me.

She was the first one who I loved to leave this earth on my watch.

This time of year means many things to so many different people. In almost every culture there is some kind of celebration, some kind of emotional enunciation, some kind of sharing of customs. I don't recall ever looking around and asking why we did what we did. When I was a child there was no such thing as political correctness (or not any I was aware of) and so, I never once restrained myself from saying "Merry Christmas" to anyone and everyone. Although, I would hazard to guess that if it came from a child--any child--one would be hard pressed to not smile and thank them regardless of what faith one claimed allegiance to.

Because the way I saw it then and the way I see it now is not much different. Our world is our world as long as we can claim it is. The voices carry only for so long and only for so far down the line from one person who heard it to the next. I'm telling you how it makes me feel. I'm giving you a first hand account. And this may seem like it's all a big emotional sneeze--it builds up, it happens, it's over, and someone acknowledges it ...

And hopefully, there will always be a reason for us to connect like that. Hopefully, there will always be a need to lock eyes and smile, or cry, or even look away if that's what it takes to remember why we're here.

And hopefully, the days on either end of Christmas will get jealous every year.

Thanks for sharing yours with me.

And, of course, thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and eighty six ... Keys to the castle.

This is my house.

But this picture was taken last October, before it was actually mine.

I had made a bid on a house right around the corner. It was way too small and way too expensive, but I was in a hurry. For what reason I can't be sure. I can, however, speculate that a contributing factor was that my aunt--the last of my close, blood relatives--had passed away the month prior and I didn't want to have to endure what was coming over the horizon in the same apartment I had lived in for eight years.

I didn't want to be in the same building over the holiday season that for so many years before had been the scene of so many family events. Not that we celebrated Christmas or Thanksgiving in my old place. But it's where I was picked up, brought back, and given bag after beautiful bag of groceries by my family. It's where I had birthday parties for me, and even one for my mom. The long, slow, smiling wait for her to crest the top step to the staircase that led up to the second floor each time she came there I will never forget. The excitement and boisterous noise that always carried throughout the normally quiet neighborhood during those events will always remain vibrating in part of the air there in my mind. And the way I would stand at the doorway on the bottom floor making silly faces, waving, and waiting for them to slowly back up, cautiously turn, and drive ahead down my dead end street--me, shoulders slumped and sad like a little boy, with tears running down his ruddy cheeks.

Maybe it was that.

Maybe I didn't want to spend the holidays there another year without them.

So I packed up my things and moved out.

Like I said, I almost bought the wrong place. But I talked with some friends, paid a building inspector, and ultimately came to terms with the fact that I had been impulsive and hasty. I stood back from the situation, looked at it with a fresh perspective, and begrudgingly changed my stubborn little mind.

But such has been my lifestyle for almost two whole years.

And so, a year ago on November 21 I went to see my lawyer. We went to the bank and then we went back to his office. I met my buyers agent and the sellers agent and we signed some papers. I nervously waited until I got the call from my lawyer telling me everything was as it should be; the house was officially mine.

And then I had this picture taken.

And I moved in with the help of my friends.

I celebrated Thanksgiving with some of them.

I had Christmas with my Aunt Anne here. I lit the bayberry candle on Christmas Eve, which has been a tradition in my family since before I was ever even able to hold a match--the smell of a blown out candle consistently evoking the deepest, dearest emotions in my soul.

And the winter came in and rolled on like it does every year.

A whole hell of a lot has happened since then.

I met a girl who I can talk to, first and foremost, and I fell deeply in love.

I travelled throughout Europe with her.

I got better at working through my personal problems.

I think I learned how to shut up about the things that don't really matter.

And I made this house a home.

And I come back to this place--a place like no other to me--every time I go away. It holds so many memories for me now. The first piece of furniture delivered; the warm brownies left on the doorstep by the neighbors; the first coating of snow; the first heating bill; my first fireplace fire; the first time the smoke detectors went off; my first party; my first real date in what seemed like a lifetime; the second date; the first nervous, excited, kiss; meeting the parents and cooking them dinner; Baseball season on my television; my birthday; the summer; landscaping; touring the world with someone I love; her birthday and the magnificent outdoor party here that accompanied it; the fall; the end of baseball season on my television; the leaves leaving my surroundings shockingly bare; the realization that privacy is overrated; the first few fleeting flakes of this winter's snow; the first time the heat went on since the last time; and the understanding that it's all come around again and November twenty-first is here at my doorstep.

And regardless of whether I may have rushed it or not. Regardless of if I almost made the biggest mistake in my life buying a house that wasn't right for me. Regardless of the way things might have gone had I not opened my mouth to say, both, "Hey guys, I put in a bid on a house," or, "I'd love to get together sometime" ...

Regardless of any of that, right now I'm sitting in my favorite place in the world, waiting for my favorite person to arrive, doing what I absolutely love most ...

And there's no better ending than that.

Here's to a year in the books and the rest of time on my side.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and eighty two ... A moment's notice.

Every so often I stand in front of my favorite chair and try to picture myself gone.

This is what I do when there's something nagging in the back of my mind; it helps me get things done.

Can anyone else take care of it?

Will anyone else take care of it?

If I can't answer yes to both of these questions I get my ass in gear and make it happen.

I remember my mom calling me up sometime around June of 2005, right after she had gotten her new treadmill. She had named it "Harley" in honor of Dr. Harley Haynes, her dermatologist--the best in the country.

"I've been riding my Harley," she said.

"That's great, Mom. Good for you."

"And I've lost five pounds!", she said.

And I congratulated her on it, profusely. I was truly happy for her and I was really hoping this would be a turning point. She--like all of us in the Johnson clan--had a weight problem. It had started shortly after she had me at age 29, and despite some valiant attempts and successes losing ten pounds here, five pounds there, even twenty pounds at one point, it showed no signs of truly stopping for thirty five years.

But something happened at age 64 and she decided to do something about it: she bought Harley, and she started to ride.

Sadly, this grand attempt to get healthy would not last for long. Because in September of 2005 my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer; in sixteen months she would be gone.

I can't, nor will I try, to blame her death on any one thing. I'm not a doctor, nor will I ever be. But I know that there is a link between obesity and pancreatic cancer. I know that my mother was well aware of this, too. My mother was one of the smartest and most proactive people I ever knew. I also know that she told me more than once how she wished so much to have really fought the weight battle sooner.

And now Harley the Treadmill sits in the front room of her house in Mattapoisett along with her and my aunt's ashes. Her favorite chair is there, too.

I have had plenty of scares in recent days. A little bump here, a mole there, the occasional heart flutter and, of course, the nagging weight problem. I see my doctor at least twice a year and he tells me I'm doing great.

I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs anymore and I hope I stopped in time.

I'm only 39 and I'm planning to have plenty of years left on this magnificent earth.

I try to take care of the things that need to be taken care of before I get a reminder notice--both in tangible and intangible forms.

I water the plants twice a week.

I take out the trash.

I recycle.

I do my laundry when it gets dirty and I don't let it pile up more than necessary.

I write thank you notes.

I hold the door for people, and I make sure there's no one coming behind me before I let it close.

I keep my phone charged.

I pay my bills.

I clean my house.

I wash my car.

I cut out coupons and I use as many as I can before they expire.

I visit my mom's elderly friends.

I hire professionals to do the jobs that could potentially kill me.

I try not to swear around children.

I root for the Red Sox.

I tell my girlfriend I love her whenever I can, but I try not to overdo it.

And whenever I just feel like taking a nap, or putting it off until tomorrow, or letting just a few more minutes get in between me and the rest of my life, I stand in front of my favorite chair and I try and picture myself gone.

Can anyone else take care of it?

Will anyone else take care of it?

If I can't answer yes to both of these questions I get my ass in gear and get it done.

And that is why I wrote today.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and seventy four ... Closer still.

I'm not all better, but I'm getting close.

My shrink asks me how my urges have been--have I been feeling like going back to drinking?

She's too funny.

No lady, I don't think so. I appreciate the concern, don't get me wrong. It's a legitimate one, as drinking was something I did more than almost everything else combined (a fair evaluation, albeit a bit boastful).

But I'm on my way to being able to cut free of those chains, those excruciatingly heavy and jagged chains. The allegorical fishhooks that pulled at my arms when I tried to lock the door and stay in for the night, or show up for band practice or a gig with only a bottle of water in my hand--the holes they left are all but mere freckles. God, I used to not even be able to scream it was so painfully predictable. The information they dragged out of me became more of a question than an answer in the end. "Hey, who's going to be the most wasted guy in the world tonight? ... Me! Me! Me! Ooh, ooh, ooh! I want to be that guy! Give me a chance! I'll show you how it's done!"

And so it would be.

And I suppose that it's important for me to write these words out loud in order to remind myself of how things were for much longer than they weren't. I suppose it's therapeutic, and perhaps may even act as a barrier against the evils that lie in what seems like every point one could focus a pair of eyes on, outside of the confines and comfort of home or a hospital.

But I'm not buying into the lifetime of servitude. No fucking way.

You see, it's quite easy for me to predict my future to a certain degree. I predicted a few things that would happen when this all began almost two years ago. Yes, I did say two years. Hard to believe it myself. But anyway, amidst the chaos that was the winter of 2007 I had an idea that if I cleaned up my act and started living right I would be able to lose weight. I predicted that my hypertension (high blood pressure) would level off, and I'd be able to get off my medication. I predicted that my anxiety level would lessen, hastened in part by the clearing of my mental state, which in turn would allow me to take care of my personal, professional, and business affairs that had become so neglected.

I could, however, have never predicted meeting Jodi. That was a stroke of brilliance that could have only been handed down from the heavens. And each time I look up into the sky there is a part of me that says "thank you".

But all of the aforementioned items on my list of main concerns did, in fact, turn out as predicted.

And that gives me some ammo. This is still a fight, mind you. Human nature is wont for destruction if given enough weapons. We're all dying from the day we're born, so why not screw with the mechanism? Seems like fun when you can't feel the damage.

I'm taking things in stride these days. I'm enjoying what my life is like now and not sitting around bemoaning how it used to be on a daily, hourly basis. I did that for a while. It got me on my feet and into a place where I could see down into it from above. I got an emotional and spiritual step stool to perch upon in order to see what I had been in the middle of.

It wasn't pretty.

I think it's somewhat funny now that I can see it all for what it is. I can't help but notice, when I'm out at a bar and having a good time, some people who may not know where I am in my adaption seeming a bit nervous around me. It's usually one of two reasons: either they think that I relapsed and am back on the sauce, or they think I'm nervous to be there around them. I could have never predicted that. I always thought it was going to be me who was the uncomfortable one. "Oh, how can I still go out and not drink? People are going to be offering me booze and I'm going to have to come up with excuses and it's going to be weird and I'm going to feel like I don't fit in anymore without my buzz on."

I never planned on it being as easy as just going out and not drinking. I never planned on it ultimately being up to me. I never realized--the whole time I was doing it--that not only did I had the start/stop button in my hands, but it actually was my hands, and it was connected to that big squash on top of my roundish body that I like--on good days--to call my brain.

Like I said, I'm not all better, but I'm getting close.

As far as the stuff my shrink asks me--about whether or not I get urges to go out and get loaded--this is how I see it:

At the stage I'm at in my life if I were to go out and buy a bottle of vodka and bring it back to my house and drink it, it would be like stealing a sandwich from a grocery store when I was hungry: it would make me feel full for a while. Then, in a few hours, I would become hungry once more, and I'd have the guilt of stealing something from the store. I couldn't ever just do it and feel good about it.

And I can't just do it once, because unless it kills me it'll just make me hunger.

And just like the leading brand of self-help is rife with analogies and aphorisms, so seems to be the words I write myself that keep me sane: it only works until it doesn't.

I don't write as much as I used to. I don't think I really need to. It's way more of an outlet for me to document the good things that have been going on, just in larger groups of moments. It's hard to say whether I would have the life I have now if I didn't have the life I had then. It would be unfair to even speculate ... so I don't.

I absolutely love the way I am and the way my world has mutated, but I also know that it could all change at a moment's notice. I realize we can only do what our brain tells us to do.

And that is why I wrote today.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.