Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats

It sure was a Trick, But It wasn't a treat.

2011-11-07T10:05:00.016-05:00

Coley Blackstone wandered outside to look at the stars. His dog Chubby close by his side, he and the little four-legged black and gray rag mop trudged through the 12 inches of snow in the front yard. Chubby was chomping on his saliva slicked plastic banana. There was dead silence for a few moments as Coley looked up, gazing at the constellations.

With no artificial light to dull the brilliant sparkle of the stars, the view was breathtaking. As Coley ran down the list of constellations he recognized in his head, the silence was broken as Chubby bit down on his plastic banana causing it to emit a high pitched squeak. Coley looked down at him briefly and returned his gaze to the sky.

"Look at that, buddy ... You can see the Milky Way!" The dog looked up at him, just for a moment, and then went back to running his wet, black nose through the dense and wet accumulation of snow. In the distance a generator fired up, robbing the scene of its almost mystical solace.

It was Halloween night. There was a foot of snow on the ground. Trick or treaters were no where in sight. The bowl of candy near Coley's front door would remain filled this year. It was far too dangerous to venture out and it was announced by the Sheriff's Department that Halloween had been cancelled.

The ground was liberally littered with tree branches of every shape and size. Tree tops still lush with their green leaves lay on the ground bent in the middle still attached to their shattered trunks. Young birch trees still standing had their tops touching the ground and they were bent in a very radical U shape.

The tree limb which had come to rest on Coley's roof was splayed in two different directions appearing as if a mighty giant, a drunken Paul Bunyan perhaps, had split it down the middle with a dull axe.

The generator starting in the distance had distracted Coley's attention from the stars to the fallen debris littering his neighborhood, downing power lines, destroying property, the fallout from a freakish Nor'easter which had paralyzed Muskrat Flats. The devastation was insurmountable, it seemed like it would be days before power would be restored.

Coley once again addressed Chubby, as he looked up to his master's voice with his snout covered in snow.

"It looks like God is reminding us that he is Still in charge, Chubby. Yep, he's still in charge." Chubby went down into a crouch, began to bark and romp around in circles, ready to play. Now that the silence had been broken by the drone of one generator, Coley trudged back to the house to power up his own. Coley was glad to be alive despite the harrowing ordeal he had endured getting home in the storm the night before ...

Yes, it was an odd week in Muskrat Flats. It was a long, cold, dark week which put Spiritual Principles such as Love, Friendship and Truth to the test.

The neighborhood near the old railroad yard known as the Iron Triangle, just a few short miles from the Odd Fellows' Lodge at the corners of Petersen and McKernan in downtown Muskrat Flats, seemed to escape the devastation as it never lost power. Very quickly long lines formed as residents from the neighboring communities which had lost power, such as Dana, Enfield, Prescott and Greenwich flocked to gas stations, banks and supermarkets in the Triangle. This grittier section of town gets its name from the three sets of railroad tracks which essentially surround the neighborhood, leaving you in the situation - no matter where you stood within the Triangle, you were on the wrong side of the tracks.

It was business as usual within the Triangle, probably a little better as the working girls who were doing what they had to do to keep the ball rolling had a somewhat captive audience as the streets of neighborhood were paralyzed, congested with prospective clients.

At the Odd Fellows Lodge, Moe Eckstein and Sid Bartelby sat at their table in the candlelight, warmed by a fire roaring nearby in the stone hearth. They were kvetching about the slow response time of the utility companies. Although the rustic room was warm and illuminated, there was something missing, that being the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee co-mingled with the sweet fragrant enticement of Iva's blueberry muffins. This situation would be quickly rectified as the young bucks in the kitchen were setting up a mobile kitchen outdoors underneath a 20'x20' tent. By four o'clock, the Odd Fellows were offering freshly brewed coffee, some bread, a steaming bowl of chicken soup and sweets to anyone who wandered in looking for refuge.

Moe marveled at what was going on in the community. He said to Sid.

"Did you see the intersection at the other end of McKernan and Tamalpais?"
Sid replied,

"Are you kidding me? I avoid that intersection like the plague. It is always a mess."

"No kidding, right?" Moe agreed. "I went through it today because I was rerouted by a fallen tree. With no traffic lights at all, that intersection was smooth sailing. I got through in a minute, everybody was cooperating with each other, actually being courteous. Go figure."

Gomer sat with His father and Sid, fiddling as he always did with his iPhone. He barely had one bar which quickly disappeared and gave way to the words "No Service." He groaned to himself and looked up. The flickering of the candle projected a pretty good shadow as the light passed by the stuffed jack-a-lope. Gomer chuckled to himself at the cartoon like quality of the scene, the shadow appropriately looking very much like something you hoped you might NOT see on Halloween.

He was trying to get in touch with Miranda, who had left him three messages. She was worried having seen news reports of the devastation in the area. Things were going good with them. Gomer was at peace with her, and he was very much in love. He had told Miranda what had happened between him and Sveltie after they had left the club and headed toward the Hotel at the Farm Museum last month.

Miranda was a little disappointed when the subject had come up. Gomer bared his soul to her. He told her how he and Sveltie had flirted, He told her about the decision to go off together. He told her about how he and Sveltie held onto to each other, crying, agreeing that they had no right to fix a feeling with a feeling. They had no right to seek each other for comfort. What they had was in the past and it didn't work then for a reason, why would it or could it work now?

Gomer had freed himself somehow by doing the mature thing and not succumbing to taking the easy way out. And he didn't hesitate. He called Miranda right away, moments after he and Sveltie parted ways. All was good. Right now his concern was getting cell service so he could let Miranda know he was okay. He opened his phone and had three bars!! he immediately fired off a lengthy text message. Moments after he sent the message, another iPhone chimed in a three story Victorian house somewhere in the Mission district in the City by the Bay. Miranda smiled and exhaled a sigh of relief.

Across town Sveltie and Jeff assessed the damage at the Farm Museum. They had lost many trees. Between the tornado, the microburst, the hurricane and now this, the skyline of the Farm museum had been radically changed in the Summer and Fall of 2011.

All of the grapes had already been harvested and were safely being stored for wine production. As ravaged as the tree line surrounding the museum had been, only some of the vines had been damaged, and it was minimal.

The early winter storm did impact the business at the Museum as they anticipated a large turn out for the last weekend of the Corn Maze. Although ultimately the winter storm was responsible for people staying away from the Farm Museum for the weekend, earlier in the week, a decision had been made to close the corn maze because of a slight safety issue which had arisen.

It seems that at the end of the day last Sunday, Jeff had sneaked into the corn maze to "relieve himself" as he liked to call it. This means he hid in the corn maze where he promptly downed a half pint of vodka. After he emptied the bottle, He lit a joint. He exhaled after having taken a few puffs, and he heard something rustling in the corn. He quickly extinguished the joint. He walked forward thinking some kids decided to use the corn maze for a similar purpose as he had intended. The rustling got closer. Jeff froze as a mama bear and two of her cubs emerged from the corn. She stopped and looked at the motionless man mere yards in front of her. With a slight grunt she turned around and ran with her two cubs closely following.

The next morning, it was out to the maze to investigate to see if the bears were still around, and they were.

On the outskirts of the maze, the Museum workers had set up a compost area which had included the recent addition of a number of sugar pumpkins and bruised apples. Nearby, Jeff spotted the two cubs cavorting as the mama was feasting on a honey comb which she removed from one of the nearby bee hives, a perk available to the mama bear as a local bee keeper had set up numerous hives there. She just toppled it over and sat there gnawing on the wax and licking up its encased nectar oblivious to the bees swarming around. They had practically set up a smorgasbord for the bears.

There was a group of people who joined Jeff that morning. Everyone wanted to see the bruin family. Sveltie was there as was her assistant, Gina and her fiancee Kurt from the Smithy Shop. Also along for the ride were Sid, Moe, Gomer and Coley Blackstone, who held Chubby firmly in his arms as to not put him in harm's way by allowing him to roam freely in such close proximity to the bears.

After the decision was made, the employees of the Farm Museum went back to work and the Board of directors went back to the Odd Fellows Hall.

Shortly after Moe, Sid, Gomer and Coley settled in the Snow began to fall. It began to fall in large odd shaped flakes, quickly covering the still green autumn lawns and roads with a layer of white. What was previously thought to be a small dusting of snow was quickly acknowledged to be a freakish early season storm by the local weather forecasters. They began to urge viewers to prepare for a wallop as they began to describe what was happening as Nor'easter.

After his time at the Odd Fellows hall, Coley went to the music store where he had recently secured a job as a teacher. Although he hadn't any students as of yet, he felt compelled to hang around the store for a few hours, talking music with the other teachers, however the conversation kept returning to the weather. As nightfall rapidly approached, he finally decided that it was time to head back home to his neighborhood in Triple Creek. He exited the shop and urged,

"Comon, Chubby!" Chubby grabbed his plastic banana, squeaking away as he excitedly followed Coley to the car.

The ride back to Triple Creek was treacherous. The roads out of Muskrat Flats leading to the creek were already a twisting semi navigable trail through densely wooded residential area. The snow was coming down with driving force and the wind began to whip up. He drove at a slow and cautious pace, his tires occasionally feeling like they were losing their traction. Chubby was on the front seat his front paws on the dash board. As Coley scolded him telling him to get in the back seat, he heard the first of what would be many loud cracks as tree branches and trunks began to give way to the combination of the weight of the snow and the ferocity of the wind. It was now dark as he passed houses which had their elaborate Halloween displays now obscured and heavily laden with snow as the bright oranges, greens and yellows shone through the snow fall.

There was another another loud snapping sound followed by a sharp crack. He swerved the slow moving car as another branch gave way taking some power lines down with it. The neighborhood went dark.

Coley's mind began to get away from him. He had that feeling he used to get when he would play alone in the basement of his Grandmother's house, convinced someone was watching him. He slowly dodged a few more felled branches as he crept closer to his neighborhood. Chubby had maneuvered his way back into the front seat. Coley turned a bend, the final hill he had to go down before he could take a right hand turn and pull into his neighborhood.

All the while he kept hearing the loud cracks coming out of the woods as if some unseen monsters were causing devastation as the Wood sprites retreated in fear. He thought he saw demons in the shadows cast by his headlights. Car tail lights at the end of a log driveway looked like red menacing eyeballs staring him down. Chubby, illuminated by the dashboard even looked like his canine teeth had sprouted into fangs while he snarled at the mayhem occurring outside the vehicle. Coley was doing a great job of freaking himself out.

Earlier in the week, someone had slung a large skeleton over one of the branches overhanging Triple Creek Road. The skeleton was about five feet tall, secured to the tree by a noose around its neck. Coley had seen this skeleton numerous times, thinking it was a neat decoration. He wondered how and when someone had taken the time to get it up there. It hung from a branch about 20 feet in the air.

Tonight however he was more focused on the road and getting home safely. He had forgotten about the skeleton. His paranoid thoughts, thoughts of Ghouls, Goblins and Orcs waiting in the shadows prepared to viciously garott him and feast on his quivering flesh as he gasped struggling for that one last breath, whisked him away to a place he did not want to be. He began to talk himself down. None of that shit is real. This is just a crazy storm. No one is coming to get you. He reached over and mussed up Chubby's hair as Chubby looked at him with normal sized canine teeth in his mouth.

Coley heard another loud crack. Coley saw the branch before them begin to fall and quickly applied the brakes safely sliding to a stop.

Fortunately for him and Chubby the branch ahead of them was still attached to the tree. What Coley failed to anticipate was the the falling branch would launch the forgotten skeleton hanging from the branch into the air. He shrieked as the skeleton landed right across the windshield. Coley was screaming! Chubby was barking and the skeleton was peering into the car smiling with the noose still around his neck. The road wasn't blocked, so Coley floored the gas pedal. The tires whined slipping on the slicked road. As quickly as it had fallen across the windshield, the skeleton was whisked up and over the car as they made their getaway.

Moments later, he was in his driveway, furiously panting. He turned off the car and he and Chubby raced into the house and locked the door.

Yes, another fine holiday has come and gone. The cast of characters in Muskrat Flats is shaken but not stirred. But for Coley Blackstone after the snow began to melt and the clean up had been done, the thoughts of a warmer destination with less threatening weather crossed his mind, just to get away for a week or so. If that were my criteria, I don't think I would pick San Francisco as he did. He called Gomer and asked him if he wanted to accompany him as he prepared to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

You want me to do what on my handkerchief?

2011-10-11T10:19:00.015-04:00

I has been a very interesting week in Muskrat Flats. There have been overflow problems at the Farm and Agricultural Museum. It seems that more people and vehicles want to visit the place than can be accommodated.

Then again, who can blame them? The place is gorgeous. The vineyards are lush and in the process of being harvested. The surrounding hills emanate vibrant oranges, reds and umbers creating the most amazing visual panorama. The Bartelby's are fast at work with the help of the Odd Fellows as they labor underneath a 10x10 pagoda style tent emblazoned with three links of a chain each with a letter outlining their basic guidelines -

Friendship, Love and Truth.

Under this tent, shielded from the early October sun, they are selling copious amounts of warm blueberry muffins with either hot coffee, mulled cider or a crisp cold carton of milk.

As I surveyed this scene, I noticed an elderly gentleman sitting in his chair in the shade of the grand oak tree outside Sheriff Hawthorne's office. He was a veteran. He was in full dress uniform, Army infantry. He probably had served in World War II. Out of place on the uniform, but very appropriate was a red "Buddy Poppy." He was a handsome man with combed back white hair. From a distance, especially with the poppy on his uniform which signified the blood spilled in the First World War, the man bore a startling resemblance to my long deceased Grandfather.

As I took in the lush landscape it reminded me of what the homeland - Poland, might have looked like this time of year. Perhaps even what the steppes of the Carpathian Mountains might have looked like in the days of his youth.

Dziadziu (Jah Ju) we called him, was the patriarch of our clan. He was a proud veteran of WWI, He was a sharp shooter who was wounded in battle. An injury for which he was awarded the purple heart. He was a free and liberal thinker who always did whatever it took to provide for his family. Rumor has it there was a still located somewhere on his property during prohibition.

At one point, His house had burned down and he built a one room shack to provide his family with shelter using whatever materials he could find. He grew his own vegetables and hunted for meat. During the great depression, he was without a paycheck for three years. Although there were hardships, through his and my grandmother's hard work and diligence, the family was always sheltered and fed.

One time, during the Depression, a group of people were in his fields, harvesting some vegetables. My Grandmother demanded,

"Peter, do something!" He simply replied,

"I can't, they are hungry."

Things did finally settle down for my grandfather and his clan. He eventually went back to work securing a job in a drop forge. A job from which he eventually retired. One of his sons was a veteran or WWII and one of his grandsons served in Vietnam.

The funny part about the three generations of warriors was their totally different experiences. Dzaidziu used to tell me tales of what went on in France. How he had been injured as an artillery shell detonated in close proximity as it pierced the mess kit he was holding in his hands. Miraculously he survived the blast. He would point out areas on his body where there was still German shrapnel embedded in his skin.

My Uncle, never spoke of his experiences as a pilot in the Pacific Theater during WWII. All I knew of his tour of duty was that he was a pilot at the Battle of Midway. His son, my cousin, went to Vietnam where he seemed to have a grand old time hanging out on the beach and maintained Army helicopters.

As a youngster, I was just about 5 years old at the time, I used to love to sit there and listen to my Grandfather recall his experiences from what he described as the Last Gentleman's War.

My Grandfather, Peter Bukowski was born in Southeastern Poland near the Carpathian Mountains in a village named Frysztak. He was the son of a Horse Farmer. As he was approaching his later teen years, Kaiser Wilhelm had annexed Poland as part of the Austrian empire. The foundation for what would become WW I was being laid. Young men my grandfather's age were being conscripted into the Kaiser's Army at a rapid rate.

In 1914, my Great Grandmother did not want her son to join the Kaiser's Army, so she put my Grandfather on a boat to Ellis Island to join his brother Frank who was living in Three Rivers, MA. Falling ill on his first trip across the Atlantic, my grandfather was denied entry into the US and sent back to Europe, where his mother promptly put him on another boat and sent him back to the US.

His story is that his mother kicked him out of the house when he was a teenager. From my point of view it looked like she was protecting her son.

Once settled in the US, Peter joined the US Army Where he was shipped over to France during WWI. There he was taught to speak English by a Frenchman. So you can imagine the accent my grandfather had. It was a thick Polish accent sprinkled with obvious French pronunciations and flourish. Part of listening to his stories was the love I had for my Grandfather's accent which was oft mimicked in my youth and beyond.

I understood what he meant by calling WW I the last Gentleman's War when he spoke of a Christmas Day where soldiers from opposite sides remembered the spirit of the season, together, only to once again be battling each other in the trenches, the very next day.

What didn't register with me as far as the conflict being a Gentleman's War was his recollection of the harrowing stories of the use of poison gas on the allied troops by the German Army.

In 1899 and again in 1907 international meetings were held in Den Hague in the Netherlands where representatives from various countries met. Out of these meeting came The Hague Conventions. Some of the points addressed at the conventions were the rules of war and more particularly prohibiting the use of chemical weapons in war fare. Sadly the documents of the agreement were obscurely worded which left doors open for interpretation, and were, in the long run, ultimately disregarded.

The first instance of chemical warfare in WWI was perpetrated by the French Army in August of 1914, where they had employed turpinite grenades in an attack on the German Army which left many soldiers dead due to asphyxiation.

The Germans had procured documentation that the French Army had developed these grenades and decided to disregard The Hague Conventions as well. Their first attempt was launching a shell containing tear gas which did not dissipate because the chemicals did work properly due to freezing conditions.

The Germans tried again, this was done successfully in April of 1915 at the Battle of Ypres where the Germans launched shells containing chlorine gas at the trenches occupied by French and Algerian Troops. This worked so well that even the Germans were startled at the result and failed to effectively advance their front lines.

Eyewitness accounts recall that these troops were initially deemed cowards by soldiers further back in the trenches as they witnessed their hasty retreat from the wafting greenish yellow cloud.

These accusations were promptly laid by the wayside as the cloud began to burn the eyes and lungs of the allied troops causing severe respiratory distress and in many cases asphyxiation. Those who fared the worst were the already wounded at the bottom of the trenches and on the ground as the heaviest concentration of the chlorine gas traveled closest to the ground.

My grandfather spoke of burns and blisters he had witness from the use of mustard gas as well.

In the winter of 1970, I was 5 years old, not yet in school. My brother was 8 and in third grade. My brother, also named Peter, a nod to my grandfather and my Father's middle name, was always a tinkerer. He would create things and take things apart to see how they worked. He was always doing different experiments with me looking on. I used to frustrate the hell out of him as I analyzed the situation and simply declared,

"It won't work, Peter." His frustration was usually compounded by the fact the more often than not, I was right and they didn't work.

One of the hot spots we used to frequent was located at the Eastfield Mall. There, out in the open, not behind locked cases, long before the concept of homeland security was on the front burner, was my brother's Shangri La, his utopian supply depot for the ingredients required for most of his experiments, the Kaybee Toy and Hobby Store. You heard me, the Toy Store.

There at Kaybee, of course you could buy toys. What they also had was racks of balsa wood which could be used in the construction of model planes, ships and rockets. They also had model plane motors, fuel, model rocket "engines" and ... chemicals. A whole rack of multicolored glass jars filled with chemicals. In addition to the chemicals you could buy glass jars, laboratory apparatus, glass tubing of all sizes, rubbers hoses and stoppers.

Once my brother recalled he bought all of the ingredients for making gun powder, which fortunately didn't work. The clerk asked him what he was going to make, he simply replied "... gonna just experiment."

One of these "experiments" was burning strips of magnesium which produced a shockingly white and bright flame.

"I used to make ethanol, too. I'd burn strips of wood over an alcohol burner." This was done in a stoppered test tube with a tube going into another test tube which would catch the condensed alcohol.

"It was cool and it smelled good," He said.

My brother was a sickly child, often experiencing loss of breath and strength. It was determined that he had problem with his heart which could be corrected with surgery. It was during this time frame, as my brother lay in bed before and after his surgery that the plans were laid for possibly his most dangerous, and assuredly most successful experiments.

"It was January. I was in the hospital for a number of weeks. Someone had given my some chemistry books to read while I was in there." My brother recalled.

"They were advanced books probably high school or college. Certainly not a 3rd grade level," He chuckled as he recalled.

"I remember the night before my surgery the anesthesiologist came in to talk to me about the procedure the next day. He saw the books and was pretty impressed that an 8 year old was reading them." Peter went on,

"He told me he was going to give my some nitrous oxide before my surgery and asked me if I knew the chemical formula for it. I told him NO2. Not quite right (the formula is N2O) but he was impressed regardless. One of the books was pretty much a recipe book for different experiments and reactions. One of them was for chlorine gas."

When Peter got home from the hospital and he was convalescing and regaining his strength he put his plans into action.

"I couldn't get out of the house to buy chemicals so I used what was handy. In this case chlorine bleach and Drano. The experiment not only worked, but worked well."

I asked if it occurred to him what he was doing could be harmful?

"It didn't ... if I thought what I was doing was harmful or a health hazard, I wouldn't have proceeded. I wasn't secretive about it, because I didn't think I was doing anything wrong."

Peter put together the apparatus. He had three bottles. In the first bottle was chlorine bleach. In the second bottle was Drano. The third bottle was empty. These tthree bottles were connected by rubber stoppers equipped with connecting tubes of both glass and rubber hose.

Peter put the chemicals in the bottles and attached the stoppers. Immediately the the reaction began.

"You could see yellow gas pouring out of the tubes, it was really cool. It was working for a few minutes." As we sat there watching the experiment,

Dziadziu, who was upstairs with my Mom, came into the basement to see what his young grandsons were up to. He took one look at the apparatus and his his face went white. He didn't need a road map to know what was happening in those bottles his grandchildren were peering into.

He picked up the bottles and rushed deep into the woods behind our suburban house. He came out of the woods shortly afterwards, wheezing and gasping with a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Who knows, perhaps he used one of the tricks he learned in WWI to combat and diminish the affects of the gas. You see, Chlorine gas is water soluble. If you breathe through a water soaked rag, it would protect you from the gas. It was even more effective if the water contained urea which would further and more efficiently neutralize the chlorine gas. In the trenches the best source for urea was found in their own urine.

My grandfather really didn't say anything to us directly. But my Mother heard it,

"Jesoos Chrrrist!" He yelled, "That is vhat the Germans used begainst our troops in Vorld Var I!"

That was quite a startling memory to both me and my brother as we reminisced recently.

My brother simply said, "That was end of my fun."

It is amazing what we used to not only do, but get away with as children. I don't ever recall using a seat belt when I was young. We used to have full run of our neighborhood, spending hours unattended in the adjoining woods going for lengthy hikes or running with the pack of kids our age, just generally being unsupervised. It is not that our parents didn't care what was happening with us. It was just a different time. It was a different world.

There were no milk cartons to put pictures of missing children on, milk came in glass bottles. Delivered by a man whose name you knew. Someone you trusted who would give you a ride from your house to your Grandfather's house as you stood up in the milk truck, just like he did when he drove from stop to stop.

It was a time in our lives when principles which are held in high esteem by the Odd Fellows, Friendship, Love and Truth were held near and dear and were codes by which people, at least the ones I knew, lived their lives.

I can't imagine letting my child partake in some of the activities in which I used to engage when I was a preteen. I'm sure my brother, who is a very doting and protective father of three teenagers, feels the same way.

First of all a lot of the situations that I am discussing are now illegal due to laws which have been passed to protect our children and society. But other activities such as making poisonous gas, just defy common sense.

As my teenaged daughter gets older, and she is asserting her independence, I realize that there will be a time where I have to let her fall. A time where I have to allow her to have her own life experience of defeat or failure, where she will undoubtedly pick herself up and dust herself off. But that doesn't mean she can't benefit from my experience and I can prevent her from stepping on some landmines or worse a bottle of poisonous gas.

DON"T TRY THIS AT HOME KIDS!

I'll just simply encourage you to Go in Peace as I am once again,

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Maybe Somebody should tell him ... or "I'm so vain I probably think this blog is about me."

2011-09-19T08:52:00.005-04:00

Gomer Eckstein sat in the back of the darkened room. He was in a bad space and up in his head. He had just had another fight with Miranda. It wasn't a total blowout, but she decided perhaps it would be a good idea to get away for a few days, so she decided to go back to San Francisco.

Although he was agitated that he had caused her to leave, in fact by the time she had left that afternoon, after his gig, they had patched things up a bit and it was a pleasant farewell. Deep down, Gomer was just as happy to have a few days to himself.

By the time he had gotten to the club, the sting began to settle in a bit and he was beating himself up again. He did have a good time chatting with his friends Sean and Sherrill from the band Rail Rider. They always seemed to have a positive outlook on things.

Gomer sat and awaited his turn as the featured performer at the open mic left the stage. Gomer liked this room. It was a quiet little sober club where not many people knew him as the front man for the Hook Nosed Satans.

He was dressed incognito, not wearing his black "get up" as his father like to call the outfit Gomer's stage persona donned for every performance. He looked a far cry away from the guy who just last year caused a furor by pulling a vegetarian out of the audience, actually his girlfriend Miranda) and whipping her bare back with a cat o nine tails fashioned with raw strips of bacon ... 39 times, just for shits and giggles.

Every fearful of being alone, Gomer asked Sveltie to join him for the evening. Her husband Jeff didn't join them because he was "somewhere else" as she said. Gomer gathered from that comment that the last place Jeff wanted to be was at a sober club.

Gomer looked over to the corner of the room. There was a guy he had seen once or twice before hanging around the fringes of the scene, who was rummaging around with a guitar in one hand and a sloppily wound instrument cable in the other. He had tucked under his arm a black plastic binder overflowing with spindled, crushed and folded pages protruding from the insides.

Gomer poked Sveltie and said, "What's up with this guy?"

He was holding an old Stratocaster which looked like it had seen years of action. The guy was an old rocker. Late fifty-ish, wearing black jeans, a black leather vest which deftly contained his paunch. A head band was stretched around his thinning black hair. He had a dangling nose ring and a couple of visible tattoos, a rose and what appeared to be a Bonedaddy tattoo and some tribal feather like patterns.

Sveltie leaned in and whispered , "He looks like an unhealthy Keith Richards, if there is such a thing." Gomer laughed.

"I was thinking more along the lines of if Ron Wood and Johnny Ramone had somehow spawned." Sveltie laughed and smacked Gomer in the arm.

Gomer went up and did his three songs. He played a new tune he had written which he butchered, forgetting of all things on of the chords. He started over and made his way through the tune, later giving an offhand apology for screwing up the tune. He was beating himself up for his lack of preparedness.

As he got back to his seat, Sean grabbed him and said, "you know the cardinal rule number one. Never apologize for sharing your music!" Gomer replied,

"I know I know ..." ugh!

Gomer's angst soon dissipated as the guy he and Sveltie had been checking out made his way to the stage.

Very slowly.

It took him a long time to set up. He almost seemed bewildered or even high as he got his shit together. The guy was obviously a casualty of years of drug and alcohol abuse. Gomer was aghast as this guy just farted around for minutes fiddling with the guitar cable, then the microphone which was about a foot and a half away from his mouth. Then the music stand. He then left to the stage to retrieve yet another equally unkempt and dilapidated binder leaving a trail of dropped pages in his wake as he made his way back to the stage.

As he strapped on his guitar, he started talking, which no one could hear because his mic was so far away.

The sound man had a blank expression on his face which clearly read, "You gotta be fucking kidding me!" The guy from the Glenwood Mills Band was on the edge of his seat, his hand over his mouth hiding a smile, trying to conceal his amusement. What on earth was about to happen?

It could have gone either way Gomer thought, either this is going to be awful or he is going to be the best guitar player he had ever heard.

Then he hit his first chord. It was ... awful. It sounded like a 12 year old who was playing his first chord ever on a guitar after turning the reverb and drive WAY up on his amp. He began singing which again, no one could hear because of the placement of the mic and slowly worked his way through the chords of the unrecognizable tune he was playing.

Gomer thought to himself. "This can't be ... NOBODY is that bad." People began to get up from their seats and head outside for either a smoke, a breath or fresh air, or even better, a breath of second hand smoke.

There was an exodus as one by one, people left the room. The crowd outside was abuzz with their comments and criticisms of what was happening inside. Gomer stood on the rail of the ramp and watched the guy through the window picking up reflected flashes as the stage lights hit the guy's nose ring.

Again Gomer said this can't be. After the guy got off the stage, people meandered back into the club. Gomer was in the hallway discussing the topic at hand when the guy walked by. A friend of Gomer's engaged the guy in a brief conversation encouraging him. Gomer quietly observed. First he noticed that the dangling nose ring was a clip on. Then he noticed that the tattoos were a little too shiny. They were temporary.

Hmm ...

Gomer and Sveltie began to chat when he was out of ear shot.

"What do you make of that guy? He was so bad. Maybe somebody should tell him." She proposed. Gomer scoffed.

"Go ahead, you tell him. All I know is that I forgot how I thought I had butchered my new tune." When he said that some guy piped up and stuck out his hand,

"Dude, you were awesome, You got really good lyrics, man!" Gomer thanked him. Sveltie Smiled, winked, leaned in and whispered to Gomer, "Mr. Rock star ... But what about that guy?"

Gomer thought for a moment. Sveltie looked at him expectantly.

"Seveltie, he was sooo bad that it can't possibly be. The nose ring is a clip on, the tattoos are fake, the whole package is so over the top that I suspect there is a bigger picture we are missing."

"And what do you think that is?" Sveltie asked.

"Either he is completely nuts, which is possible and he thinks what he did is acceptable or we just witnessed some type of Dadaist performance art piece that was perpetrated with one purpose in mind ... to clear the room of the patient, respectful and attentive listening audience which shows up here on a regular basis."

"Comon Gomer ..."

"No I'm serious! Nobody can play the guitar that badly, even a beginner who just sat down with their new "how to play CD" from Esteban could put together a three chorder." Sveltie laughed.

"You can only play that badly, if you actually know how to play."

"I don't know Gomer, you have some pretty weird ideas sometimes. You know how you are always proclaiming, "what a weirdo!" she mimicked him.

"Takes one to know one ..." She leaned in for a hug.

Then a 18 or 19 year old kid walked up to them.

"Uh ...." He piped up. "Aren't you Gomer Shabbos from the Satans?" Sveltie just looked at Gomer and Smiled. "Can you sign this?" The kid handed Gomer a Sharpie and as he held out his White Ibanez bass guitar.

"I didn't know you were in recovery, Gomer. I saw you sit in with PRY last summer at Shoreline. You guys rocked!"

"Thanks kid, what's your name?"

"Kyle, I been sober for about 6 months." Gomer smiled. He signed the bass, dug into his pocket and gave the kid his card with his cell number.

"Keep up the good work man, if you ever get that feeling like you're gonna pick up, give me a call first, we'll rap." The kid was wide eyed.

"I'll do that Gomer!!!" He walked away beaming. Gomer watched him walk away and got that warm feeling inside. He looked at Sveltie.

"What's up with Jeff?" Gomer asked.

"He's not been available for the last month or so. Probably passed out by now." Gomer hung his head, feeling the swirling excitement, which he knew would be quickly followed by rising guilt.

"That's too bad ..."

"When is Miranda coming back?" Sveltie asked.

"Next week, she coming to the Red Rocks gig with me." Sveltie squeezed his hand and with that mischievous twinkle Gomer knew so well said,

"Let's go to Sherrif Hawthorne's hidey hole at the hotel and see what we can find."

Gomer looked down at the ground then into her eyes and said,

"I'd like to do that ..."

Gomer and Sveltie walked away together, hand in hand, feeling only the excitement of the moment, just mere hours away from feeling the pain of regret. Perhaps this time it will be different?

Probably not.

The two lovers disappeared into the night, leaving behind a great evening of entertainment and amusement, once again seeking to find what just didn't or couldn't exist between them as they once again were off to the races as they were both ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats

Hard Labor

2011-09-19T08:34:00.001-04:00

It has been a very busy year in Muskrat Flats. I am chagrined to look at the date of my last post, since writing, theoretically, is one of my passions. I seem to be visiting Muskrat Flats with the frequency that I'd go to church earlier in life - only on the BIG holidays.

In some ways I have been flourishing in my life, moving forward with the passion and tenacity of a gifted teenager who can't decide upon which of the numerous summer internships I have been offered. Each one of these, most assuredly would be a stepping stone to bigger and better things and a guarantee to future success.

In many ways, in fact, too many to count, I have all of the tools in front of me, all of the necessary equipment and raw materials I need to produce the same results as I had described in the previous paragraph. But, for whatever reason I am stuck on stupid. One thing is for sure. I can't linger where I am much longer. The results - well, I can't say they will be disastrous, because there will be NO results.

My Grandfather used to say, "Work Hard it is good for you."

My faults lie in the fact that I am not afraid of physical labor, I just seem to be incapable of preparing myself mentally and organizing myself in such a way that there will be no labor pains.
The fact that I am writing about it indicates to me that I have come to the end of the road and must seek a way to overcome the unfounded fears and trepidations which are preventing me from moving forward and succeeding. But I must digress and flash back many years and a few months. Leaving the chilly crisp fall mornings behind in favor of the warmer dew dipped mornings of late spring.

Labor Day has always been an odd holiday for me. I recall my early years around 1971-72, when my brain was really starting to wake up and process my surroundings in a more advanced cognitive capacity.

Labor Day much like Memorial Day was a sad event.

I recall many a Memorial Day as being somber, especially after my Grandmother and Grandfather had passed on. I recall my observing all of the flags at half mast. I knew what that signified after having read a scouting manual. World War II was still a not so distant memory to the adults in my family, and the US was still entrenched in the Vietnam War.

One of my Memorial day memories recalls a trip I took to a cemetery along Berkshire Ave. with my childhood playmate, Jackie and her family. Her Father, a National Guardsman put on his dress uniform with all of his medals and accoutrements, complete with a saber, and took us to visit his parent's grave site, where he lovingly placed a wreath of flowers. I think that was the first time I'd ever seen a grown man shed tears. Mr. Laurino was larger than life to me. He was a good neighbor and family man. I felt really bad for him. That experience definitely put a damper on MY day. (even then it was all about me)

My Birthday.

I was born into a semi-silent world on May 29, 1964.

Having your birthday fall on a holiday like Memorial Day is an odd pairing for a person as sensitive as myself. I'm sure my my brother and sister can identify with where I am coming from with this thought. My brother's birthday is earlier in the week on the 24th and my sister ... I stole her her thunder as I was born on her 10th birthday. Poor kid. I'm not sure I would like me for a birthday present.

Being born on a holiday like Memorial Day does put a damper on things like planning a birthday party. It is not quite the same experience as if you were born the third week in September. Everyone was either going to a picnic with their families or heading up North to go camping in the mountains or to the coasts of Northern New Hampshire or Southern, Maine.

I recall many Memorial Day picnics at my Uncle Rudy's house. His property was a secluded semi-forested sprawling landholding which used to be owned by my grandfather. Even though the house itself was situated on route 20, the property had a very spacious and welcoming feel. there were tall Ponderosa pines and other types of conifers, birch trees, maples and oaks, There was a little pond and wetland area which filtered into a little stream. If you went up the hill behind the house near where the high tension wire power lines had been placed - The reason my Grandfather had to vacate that portion of the property, you would find wild blackberry, raspberry and blueberry bushes.

It was great place for a picnic. Everyone chipped in with various picnic foods. A guy whose name I only recall as Rosie, perhaps he was a Harrington, from my aunt's side of the family. Rosie would man the grill. He was cooking over white hot lumps of charcoal in a brick fireplace my uncle had built back there. Rosie only had one arm. Perhaps he lost it in the war or some awful industrial accident. But he sure as shit could flip a burger with that good arm.

Like the miscreants we were when we would get together sometimes, my brother and I would endlessly amuse each other by tucking one arm behind ours backs and pretending to flip burgers with one arm. One thing that sticks in my mind about Rosie and something I still use today when I'm cooking, was a relish he used to make. All it is, is a mound of caramelized onions with ketchup in it. Take a couple of quarts of that, pour it over some beef short ribs and cook them slowly covered in an oven for about three or four hours and you will not believe the results from starting with such simple, nondescript ingredients.

Underneath another pine tree, not too far away from the grill, you would find my grandfather, his patriarchal equal from the other side of the family, Mr. Harrington, and various male uncles and cousins sitting in folding chairs. My Grandfather would cup his ear and lean forward straining to hear the transistor radio which had been tied to a tree branch as his beloved Boston Red Sox made their way through nine innings. Those were the days of Carl Yazstremski, Cecil Cooper, George Scott and Rico Petrocelli, Pitchers like Bill Lee, Jim Lonborg and Sparky Lyle kept us on the edge of our seats hoping that this season would be the big one. The last time my grandfather saw the his team win the World Series was in 1918. He would never again see his team win the World Series as his 90 plus year life came to an end.

Those picnics were unpredictable. You never knew what was going to happen. I remember one time someone broke out a shotgun and My MOTHER firing the gun at the urgings of her not so particularly sober brothers, into a dirt cliff across from the pond. Yes there was not a shortage of alcohol at these events. "Handle" bottles of Vodka and Seagram's 7 with mixers such as O.J., bloody Mary mix and Ginger Ale adorned a sloppy and wet card table. My extended family took their drinking seriously.

One thing I especially remember was at this very young age, if I could have gotten away with it, I probably would have been sneaking a drink or two because it sure seemed like fun. Little did I know this type of lifestyle with the inclusion of drugs, prescription, street and otherwise would be my cross to bear later in life. It is a cross which is still presumably carried by two of my estranged cousins and one surviving Uncle.

OK, back to the Fall, 38 years later. Whew, what a time warp!

This year, Labor Day and the subsequent weekends were spent rocking out with the Glenwood Mills Bands at various recovery based events such as Sober In The Sun and Recovery Jam 2011.

The band is flourishing, that is due to the help of a very dear friend, whose wisdom and vision and tenacity have been a catalyst for great things. If I haven't said "Thank You!" enough, I am saying it again right now.

Sometimes I ruminate about those days gone by, days like the picnics, the sad reality of the passing of loved ones, the sting of regret after fights with friends and lovers and associates which could have been avoided had I taken an extra moment to think.
These thoughts cause me to be overcome with grief and pain. The pain, sometimes, seems unbearable, to the point where rational thought is somehow obscured and a detachment between the physical and mental and the spiritual sides of my life occur.

It is at these times that I think using is not such a bad idea. Prayer and meditation do help as well as keeping connected with a network of good people who can hold me up when I begin to falter and get bogged down in the stagnant quagmire of my obsessive thoughts. I got some good advice last week. Simple and to the point ...

"Stop Thinking."

Today life is good. I woke up at 5:30 AM. I got up, made the coffee and a couple of plates of pancakes which my daughter and I shared before I drove her to school for 7:15.

It is a perfectly normal fall day as I sit and wait for the colorful and vibrant foliage to brighten the horizon, surrounding mountains and hilltops.

The Sun has had a long hard summer. It had to do some catching up after a brutal winter. It was further hampered during the summer as Muskrat Flats was visited by a debilitating Tornado, a micro burst and a near miss by a category 3 hurricane, which had been downgraded to a tropical storm as it approached these parts, but wreaked havoc in other parts. We caught the eye of the storm, so to speak, so we were spared a good amounts of flooding that our neighbors to the the east and west had to endure. But things look different around here. You can see more sky as the tree tops had been snapped off by the recurring high winds. But today, we go on.

Labor Day just doesn't seem the same without Jerry Lewis, but I don't own a TV, so even that wasn't too much of a burden to bear as I pack up my gear, tune the guitars and look forward to the next gig. The best reason I have encountered, to date, to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

An Attitude of Gratitude.

2010-12-24T14:18:00.011-05:00

Attitude of Gratitude - That's what the bumper sticker said. It must have been twenty or more years ago when I first saw that sticker affixed to someone's vehicle. More than likely I was otherwise occupied. I was probably fretting about the commute from Amherst to Springfield and covering that distance without running into the Po Po, the Five-O, the Pigs, the Man or whatever libelous slur one can affix to describe my nemesis at the time. I was carrying precious cargo and needed to get back home unfettered so I could weigh and repackage the product, and quickly distribute it so I could sit down and enjoy my cut of the contraband in the peace and serenity of my living room, without having to look over my shoulder, with no one pointing their finger at me or judging me. Well ... there was one person who was doing that, my loving wife who finally decided enough was enough and cut me loose years later. She was no Saint in the relationship, that is for sure. But then again neither was I.

It is surprising that I noticed the bumper sticker at all, never mind what it said, considering the vast and extensive check list which was undoubtedly running through my head, at the time. The paranoid, and drug fueled fears, coupled with the very REAL fear of getting caught. Being the addict that I eventually found out that I was, my desire to use superseded any rational and lawful behavior that I was expected to exhibit, especially when it came to dealing with the ways and means and lengths I engaged in to do so. It would be years before the progression would set in and bring me to my knees.

This progression is a simple mathematical formula to which you must insert your own variables, because no two equations are the same. This formula is, however, very simple. - If you are an Addict/Alcoholic and you continue to use, things will eventually get worse.

If you are lucky you will not die. If you are lucky, you may end up in jail. If you are lucky you may end up institutionalized in a rehab, a detox, a long term residential program or a half way house. If you are very lucky you will end up in the rooms of 12-Step fellowship when someone just like you with a little more experience than you when it comes to staying clean and sober will take you under their wing and teach you a new way to live. Just like someone had taught them, and you will teach someone else one day. But you have to want it and you have to ask for help. There is actually a little bit of work involved.

If you are the luckiest person on the planet, you can just stop drinking and drugging one day, live your life to the fullest and actually come out on the other end a reasonably healthy and well adjusted individual. That doesn't happen to very many people. I personally know of two. More power to them.

It is in these rooms of recovery that I began to understand what an attitude of gratitude is and what that bumper sticker I had read so many years ago truly means.

Today I am grateful. I have had a few bumpy months with a lot of ups and some downs, recently, but I remain grateful.

As 2010 rapidly comes to a close I have begun to reflect on the year and what my experiences have been. I was going through some personal stuff a few days ago, I have been burning the candle at both ends and my meeting attendance has been down. Although I'm still involved and keeping centered in my recovery. Old behaviors still emerge. Fortunately today I have some tools to combat such dreadful times when my diseased brain starts telling me doing such and such with so and so, might be a good idea. One of those tools is calling my sponsor who suggested I write a gratitude list. So I did just that.

I am grateful to be alive. It can't get much simpler than that. There were times where my using put me very close to death on a regular basis. Though overdoses, blackouts while driving, nodding out while driving, walking into strange buildings in the middle of the night because, someone told me Pito on the second floor has got some good shit. I am amazed I didn't meet an early demise.

I am grateful for my loving family who stood by me no matter what, one of the grateful attitudes I strive to demonstrate every day. I will not pick up no matter what.

I am grateful for an ex-wife who understands and supports my struggle and is a good mother to my daughter.

I am grateful for my daughter who is funny, gregarious, talented, emphatic, honest, loyal and a damn good song writer. I hope she sticks with music. She has a natural talent people practice for years to discover.

I am grateful for my experiences on the road with the Grateful Dead and Phish and all of the other live music I have had the honor to have witnessed. It was during these experiences that I learned to self medicate taking recreational drug use to the new level of "lifestyle choice." A lifestyle I had to experience to take me to the next level of my addiction.

I am grateful for the writers I have read extensively over the course of the years. Writers like Hemingway, William Burroughs, Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, Ken Kesey, Stephen King and Charles Bukowski. Writers who painted a romantic picture of drug use, drunks, junkies and hustlers. They painted a panoramic landscape where their shortfalls and hindrances were fodder for their craft. They described idyllic bohemian spaces where they could hide in the shadows where they could do their thing artistically fueled by the liquids, pills and powders and crystals which enabled them to repeatedly leave it all on the field before they had the opportunity to come back and do it again. Some had better results than others. Hemingway and Hunter Thomson took the easy way out ... if putting a gun in your mouth can be considered - easy.

The erroneous notions I concocted regarding the relationship between drugs and art and how drugs facilitate the artistic process were validated as I devoured the works of these guys. Delusional adoration of these writers allowed me to spiral downward as quickly I did when stronger and more addictive drugs became part of my daily regimen. Their well documented exploits gave me the license to do what I did and increased the rate at which my disease progressed causing me to find the desperation and willingness to change my life.

I am grateful for the gifts I have been given. My artistic abilities come natural to me. Through art and music and writing, I have been able to express myself in ways that I had never imagined.

Through the flame working, I have found a niche through the Continuum Memorial Glass series. This series involves me putting cremated remains into art glass marbles and pendants. I am making permanent heirloom quality pieces of art with which you can memorialize and celebrate the lives your loved ones. It wasn't until a few days ago when I had the opportunity to make one of these pieces with the ashes of someone I actually knew who died the previous week. I got incredibly emotional during the process. It hit me as to how very special it is having the opportunity ability and willingness to do what I am doing. How my work can affect the family members who are left behind. This truly is a gift. With perseverance, and a little marketing, art and music could easily turn into that one way ticket out of the production kitchen which I have been looking for. The funny thing is, I kind of fell into it when a friend of mine had the most odd request for his brother's ashes. Without advertising and through word of mouth, it is starting to happen. 2011 will be the year to see what will happen if I do advertise and market these gifts.

I am grateful for all of the people I have met along the way who have helped me in my recovery.

I am grateful in so many different ways that I could go on much longer. But it is Christmas Eve, I worked a very long day already making way too much food for way too many people. It is time that I wrap this up so I can go and enjoy some time with my family.

2010 was a very interesting year indeed. I found out a lot about myself. I found out a few things that I do want. I found out that I am really a lot more driven than I had previously thought. My entrepreneurial spirit, although dormant if not suppressed for a few years is bubbling back to the surface. I am aching to climb to the top of the highest mountain and shout to the world that I am ready and I am willing. I want to sing with all my heart and no fear. I want to tell the world I am the person you have been looking for all of your life. I will make a difference. I will follow through. I will be everything I ever wanted to be. There is nothing stopping me.

With all my love, hope in my heart and an attitude of gratitude, I find myself once again ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Merry Christmas.

Pablo

Sitting Here In Limbo, Waiting for the Dice To Roll Part II ...The Reality TV Version

2010-09-25T21:11:00.004-04:00

It has been a very busy summer in Muskrat Flats. So busy, that I am chagrined to see that I have not posted any thing since Valentine's day.

It has been a while since I have been to Muskrat Flats, so long that the Town Meeting decided to re-route traffic to the downtown area to encourage more shopping and pedestrian traffic along Petersen Street. One would think that a benevolent organization such as the Odd Fellows would have more pull with the Town Meeting folk, and yes there was some resistance, but the 90 day trial run of having Petersen Street run one way in a westerly direction beginning at the intersection of McKernan Street is in effect.

This means that the club members are now forced to drive an extra couple of blocks to catch Petersen at Firglade, in order to turn left into their parking lot where in the past they simply had to turn right at the intersection. Minor details. Some members actually support the change.

Moe Eckstein and Sid Bartleby however - not so much. They had a nice session kvetching about the change. They do hold the principles of Friendship Love and Truth near and dear to their hearts, but let's face it, they are old and need something to bitch about and this time it was finding resistance to their proposition that a "curb cut" be allowed on McKernan Street to allow for direct access to the Odd Fellow's parking lot. For some reason, these days it is easier to get a liquor license in Muskrat Flats than it is to get the Town Meeting and the DPW to agree to a new curb cut.

Moe and Sid sat at their usual table under the gilded framed portrait of Sheriff Hawthorne. Moe was eyeballing the Jack-a-lope which had recently been returned to them by the taxidermist.

Moe really didn't like the taxidermy guy. He felt bad for this guy's neighbors. His front lawn was decorated as if it were a summer rental cottage at Cape Cod, rife with seashore kitsch. His lawn - wasn't even a lawn. It was littered with driftwood, mounted fish and wooden lobster pots, much more of an eyesore than appropriate lawn ornaments, in Moe's opinion.

The landscape was void of any greenery other than a few scrub bushes, perhaps they were ill looking arborvitaes which had od'd on the calcium from the sun bleached broken oyster shells lining his walkway and scattered through out the yard.

The inside of the house was equally creepy. The interior very much resembled the motif of the front yard. Displayed prominently in a glass hutch were scrimshaw etched walrus tusks and whale's teeth. The walls were adorned with muzzle loading pistols, more mounted fish and dusty paint by numbers quality portraits of canvas masted tall ships perched atop white capped waves in a turbulent blackened ocean set below a foreboding gray and stormy sky. The house was a very dark and morbid place. All except for the living room.

There, Moe walked into an equally alarming display of multicolored pastel miniature ceramic kittens. There were thousands of them in various poses displayed on lemon oil polished furniture lined with lace doilies from Brugge, in Belgium. The kittens were on the mantle piece, window frames, inside shadow boxes. They adorned any flat surface in the room.

The entire time Moe was dealing with Sam the Taxidermy Man, his wife, Mimi, the curator of the manic ceramic kitten circus, was fixated on the computer screen, seemingly in a bidding war for more feline figurines on eBay. Moe thought he heard a muffled curse escape from her lips as she was outbid in one auction she was following.

He couldn't get out of that place soon enough. Standing in the house, he felt his spirit begin to decay and atrophy. Moe was startled as Mimi actually spoke to him as he was leaving. Without peeling her eyes away from the screen, she spoke, handing Moe a sheet of paper the printer had just spit out.

"Jack-a-lopes are a dime a dozen on eBay, cheaper than he's charging you ..."

"Jesus, MIMI!!" Sam barked.

Moe became invisible as they began to banter back and forth. He deftly slunk out of the house hearing the ensuing ruckus fade away as he made his way to the car and escaped, thinking to himself,

"I can't even imagine what the fuck they have tied up in their basement. But I'm sure it's something and it ain't right."

As Moe and Sid sat under the painting of Sheriff Hawthorne, Gomer- Moe's son, was whooping it up a few tables away with the kitchen workers Paulie and Donnie. They were watching the video of the botched re-enactment of Sheriff Hawthorne's hanging. Gomer was playing the part of Sheriff Hawthorne at the Silver Days celebration a few years ago, when the Hanging went horribly wrong. It didn't go as wrong as it could have considering he was still sitting here in the warmth of the wood paneled banquet room at the Odd Fellows Hall.

Another nonsensical conversation started to brew between Paulie and Donnie. This conversation would end up taking all day if not weeks or months. Gomer wondered who was going to throw the monkey wrench into the giddy repartee which would launch this conversation to the level of being revisited time and time again?

"What do you call those guys ... the one's in Tibet that guide you up the mountain?" Donnie asked.

"Are you talking about Sherpas?" Paul responded.

"Yeah, that's it, like in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Those dudes are bad ass! Imagine doing that every day? It so dangerous."

"There are more dangerous things out there," Paulie shot back. Gomer began to grin, he could feel it coming.

"What do you think is a more dangerous sport than Mountain climbing in Tibet?" Donnie asked.

Paulie stroked his goatee for a moment and replied,

"How about swimming from Florida to Cuba?" Gomer laughed.

"Who the fuck would want to swim from Florida to Cuba? Don't you mean the other way around, Cuba to Florida?"

"Whatever ... it's still dangerous." Paulie asserted.

"How is it more dangerous than climbing say, Mount Everest?"

"Well, you could drown ..."

"You could fall off the Mountain ..." Donnie shot back.

"You could get a really bad sunburn ... "

"You could freeze to death!"

"You get get stung by a bunch of jelly fish or eaten by a shark..." Paulie replied.

Donnie had that look in his eye,

"You could get sodomized by a Yeti!"

What!? You fucking moron, who gets sodomized by a Yeti?! Nobody!"

"How do you know? You could. You don't see very many Yeti which probably means there aren't very many female yeti for procreation purposes.."

"First of all, animals mate, God fearing humans procreate. There aren't any fucking yetis that are going to sodomize you."

"Yeti ... It is pluralized Yeti." Donnie continued, "Well, like I just said there probably aren't very many female YETI so the male Yeti are probably really horny, looking for nice warm young white boy like you ..."

Gomer was beside himself. All of the sudden he heard Sid shout out for them to take it in the kitchen. They left Gomer at his table as they were bickering and slapping at each other on their way to the kitchen. On they way Donnie dropped his apron and bent over to pick it up. When he did, Paul reached between his legs, grabbed his balls, and in a cartoon voice said,

"YETI" Donnie shrieked and began laughing, he said,

"I can't believe you did that, you fucking homo ..." And they disappeared into the back.

Gomer just sat there, staring at his computer screen, shaking his head. His phone chimed, he looked at the screen.

"Miranda Klein Text"

He slid his thumb across the screen to open the message. It was a picture taken in a slightly fogged bathroom mirror of Miranda nude. Gomer smiled and read the text.

"in SF It is 56 degrees and Foggy. I steamed up the mirror just thinking about you, lover."

Gomer giggled. Nobody noticed ... but it was a text giggle, nonetheless. He was so lucky to be experiencing one of life's simplest pleasures ... That feeling - knowing that somewhere out there, someone cares enough about you to let you know they are thinking about you.

A new way of communicating, and flirting, and falling in love.

He had felt the same way in the past without the modern technology. Just passing notes in school, or opening a love letter in College. He started to answer the text thinking about how very lucky he is.

He remembered how he felt that day after Valentine's Day, when Miranda met him in Mountain View. Her electrifying kisses, the warmth of her touch. The pressure of her hand holding his. He longed for her touch right now. But it didn't matter. she was thinking about him.

He hit the send button on the glowing screen of his iPhone.

Somewhere in San Francisco, in the bathroom of a renovated three floor Victorian house somewhere between Mission and Guerrero, a cell phone chimed -

followed by a giggle.

;0)

This one didn't turn out the way I had thought or intended. Sometimes I think my writing, and by that I mean my style and how it flows out of my mind is more of a curse than a gift. It is a gift I will continue to accept, because sometimes you and by you I really mean me, just don't know how things are going to turn out - especially when you (see above) are absolutely sure they will turn out in your favor. Still not a good enough reason to be ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Go in Peace!

Sitting Here In Limbo, Waiting For The Dice To Roll

2010-02-15T12:17:00.010-05:00

It has been a very quiet week in Muskrat Flats. The usual mayhem we have grown accustomed to experiencing as we interact with folks from the Flats seemed to be on hiatus for the week. Some of that probably has to do with the fact that Gomer had been out of town most of the week and had not been present to either instigate or fuel one of the loud and public dramas for which he and his father have become famous.

Perhaps it had something to do with Valentine's Day. Sveltie and her crew at the Muskrat Flats Farm and Agricultural Museum Greenhouse had their hands full. The first weeks of February are always hectic for her. This is a good thing. Sveltie, AKA Mrs. Jenny Smith, wife of the museum director, Jerry, are the two workhorses that keep the Muskrat Flats Farm and Agricultural Museum in the black with their selfless service to keeping the raw frontier energy which fueled the development and growth of Muskrat Flats, in the first place.

It often seems, sometimes, that they inherited the energy demonstrated by the town's founder and first Sheriff, Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III. They are still influenced by Hawthorne's energy, sometimes even directly, which they both discovered, as the notorious prankster proved to them just about this time last year when one of his diaries surfaced and ended up in their hands.

Even though Sveltie was in the planning stages for the upcoming semesters for her Vintner Program, it was crunch time as far as getting together all of the orders and smoothly delivering all of the holiday flower orders to the lucky Valentines out there in Muskrat Flats.

Her assistant Gina had even recruited her boyfriend, Kurt out of the Blacksmith shop to help out as she tapped his organizational skills putting him in charge of setting up the staging area for the distribution, where he made sure all of the invoices and manifests meshed with the orders.

Kurt even had a hand in the production of the bouquets. Sveltie wondered if it was a good idea to have the two of them working together. It was hard enough to keep the two separated when Gina was working in the office and he was in the Smithy shop. But they did a fantastic job keeping it professional all except for one instance where she caught Gina copping a feel in the walk in refrigerator amongst the hundreds of multicolored roses, ferns and baby's breath.

Sveltie just mockingly suggested they get a room. But what could she really say to them as she began to really take an honest look at her own libido and the trouble it had gotten her into in the last few years? Even when she was "supposed to be working."

You see, Gomer wasn't the only person with whom she had dallied with outside of the relationship with her husband Jerry. She had her fun at some conferences as well. She had been a faithful doting wife for years until she first found out about one of her husband's drunken sexscapades.

It all began right in front of her one night. they were in a crowd of people at a concert. It wasn't entirely clear that they were together as a couple because they arrived separately. He had already been pretty tipsy when she arrived and was paying some attention to another woman, in the group, whom she did not know.

As he got drunker and drunker, he paid more attention to her until he made a move which which was reciprocated. Sveltie was pissed. He assured her the next day that nothing further was going to happen between them and he would not see her again.

Less than a week later, she knew that he had broken his promise as he began to avoid eye contact, and began acting differently toward her and stayed out drinking. She caught up with him on the way out of the house on a Saturday morning. He confessed to not only that conquest but to a couple of others as well. She listened, she cried, she told him that she would have to think about what he had told her.

She knew it was wrong the wrong decision, but she agreed to stick with him, she agreed that they were better off as a couple. However, she decided that she was not going to deprive herself of the experiences she so desired, but was giving up for a "selfish drunk,"
and proposed the addle pated don't ask don't tell policy when it came to such matters.

Looking back at her decision at the time, she had some regrets. Things seemed to be getting better between her and her husband, for a while, but she occasionally had that itch, that inexplicable desire to act out and seek love and comfort elsewhere. She regretted getting back together with Gomer, because she had begun to fall in love with him. She also suspected that Gomer's rekindling their romance from years ago, was responsible for his breaking up with Miranda or should it be said, her breaking up with him?

Yes there were tough times. But as of late, the last 3 months or so, Jerry had been living sober, he struggled with it, but he was giving it his best effort. Sveltie was lost in thought, when she heard someone clearing his throat.

Standing behind her was her husband, holding the huge bouquet that Gina had been working on for the last 45 minutes, trying to get it just right. After all she knew how special this one had to be.

Jerry stood there in his white suit, an unlit cigar in his mouth, complete with a broad rimmed hat and Sheriff Hawthorne's 1870 Smith and Wesson Model 3 American revolver strapped to his side. He dropped a small terry cloth towel on the ground, and placed upon it, one knee.

He had been in this position before, but then he had always been begging forgiveness. This time it was different. Jerry looked over his bifocals up at his wife as he held the roses out to her. She looked down into his hazel eyes and began to feel weak in the knees. She reached out to him taking the flowers and cradling them in her right arm held out her left hand to him. He leaned in and kissed her hand. He simply said, "Be mine." She stood with tears in her eyes again a repeat of similar circumstances in the past. This time she didn't have to compromise. She stood there elated, never wanting the moment to end, as he got up and kissed her. It was like a first kiss between two teenagers. It was a kiss which was electrifying. A kiss which made both Jenny and Jerry quake with anticipation. A kiss you never think is possible from two people in a long term relationship.

It wasn't only roses and a kiss Jerry gave Sveltie on that crisp Sunday afternoon in February. He gave her only what he had to offer at the moment. He couldn't take away the pain he caused her, he couldn't remove the embarrassment. He couldn't undo the harm he had done over the years, the harm to her, his friends and most of all himself. He couldn't undo his affairs or the pain he caused her which led her to think acting out the same way was the answer to her pain.

What Jerry had given her that afternoon was the man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. He gave her a little glimpse of peace. And he never wanted to take that away from her ever again, no matter what.

Gomer sat in a small restaurant in Mountain View, California.

He had been in the place one time before when he was on tour with the band PRY in the late summer and early fall. It was called Taquiera La Bamba. Gomer had been on tour for about 5 weeks and was getting sick of the back stage offerings. He really just needed a change of scenery. So he hopped on a mountain bike and ventured out into the California landscape surrounding the amphitheater.

That afternoon, he went to the Museum of Computer History and a few blocks away found La Bamba. What really drew him into the restaurant in the first place was the exterior look of the place. It reminded him of Muskrat Flats, simple as that.

It was Valentine's Day, and Gomer's heart was heavy with anticipation. He sat at an empty table eyeballing the food his neighbor at the table to his left was relishing. It was plate of Carne Asada, with a big basket of chips and some fresh green guacamole and a pile of freshly slipped cilantro leaves. The food was swarming his senses - it looked so good. His stomach rumbled.

He had been reading his blog, he checked his email a couple of times and checked the front of his iPhone for the time. Fifteen more minutes he thought.

He was caught up reading something else on the internet when there was a commotion at the table next to him. The woman eating the Carne Asada had been joined by another woman about her age. They were both about 26 years old. The woman at the table had brunette hair, a lip ring and a small scar on her cheek. Other than the scar, she was very pretty, nicely dressed. Perhaps on a break from work.

Her recent companion on the other hand, seemed like she would have been a resident of the Iron Triangle in Muskrat Flats. She was a white girl, wearing pajama bottoms, fuzzy slippers, braless in an Ecko hoodie. She was blonde, had too many rings on her fingers and had a broken front tooth.

"Oy!" Gomer thought to himself, as he sized her up. His interest was peaked and he began to eavesdrop as he pretended to fiddle with his phone.

"Hey Sherry, what going on?" The brunette asked. "I haven't seen you in 6 months."

"Yeah, I know, I've been busy, How have you been, Donna? I saw your car so I figured I'd stop by."

"Things are good, I got a promotion a couple of weeks ago. A new office, bonus, the whole nine."

"That's great! I wish I could say the same."

"Aww that's too bad, are you working still?"

"Yeah, I like it there and the bosses are cool, but I had to cut back a bit, got too be too much, and then having to go home and deal with my kids."

"Did you know my sister moved in with me about a month ago?" Gomer listened intently. Donna began to rant.

"That little whore, I can't believe her. So, she moves in with me, All she does is sit up on the couch all day. Smoking cigarettes, which I pay for. I pay for the food, I pay for the diapers, I do everything."

"Wow, I thought you guys were tight, what happened?" Sherry asked.

"The little whore had a kid with my man ..." Gomer exhaled a limp muffled laugh.

"And you let her move in?"

"Well I had to, my mom is still on methadone, so she is useless. And can you believe she stole my son's birthday away from him. She had her little bastard on my son's birthday." She continued, without seeming to take a breath.

"We had a birthday party last week, which again I paid for, did she lift a finger to do anything for her kid? I even bought the presents, the cake, the decorations ... Everything is going fine and then my ex shows up.

He begins to start some shit with her, then they are screaming at each other, her son is crying, and then my son freaks out and starts trying to take his helmet off ..."

Gomer had to get up and go to the bathroom at that point where he laughed until he thought he would puke.

His phone chimed. He looked down at the screen, It was a text message from his Father.

"Are You There, Sonny?"

"A text message from Mr. I can't stand people who fiddle with their phones in public? :)"

"Cut the Shit look at this." Gomer waited and his phone buzzed again.

Miranda Klein Text ...

His heart began to pump a little faster. His phone buzzed again. It was his father.

He looked down at the screen and tapped a picture he had sent. It was a close up picture of Jerry and Sveltie at the Odd Fellows Hall. His phone chimed again. He opened the message...

"Where r u?" He dashed off,

"El Bano, b right out." His phone buzzed again, it was Moe.

"You see the look in their eyes? That's what I used to see in yours when your were with Miranda."

"Can't talk now, Dad." He dashed off as he washed his hands and exited the bathroom. He didn't do anything in there other than have a good laugh and use his phone, but he didn't want to come out of the bathroom and touch Miranda's hand with one which obviously had not been in recent contact with water.

He walked out into the dining room and stopped in his tracks when he saw her. He was stunned by her beauty.

She saw the expression on his face and let slip a sly little smile. She held a couple of pages of paper in her hand. Which he could see had been highlighted in numerous places.

His email. "Oh No," he thought.

She got a serious expression on her face. and walked over to him. He was going in for a hug, but she held out her hand. When she detected from the coolness of his flesh that it had recently been washed she lingered long enough for him to lean down and kiss hers.

"I got your email, Gomer. Pretty intense stuff. If you truly feel this way about me, how could you have disappeared off the face of the planet like you did?"

Gomer just stood looking at her silently. He smiled.

"I thought I explained myself pretty well in the email." She picked it up and looked at it.

Yeah, I've read it a couple of dozen times. It is much more uplifting than your blog has been lately."

"Miranda, I made a mistake. I just couldn't face you. You are so sweet. I didn't think you could understand."

"What!!?? I told you when this was happening that you should take the time to figure it out. Did I have to be any clearer than that?"

"I know, I was a jack ass. Everyone was telling me what a fool I was for not calling you back. You were so sweet to me when you came to the PRY show at Shoreline. But I felt uncomfortable. Like I had betrayed you."

His phone buzzed. Gomer looked down

Moe Eckstein Text ...

"It's my Dad. He's doing well ..."

"I know, I spoke to him yesterday - told him I was coming. and that your traveling here to make up with me was not the "fool's errand" he described." Gomer smiled and shook his head.

"Are you, going to trust me, Gomer? Are you going to let me in?"

"You're taking me back?" He asked.

"No, Gomer, I'm not taking you back ..." His heart sunk and he began to tear up.

"I can't take you back because I never let you go. I love you."

She leaned in and for another moment that day, St. Valentine sent cupid out with his quiver of arrows piercing the hearts of two estranged lovers. Allowing for another moment one of those kisses that energize you but also leave you feeling as if you are teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Miranda looked into Gomer's eyes and saw that look that Moe had been talking about. She hugged him like she would never let him go. Gomer promised to himself that he would never let her go.

It was business as usual at La Bamba, Gomer and Miranda's conversation had gone relatively unnoticed. They could have been any number of lovers kissing on Valentine's day, just going through the motions because that is the proper thing to do.

Not so for them and not so for Jerry and Sveltie who were dancing in the warm glow of that wood paneled room at the corner or Petersen and McKernan Streets in Muskrat Flats proper. Everybody knew their business and was elated to see the progress that Jerry and Jenny had been making.

They were the finest examples of two people demonstrating the principles of Friendship, Love and Truth that anyone could find in Muskrat Flats that evening as they swayed under the impressionist painting of Sheriff Hawthorne at the Odd Fellows Valentine's Day Dance.

Moe's phone buzzed and he looked at the screen

Sonny Boy Text ...

Moe opened the message and all he saw was

:0)

Thanks for reading and Happy Valentine's Day. Call it my fond memories or my hopes for the very near future. But life is pretty damn good as I continue ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Oh Yeah, Mountain View ... that was a shout out. Thanks for reading whoever you are.

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

2009-12-14T09:17:00.011-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bennie barked,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul said,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Moe ..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moe was silent, Sid goaded him.

"Well ... Why did you honk?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, Dad. Happy Holidays."

"What're you doing Sonny?"

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

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

"What about them?"

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

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

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

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

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Monday Morning You Sure Look Fine.

2009-09-28T08:51:00.010-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moe was locked and loaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moe simply clicked his tongue against his teeth and grunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday Morning You Sure Look Fine

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

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

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

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

That's how it always happens.

Call it God's plan.

Call it co-incidence.

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

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

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

He then asked me that inevitable question,

"How are you doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

He was psyched to see how happy I was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It cracked me up and I did smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for your time.

Pablo

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

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

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

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

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

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

2009-07-20T00:30:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does it feel?

It feels fucking GREAT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Pablo

One Bill Makes You Larger and One Bill Makes You Small ....

2009-06-15T18:30:00.021-04:00

Gomer Eckstein sat underneath the oil portrait of Samuel Coleman Hawthorne the III. He was wearing a black t-shirt, black cargo shorts and army boots. His long black cloak was folded on the back of the empty chair to his left. His clarinet was in its case on the table and the hard case containing his four-string Fender Jazz bass was leaning against the wall. He was holding a newspaper as if he were reading it, but he was distracted.

He rubbed his eyes, thankful for the 10 hours of sleep he had gotten the night before. He held the newspaper, a flimsy and thin document, a tabloid style rendering of the paper he had grown up reading. The very same paper which had been two dailies and a whopping 2 inch thick Sunday paper at the height of its publication. He remembered breaking his back as he delivered the Sunday Journal, so many years ago. He put down the paper and tousled his long wavy black hair.

He had been staring at the portrait of Hawthorne, fixated on the name in the lower right hand corner of the canvas, the artist and alleged infamous vampire, Jean Luc Lemay. His thoughts swirled. He thought of Miranda, he thought of his father, who used to write for this paper before he achieved national notoriety back in the 60s. He thought of Allie a long lost running buddy who appeared to still be lost. He thought of Sveltie, also known as Mrs. Jenny Smith, his friend Jerry's wife, with whom he just planned some post show intimacy. He heard his sponsor in his head admonishing him.

"I love you man, you know what I'm saying. You want to hear God laugh? Take back your will and make some plans. With plans come a set of expectations and when you have expectations you are always going to get let down. So go ahead, make those plans. and call me when you are so hurt you want to use."

"Fuck!" Gomer thought to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, what am I doing?"

He once again picked up the paper and felt the thickness of its meager pages in his hands. Its size reminded him of one of the inserts he used to have to stuff inside of the Sunday Journal before he delivered them.

"Fucking paperboys have it so easy these days ..." he mused as his train of thought was interrupted by his dad.

"Reading Poor David's Almanac?" Gomer's confusion at the question registered in his face. Moe continued,

"David L'Etoile ... the Publisher of that rag. He is going to save $300,000 a year on newsprint going to that format, that is what Crazy Jerry in the press room told me." Moe quickly wiped his nose with a hanky.

"You can't even swat a fly with that shit, and all the typos, heh! Where's the editing? Headlines with spelling errors ... it's not the newspaper I worked for ... " He moaned before he spied someone familiar walking toward them.

"Hey... will you look at this, it's another rock star, How are you doing Lee?"

Gomer looked up as his good friend Burleigh Coggins, the lead guitar player for the band PRY, the band playing at the Memorial Day festivities that evening. Lee reached out to shake Moe's hand.

"I'm fine Mr. Eckstein. I read your last article in Mother Jones, it was great ..." He looked down as if he were wondering whether or not to finish the sentence, but Lee did.

"I'm so glad you are feeling better and looking healthy." Gomer smiled. He knew that Burliegh felt that if anyone in the room were a rock star, it was his father, Moe. Burleigh revered Moe's status as the writer who in Lee's opinion was the voice of an entire generation.

Moe turned as he greeted Fennel Santori, the drummer in PRY.

"Well ... Hello, my dear." Moe bent down to kiss Fennel on the cheek. He ran his fingers through her bundle of blond and purple dreadlocks. "Oh, you kids with your crazy hair ... it works for me, Fennel," Moe said with a wink. Fennel squeezed Moe tighter and said,

"Moe, if my wife ever leaves me, I promise I will marry you." He snorted a quick laugh, giving her dreads a playful tug.

"Who said anything about getting married?" They all chuckled. The rest of the folks in the room turned to see why the volume in the corner of the Banquet room at the Odd Fellows hall, suddenly increased.

Donnie and Paul having graduated to status of official kitchen workers felt it was their duty to keep the new dishwashers Joe and Corey in check as they were obviously star struck by the appearance of Lee, Fennel and the guy who was now walking through the door, the keyboard player for PRY Skimpy Cooper. He looked and waved as Corey shouted out "Hey Skimp!" and twirled his fingers in the air as if he were playing a keyboard.

By now, Gomer was standing. Skimpy shook Moe's hand and smiled. He looked great.

He hugged Gomer and whispered in his ear,

"How are you doing, my brother? Hanging?"

"I was hanging one day last summer, fortunately the tree limb broke." They all laughed. Lee and Skimpy high fived each other as they recalled the blog Gomer had written about the botched reenactment of Sherrif Hawthorne's hanging at last year's Fall Festival. Moe excused himself.

The four musicians sat down at the table and began catching up.

"Where is Les? Gomer asked inquiring about their bass player.

Lee looked over at Skimpy and then to Fennel. Gomer felt the tension and regretted asking the question.

"Les is still sleeping. He has been having a rough time lately," Fennel offered.

"He has been talking about going to detox the last couple of days but he feels like he needs to finish the tour, we're on the road for another two months." Lee said.

"What is he into?" Gomer asked knowing that booze would be the first answer.

"Oxys, which he is washing down with booze." Fennel said.

Gomer stared off processing the information. Skimpy shook his head. "I love the guy. I want to help him but He has to make his own decision."

Skimpy was thinking about when he had checked out and forced the band to take a hiatus. All the while he thought Les really resented him for that. Skimpy finally knocked on Les' door one day after a year long sojourn where he anonymously hitchhiked and walked across the country. Taking odd jobs as a means of supporting his new lifestyle, focusing on his recovery.

The day Skimpy knocked on Les' door. He opened it and simply stared at Skimpy for about 20 seconds before he began to weep, hugging his band mate and telling him how grateful he was to see him alive. Les had always been the anchor, the unwavering foundation of the band. Now his life was in jeopardy.

Gomer fidgeted a little. Fennel reached out and held his hand. "

If Les decides to go and we hope he does, I'm afraid he'll kill himself... will you play the rest of the tour?"

Gomer was shocked by the offer. Lee leaned in, "We finish up with a week long run in San Francisco ..." he wheedled.

Skimpy chimed in, "We've talked about it, Les wants you to be the guy."

"Wow," Gomer thought. He had to think hard about this. Lee and Fennel, he knew they still smoked pot, but Skimpy he was solidly in recovery as well as a couple of members of their crew. He was still reeling from the temptations of his last tour. And the kids on PRY tour, well they were hard core. His interaction with the tour kids, was probably Les' downfall as he always had a strong connection to what was going on in the parking lot outside their shows.

This connection was where Gomer had fucked up in the past, a door which he had closed but felt straining to open the last couple of days before he had met up with Miranda. Oh, Miranda ... the fact that they would finish in San Francisco definitely made their offer most appealing.

"What do you think?" Lee asked.

"I think about the tour kids, you know people places and things. But that's what they talk about as far as life on life's terms."

"Yes they do, I hear you loud and clear brother." Skimpy offered.

Lee and Fennel kind of looked at each other. They both realized that this arrangement with Gomer could change the dynamic of the band, the power structure. They had always been the ones who could drink and use safely. In fact they had slowed down considerably leading relatively sober lives, partially out of respect for Skimpy's situation and partially because it seemed like the thing to do, they weren't getting any younger.

Fennel cut out all of the pills and booze, Lee never really drank to begin with and was somewhat traumatized by Skimpy's drug use as he tried to get a glimpse into his world by experimenting with Skimpy on occasion only to feel like he was on the verge of death, one time seeking medical intervention as Skimpy just laughed and told him to calm down ... he would "be all right in a few minutes."

But Lee and Fennel still used. They had always been the sane ones, the ones who had their feet planted firmly on the ground. They had fought tooth and nail with Skimpy when he was all fucked up. They argued, they issued ultimatums and threats. They begged and pleaded for him to stop using dope. He cleaned up for a while and then relapsed while on tour. Nodding out on stage, constantly being late because he was out copping or just laying in the dressing room in an heroin stupor. At the time, Skimpy resented them for that and didn't want to do the same thing to Les, instead calmly and discreetly trying to carry a positive message to his sick and suffering band mate.

Lee and Fennel weren't prepared for the change they saw in Skimpy when he came back from his hiatus. They liked it. He brought a new and fresh energy to the band. as well as a new language with his lyrics, some of which Lee considered "preachy." Now they were inviting someone who had the same experience as Skimpy, a recovering heroin addict, into the band. Someone who spoke the same language as he, a language which was both welcome, although unsettling and foreign at the same time. It was a language they feared they may not understand in the long run.

Fennel said, "Look, you don't have to answer right now. Let's just have fun tonight." they all agreed.

The show was supposed to be a surprise show. the band on the bill was called "Odorono" The oft forgotten if not willingly suppressed name of Fennel and Lee's high school garage band. they played a total of two gigs. Before there were personnel changes and their college careers sent them, in opposite geographical directions.

"Check this out," Fennel said as she handed Gomer a copy of the newspaper. "I know Morbid Morty says any press is good press, but this is an extreme example of the kind of shit we have had to deal with.

Gomer looked at the article. It was the police blotter from the previous day's Journal.

Three Men Face Charges

Dana - Three unidentified men were taken into protective custody early Friday morning in the south end of Dana. Officers Clay Hutchison and Donna Falco were on routine patrol when they noticed a white rented van parked facing the wrong direction across the center line on Loring Street.

Upon further investigation, the officers found three Dana residents all of whom were disoriented and incoherent appearing to be under the influence of drugs. One of the suspects was naked. A search of the van turned up two 9 MM pistols, five empty nitrous oxide cylinders and a small amount of marijuana. Evidence indicates that the three men had attended a performance at the Lakeside Pavilion where the jam band PRY had just played the second night of a three night run. The men were transported by ambulance the St. Alphonso's hospital where they were sedated. One was treated for blunt for trauma to the lower back and left knee cap. Detectives indicated that criminal charges are pending.

Gomer finished the article and looked at his three companions.

"What the Fuck? Guns, Five tanks of Nitrous? What's that all about?"

"We have had a big problem with the gas after the shows, lately. It seems to be that organized crime figures are targeting the audience. " Lee said. "The first night at Lakeside the scene was totally disgusting. One of the tour kids said it was these shady characters who were all guidoed out with black track suits and slicked back hair. Beyond that we really don't know how this happened?"

"If it happened in the Lot, I'm sure Les will tell us when he finds out." Skimpy said.

*********

The scene after the first show at the lakeside Pavilion was like any other night. The crowd was stumbling around, bouncing off of each other. Hot and sweaty ecstatic concert goers basking in the after show glow. They were drunk, high, tripping, some of them were even completely clean and sober and still had the same goofy smiles on their faces.

Everywhere inter-lot commerce was happening and business was brisk. Whether it was the basics of food and liquid refreshment, or other itrems such as clothing, memoribila, glass pipes or other eye candy such as hand formed glass jewelry and marbles. And yes, there were drugs being sold. It was all discreet, for the most part.

One of the tour kids, a "wookie" named Doodlebug was standing there with his open glass case. He was wearing some patchwork shorts with a couple of large cargo style pockets. Out of one of the pockets protruded and aluminum slingshot. He had long blond dreadlocks, a shaggy beard and regardless of the night, he was wearing a pair of dark shades. He was also wearing a t-shirt that said "Hippie Mafia."

Across Shakedown St., he heard the constant roar and hiss of opening and closing tanks of laughing gas, their contents being pumped into large punching bag ballons and being sold for 5 dollars each. He didn't see any cops around. He handed his glass case to his twenty something companion, Star, who was similarly dressed. She surveyed the situation and saw who was selling all of the gas.

"What the fuck, dude?" She queried to her boyfriend. "That's totally fucked up."

He was on his phone texting.

"Dude, I'm on shake near the second lot, check out these gassholes."
The response came instantly, from a wookie named Muskie.

"I c them"

A few seconds later, Muskie showed up and hugged his companion.

Doodlebug was irate,

"Dude, what the fuck? This is not good. It's bad enough when one of us does this but these fuckin' idiots bring some seriously bad vibes to the scene. Plus they are taking money out of the scene away from the kids who need it. The fuckin' custies don't give a shit either."

"Comon now, Doodle dude ... how much money did you make schwinging Molly tonight? Muskie queried in a low but reassuring tone. "I can't begrudge them for trying to make some cash, But I don't like it either, too high profile they'll bring the heat down on all of us. There's nothing we can do about it now."

He looked around at the scene. Everywhere there were balloons. Kids were lying on the ground. passed out, some convulsing. He saw one girl with a gash on her head where it hit the hood of a parked car. He looked around at the other tour kids struggling to sell the drinks, food and hand crafted items. All of the stuff that brings good vibes.

"Nope, Doodle I don't like it, it's too much." Just then a kid walked by bitching to his friend. Muskie overheard what he was saying.

"So fucking Tony Soprano over there had a handful of cash and he said I had to get two balloons cuz he didn't have time to make change for a $10."

"What a fucking cock. Someone should do something about that."

Muskie looked at Doodle. Doodle shook his head and spat on the ground and said,

"It's fucked up, dude."

"I know," Muskie responded, "I know ... They'll be here tomorrow, keep your eyes open. I think we can persuade them to, at the very least, give us an ... honorarium."

"Damn right, dude."Doodlebug began to laugh raising his hand in the air, they slapped each other's hands and shook. They hugged again. This time a bundle of cash went from Doodle's hand into Muskie's. With the other hand he delivered a package into Doodle's hand.

The next day as the pre-show marketplace began to unfold, two wookies noticed the white van pull into the lot. They texted Muskie who was there within minutes. Some of the other kids who had been there the night before noticed as well. Those wanting some of that sweet air began to gravitate in that direction.

The three gangsters were sitting in folding chairs outside the van, one was reading a newspaper. The other two were drinking and checking out the women walking by, when a kid rolled up.

"Hey man, you got any gas?" the one reading the paper, Vinnie, looked at the other two.

"Yo Rocco, Tone ...You believe this fucking guy? Does it look like we have any gas? You dumb hippie fuck? Get the fuck outta here, come back later." The kid scowled and slunk away cursing under his breath.

A number of other curious concert goers who remembered the trio from the night before got the same treatment. Each leaving pissed off. It was worse with some of the young women who approached them as they were turned away with ribald misogynist taunts included for good measure. The gassholes were not making any friends in the lot. All around them was a wonderful party. People playing music, dancing, getting revved up for the show and their presence was just a downer.

Vinnie got up and barked at his cohorts.

"Let's open it up for a few minutes." They began filling balloons at kids quickly ran over, some against their better judgment. After about 20 minutes they shut it down. They went back to reading the paper and basically doing nothing as most of the crowd headed toward the entrance to the amphitheater.

Vinnie looked up and saw a tall lanky dreadlocked kid with a beard wearing Ray Bans.

He said to the others, "Who the fuck is this guy?'

"My name is Muskie. Who are you? "

Vinnie, the big guy reading the paper, did all the talking. The other two just grunted and looked imposing.

"I'll tell you the same thing I've been telling the rest of you for the last 10 minutes. Store's closed, get the fuck outta here, come back after the show."

"My aren't we polite. You treat all of your customers like that?"
Vinnie did a double take. and scowled at Muskie.

"I don't want your gas. I'm here to talk business. You guys seem pretty vulnerable, out of your element, I'm here to offer you some protection. You pissed a lot of people off last night, and even more today."

"What the fuck?" One of the goons in the back blurted and lurched forward. Vinnie, raised his hand.

"Tony, stop!"

The guy in the back stopped in his tracks. Smoothed down his slicked back hair and primped his track suit. Vinnie started laughing.

"Protection, YOU are offering me protection? Are you fuckin' serious? Protection from who?"

"It would be a shame if you guys sold the contents of all of those tanks and your money disappeared before you got out of the parking lot." The three looked at each other and began to laugh. One of them leaned forward opening his track jacket slightly, briefly exposing a gun.

"I don't think that's gonna fuckin' happen kid, now get the fuck outta here."

"Oh, it will happen, trust me. You keep pissing people off and cause a big scene, you are sitting ducks, I'm not threatening you, I'm just pointing out what can happen if you don't work with me on this." One of the three was eye-balling him suspiciously. He looked around and saw at least five or six dreadies on the periphery intently watching the conversation.

"Yo, Vinnie, I think he's serious." He began to whisper. "Look around Boss, we're outnumbered.

"Ohhh," he exclaimed as he turned to his companion and slapped him on the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up! Of course he's fucking serious dumb ass, but you think he can REALLY do anything about it?"

"You should listen to your partner. What did you have last night 5- 6 tanks? (They had 10) I figure with breakage you probably averaged about 1000 bucks per tank? Give me $1500 and shut down for a few minutes every 10 minutes or so. What you can do is get the tanks away from the van ... set up in those trees over there have a couple of tanks going at the same time. That way if the cops move in you just leave the tanks, take the money and run. You do that and we have a deal. I suggest you accept my offer, after all you are doing business in MY neighborhood."
He tipped his sunglasses down and made eye contact with Vinnie as he said,

" You understand?"

The three looked at each other. Vinnie looked at Muskie and sized him up for a minute before he began to laugh and yelled,

"FUCK YOU!"

Muskie smiled and said, "If you change your mind, ask any of the kids selling food over there for me, they know how to find me. "

He walked away, shaking his head, as he heard once again,

"Fuck you , you believe this fuckin' guy?"

The trio did however take Muskie's's suggestion of moving the tanks into the trees.

Later in the evening the kids who didn't get into the show or chose not to go in, were milling about. Listening to music, dancing, drinking. It was about 10 o'clock. They heard the whining roar of a freshly tapped tank of nitrous. Gopher and his brothers in the lot watched for a few minutes. They had two tanks going.

The three nitrous vendors were chattering at each other. Vinnie was collecting the money and the other two were filling the balloons.

Muskie handed his girl a $50 bill which he'd just dosed with liquid LSD

"You know what to do? You, Amanda, have the bottle that is dosed, be careful don't spray anyone else or your self it is strong. "

She walked over with three of her friends. She patiently waited a minute. She handed the big guy the fifty. He really didn't notice that the bill was wet. Nor did he notice the girl was wearing rubber gloves. She asked for three balloons. He put the fifty in his pocket. He withdrew his hand from the pocket, instinctively licked his moistened thumb before he peeled off a couple of bills for change. Rocco and Tony were were in the dense trees, sweating in warm May evening. Two of the girls were giggling and bouncing around. One produced a squirt bottle and started spraying her companion with water.

"oh, that feels good, Amanda said. She produced another and said,

"You guys look hot." She took aim and squirted two blasts of the psychedelic solution in the face of each of the guys on the tanks.

"What the fuck? Knock that shit off, get the fuck outta here." Tony wiped his face. He took a direct hit to the eye, Rocco was wiping the liquid off of his upper lip and mouth. The girls scurried letting the balloons deflate and getting rid of the rubber gloves they were all wearing as the LSD began working its way into the narrow and feeble brains of the mobbed up nitrous vendors.

The show got out about about 45 minutes later. Shakedown St. filled up again with the stumbling smiling masses. And a good chunk of them wanted some laughing gas.

Vinnie, Rocco and Tony did a roaring business for about 45 minutes selling hundreds of balloons. They figured out a system the night before, and with the help of the hippie kid earlier in the evening they just became more efficient. They were so busy and moving so quickly they didn't realize what had begun to take place.

All of the sudden something happened, things began to seem a little weird. Tony, the one who got hit in the eye from the dosed spray bottle, all of the sudden seemed incapable of doing something as simple as turning a valve after putting a balloon on the nozzle.

Rocco noticed this and he began to feel like his clothes were too heavy, he was hot, sweating profusely and he couldn't feel his feet. Where did his feet go?

"Yo, Rocco. what's that?!! he asked with a twinge of fear in his voice. He turned, sure he saw something behind that orange tree which was swaying back and forth.

Vinnie began to freak out as this kid in front of him wouldn't stop talking.

He was handing Vinnie a 20 dollar bill. And said, about 20 times in a cartoon voice,

"But you don't understand, Mister, you gave me too much change, Mister, Don't you understand, Mister? Too much, you know what I mean, Too much change, Mister."

He handed Vinnie a 20 dollar bill. Vinnie peered at him his pupils filling his retinas as the 20 dollar bill began to melt in his hand. Vinnie was grooving on the swirling mass in his hand. When he was startled again.

"Aw man!!! the kid shouted. You did it again mister, you gave me too much change, Mister Tooo Much change. How you gonna make good business if you give me too much change, Mister?" Vinnie turned in horror as Rocco was lying on the ground howling in pain.

"I been shot, Someone fucking shot me!!" he was holding his back.

"You didn't get fucking shot, there was no gun.

Tony pulled his gun out and stared at it with the look of utmost fear in his voice. He happily handed the weapon over the to the stranger who beckon him to do so. There were about 4 dreadlocked kids swarming around making a big fuss. Asking Rocco if he was okay? Then they all started on Vinnie again. who was standing there staring through them with a fist full of cash and his pockets bulging. Some one tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey mister, you gave him too much change. Mister? Mister?? Why do you keep giving him so much change?"

Vinnie was helpless. He heard his companion on the ground howl one more time as a glass marble silently cut through the air, launched from Doodlebug's nearby slingshot, it splintered the top of the howling man's knee cap.

"I've been shot again!!!" Vinnie looked around even though he didn't hear a gun. In the confusion one of the kids who was asking Rocco if he was okay reached down and discreetly took his gun. It seemed like Vinnie was unarmed.

Vinnie looked at Muskie who suddenly appeared before him.

"Help me ..." He squeaked.

Their van had already been ransacked. The three full nitorus tanks inside were stolen and already en route to the Shady Grove Campground, Five miles away.

Muskie took Vinnie by the arm, Rocco and Tony were also helped along. Rocco was limping and trying to take his clothes off. The kids ushered them into the cargo area of the van which conveniently had a metal cage separating the passenger compartment from the cargo area. After Muskie had relieved Vinnie of all of his cash. He stood at the back of the van. looking at the three men amidst the empty cylinders. A clean cut kid hopped into the driver's seat.

Muskie peered at the men, and simply said,

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep this from happening to you guys. Perhaps you'll think twice before you fuck with our scene next time. It was a pleasure doing business with you." He slammed the doors to the van shut.

The driver said, "We'll have you home in no time flat." Don't freak out too much. He turned on the music and White Rabbit began with Jack Casady's bass thumping away and Jorma's searing guitar lines filling their ears. The next tune soothed them a little bit as Frank Sinatra began crooning Come Fly With Me.

The van traversed the short distance between the amphitheater and the south end of Dana. Old Blue eyes was still crooning away as the driver quickly, parked the van in an intentionlly haphazard manner. He opened, the rear door and threw the bag with the weed and the guns in the cargo compartment. He hopped into the back seat of the car which had followed the van. The car containing the four tour kids then headed to the Shady Grove Campground where most of the tour kids were staying. Beer, food and camping were compliments of the three nitrous vendors that night. The three who were caught unawares as they encountered themselves in the parking lot of a PRY show that night.

Vinnie held onto the bag containing the guns and weed as he peered out the open door into the Dana night. The street lights had a purple glow. He felt more afraid than he ever had in his life. Rocco moaned in pain again as he removed the rest of his clothes. Then the cargo compartment filled with a beautiful flashing blue light ...

Sure you could say Vinnie, Rocco and Tony encountered themselves in the Lot in the whole psychedelic realm of interweaving segments of hallucination, paranoid thought and stark naked reality as the LSD sawed through them, dissolving their egos and priming their brains for some terrifying but honest self-examination.

In reality they did encounter themselves in the lot. Muskie and Doodlebug may be little shaggier, and lot more down to earth, than the gangsters the trio were used to dealing with. They sure were smarter than most of them. Tony saw the Wookies for who they were, but was shot down by Vinnie's inability to take a suggestion from a subordinate. After all, at the end of the day the hippies were the same ruthless criminals who took them down as the trio would have taken anyone who was a threat to their home turf in the south end of Dana. The drug induced psychological warfare may have been a little over the top, but they lived to tell about it, didn't they?

***********

Les finally woke up and joined his band mates and Gomer. The Shady Grove Campground emptied out as the tour kids headed to Muskrat Flats. The scene around the stage was buzzing with anticipation. The word was out that PRY was playing this free show. Gomer stood back stage with Lee, Fennel and Skimpy. They looked on as Les was engrossed in a conversation with a couple of Wookies. One of them handed Les an envelope. He hugged them both. Lee thought he saw one of them slip Les a package during the hug. Les ambled over to where the band stood. He handed Gomer the envelope.

"What's this?"

"It is a $1500 donation to the Blackstone Foundation."

"Seriously from them? Where did they get the money?" Gomer asked as he handed the envelope off to Coley Blackstone.

"Gomer, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Let's hit it."

Les played the show relatively sober, trading licks with Gomer. They did a few Satans songs that they all knew. The crowd went wild. And right up front, as Gomer and Les hammered away at their basses was Sveltie watching his every move like a star struck groupie. From the stage Gomer could see the Hotel at the Farm Museum. He couldn't wait to meet her there, but for now, he had to rock out.

It is amazing what the brain can conjure up sometimes, whether you are drunk, stoned or tripping, there is always room for that one revelation, that one moment where everything make sense and your life will never be the same.

That moment has ruined some lives and has saved others. Les had his moment of clarity as he jammed with Gomer and Skimpy, Lee and Fennel. He wanted what they had. He wanted it more than anything and would do anything to get it ... even if it meant leaving the tour. He knew after the show, he was going to pack his bags and head for a destination of hope ... a chance to enjoy the wonderful life he had carved for himself. To truly enjoy it as he never had before.

Somewhere else in Muskrat Flats, Jerry Smith was wishing for the same thing, but he had not caught enough pain yet, he isn't quite done as he sat there alone in the dark with his best friend.

On the stage behind the Odd Fellows Hall at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets. Les knew. He knew he was done and his new life was about to begin as he prepared himself to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

In Memory of those who have fallen and those who are well on their way ...

2009-05-26T09:06:00.016-04:00

Memorial Day came and went as it always does in Muskrat Flats or anywhere else for that matter. It was unusually busy in town as somehow the holiday weekend, which seemed to come a week earlier than usual coincided with the graduation ceremonies from the Muskrat Flats Community College and Samuel Coleman Hawthorne High School. The town was buzzing with activity and decked out with its patriotic colors.

At the Farm Museum, the parade to commemorate the remembrance of our citizens who had fallen both on native soil and abroad was set to begin shortly after the graduation ceremony for the 35 students in Sveltie Smith's vintner program.

The students received their hard earned sheepskins situated at the edge of the neatly cropped and flourishing grape vines they had so faithfully manicured, coaxed and harvested the last four years. The ceremony ended with Sveltie opening a Nebuchadnezzer bottle of sparkling wine, a vintage the class had produced in the classic method champenois. Empty glasses were hoisted in celebration and anticipation as Sveltie sheared the cork off of the 15 liter bottle situated in an ornate cast iron decanter which was produced by Kurt Bartleby in the Farm and Agricultural Museum's Smithy shop. The apparatus hoisted the 38 kilo bottle on a swivel for easy pouring.

Kurt stood by marveling at the ceremony as Sveltie rhythmically rapped the side of the bottle with the knife with which she popped the cork. Kurt watched Sveltie rap the bottle thinking she may shatter the vessel all the while wishing his dearly departed mentor, Benwah were here to witness this ceremony as well as his handiwork. This thought was broken as he watched geyser of wine erupted out of the opening of the bottle to raucous cheers from the students and their families.

The opening of this bottle had a special meaning for the class as they recalled the whole process which began in the first weeks of their program four very short years ago. The recalled day the had to disgorge the Lees or sediment from the bottle. A procedure where in the course of the first fermentation process the bottle has been turned completely upside down in the rack situated in caverns carved out of the limestone below the farm museum. The sediment which settles in the neck of the bottle is then frozen inside the bottle in a chilled brine bath. The bottle is opened and this plug is spit out of the bottle by the compressed carbonation. The volume of the bottle is then replaced with a some sediment free wine a small amount of yeast and sugar are added then bottle is recorked and the three year fermentation process begins. The gyser subsided the champagne was poured and the now filled glasses were once again hoisted.

Memorial day sure did come up quickly for Gomer Eckstein as he stood leaning against a post in front of the former railroad station, watching Sveltie, Kurt and her students celebrate. He watched Sveltie with her arm around her husband Jerry a full glass of the champagne in his free hand. He looked excited, like he had permission to drink.

Gomer remembered how that felt ... having permission to get high. What a glorious feeling that was, no hang ups, no sneaking around, no lying. Those were the aspects of his addiction he despised when he became strung out. All of the manipulation, the deceit, struggling through the emotional upheavals with his then companion Sarah. Then there was the seeking out of other women with whom he could use ... peacefully, but that never really worked out and comes with its own set of emotionally charged negative circumstances.

The last time Gomer stood in Muskrat Flats, snow was in the forecast. He has just finished a cross country tour with his hardcore Klezmer band the Hook Nosed Satans. He left the Flats in late February to attend a meeting with the folks from Showtime regarding a pilot for comedy series he had written about a Rabbi in Las Vegas who ran a Funeral Parlor.

Although there was initially a buzz amongst the network higher ups regarding the concept of "Shiva Las Vegas," Gomer was accurate in his assessment that they had cooled to the idea as the meeting had begun. "The concept sounds to similar to 6 Feet Under," Was the final explanation.

Being the self sufficient bastard that he is, Gomer took matters into his own hands and produced a music video based on the tune Viva Las Vegas with him singing a duet with a Hasidic Elvis impersonator. The video already has over 100,000 hits on You Tube.

The tour was lengthier than usual. He was playing larger venues taking his music mainly to colleges in the Northeast including his Alma Mater, Amherst College. Then the Satans headed south to New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Raleigh, New Orleans, Austin, Santa Fe. From New Mexico they headed north for a string of three shows in Telluride, Colorado and then west to Seattle and Eugene, OR, where he was met by the new love of his life, his girlfriend of eight months, Miranda Klein.

The new lovers spent a few days in the Portland area before they hit northern California, and ended up in the Bay area where the Satans played shows in Berkley, Palo Alto and Mirandas's hometown, San Francisco.

Meeting up with Miranda and spending a couple of weeks with her, when he did, was a Godsend for Gomer. The tour was a little harder than he had anticipated. It seemed that everywhere they went, someone wanted to get him high.

He began to feel as isolated as he had felt when he was strung out. He called folks in his network, he called Miranda, he even called Sveltie, for which he felt somewhat guilty. He could rationalize and tell himself that they NEEDED each other at that moment. when they were reading about the love triangle between the vampires Isabella, Astrid and their very own Sheriff Hawthorne, that their fanning the embers of a relationship which had died years ago was the right thing to do ... at the time. But sometimes, us addicts don't think things through when we are caught up in the moment. It was hard for Gomer to say goodbye to Miranda that night as they walked together hand in hand, as new lovers often do. The walked down South Van Ness Avenue after noshing on some chicken tamales. And he sang to her. He sang a beloved by Jerry Garcia which made her weep as the lovers walked along in the Mission, in the rain.

Everything worked out with Sveltie, after all she and Jerry were still together. As he thought this he watched Jerry hoist his third glass of wine and noted that Sveltie noticed as well. Gomer watched her whisper something to Jerry who walked straight over to the bar and refilled his glass as he left his wife standing there watching him with a look of disappointment.

He could identify with what Jerry is going through as he struggles with his alcoholism. But he also felt empathy for his former girlfriend and recent lover as he watched her let out a little sigh before turning her attention and her beautiful smiling face in the direction of one of her students and her parents as the pain in Sveltie's heart continued to unfold, especially if she was further witness to what was occurring with her husband, unseen, behind her as she spoke.

Gomer's cell phone rang. He looked at the display, the number was blocked. He ignored it. There was no message left. The phone rang a couple more times. He finally picked it up.

"Hello?" He queried.

"Hey, Gomer! Whats going on, baby?" Gomer hesitated and got a knot in his stomach. He was silent.

"Hello? Gomer, it's Allie. I just wanted to see if you had the same number and do some catching up." Gomer sighed again.

"Hi Allie, how have you been?"

"I'm doing pretty good, I've got a job and an apartment. I'm doing good."

"Are you clean?"

"Well sort of ..."

"How are you sort of clean?"

"I've been doing good, I'm on suboxone, I go to meetings three times a week?"

"Really? Do you have a sponsor or a home group?"

"I've got a few people that I call ... It's tough, you know how it is ... a struggle. I have to get a paper signed for my probation officer three times a week."

"I see. Look, Allie ..." She cut him off.

"I can't lie I've been using every now and then ... you know what they say about the only requirement is ..."

"Yeah, I know, the desire to stop using." He looked down at his shiny black fingernails.

"Listen, baby, I ran out of suboxone and don't have any cash to get my prescription filled. I was wondering if you wanted to get together?"

"Allie, I'm clean, in fact the length of time I've been clean has been exactly the same amount of time it has been since we last got together."

"Oh ... comon baby, I wouldn't let you use." She was starting to get an edge to her voice.

"Listen," Gomer said, "I'm sure you have the best intentions, I'm not blaming you for my using. I just don't know how I would handle it if we did get together, even for 15 seconds. I just don't know ..."

"Oh baby please? I need you."

"Comon, Allie, I can't do it."

"I want YOU!" Her voice got sugary as she tried to further manipulate the situation. Gomer sighed again and spoke.

"Listen Allie ..."

"Comon Gomer, let's do a date ...." That was all Gomer needed to hear, because there was nothing more he wanted at this moment. He was swirling in a melancholy sea of emotions as he watched Sveltie occasionally turn a look at Jerry, who looked away every time. He turned his head, pretending he didn't notice that she was looking over to him. He thought of Miranda and how he missed her company. He thought of both women and how warm their bodies felt as they snuggled into his. He thought of Allie and the comfort she could provide.

"Gomer ... Gomer? "

"Yeah I'm here. Allie, I'd love to see you, but I can't. I know you are using, and I feel really vulnerable right now ... I just can't see you." She began to cry.

"Gomer, I need you. I'm sick. Comon ... I've been doing good, I just fucked up a little bit. I really need the money for the script. You're doing good, I've seen you on the computer. You look good. I wouldn't let you fuck up, baby. Please??! I'M SICK!"

"I can't. I'm sorry." He hung up.

He took a deep breath. He looked over at Sveltie once again. She was on her phone this time, staring off into space. Jerry was yukking it up with a couple of the girls who had just graduated, starting to get a little sloppy and flirtatious. Gomer's phone rang again. He reached for it, without looking at the display screen, ready to blast Allie for calling him back.

"Hello?"

"Gomer ..." He looked up at Sveltie. As she spoke she made eye contact with him. "Do you still have Hawthorne's diary?"

"Why...uh. yes, Yes I do. I still need to read the last chapter."

"I still haven't read that one. You want to read it to me?" Gomer looked straight at her and without hesitation answered,

"Yes!"

"I figure he'll be passed out by three or four. I call you later."

"I don't want to fuck anything up with you, Jerry or Miranda."

"I know Gomer, I want to do the right thing, too ... are you going to meet me, or what?"

"Yes. I'm going to go over to the Odd Fellows. I still haven't seen Dad since I got back into town, they probably need some help over there with the picnic."

"Are you playing tonight?"

"Burliegh, from PRY asked if I was available to sit in, I told him yes."

"After the show then?"

"Yes, after the show would be perfect."

"I'll meet you at the hotel, sweetie." She discreetly blew him a kiss and hung up.

Gomer gave her a wink. He put his hand in his shoulder bag and felt the box which contained Hawthorne's diary. Why Jerry asked him to keep it is still a mystery, but an obvious bad decision on his part.

"Hey Gomer!"

"Coley, what's going on, my man?" Gomer reached down and tousled Chubby's bangs as he growled a little bit thinking that Gomer was going to try to take away the plastic banana he had in his mouth.

"I'm heading over to the Odd Fellows for the parade, you wanna walk with me, Coley?"

"Sure." He put his arm around Coley as they headed toward the intersection of Petersen and McKernan Streets. Chubby picked up the paced to follow grunting as he walked.

"So ... I've been away for a while, Coley. Any good gossip going around town?"

The two friends headed away from the Farm Museum. Sveltie looked at Gomer one last time as she felt Jerry's hand on her arm.

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. I gotta do something about this" His apology didn't prevent him from taking another drink, though.

She looked at him and replied.

"I know Jerry, I really do love you and that is not a lie. I know I'm not perfect ..." He stopped her.

"I'm not feeling too well, can you drive me home?"

"I don't want to go home. I want to be here, I want to see the music. I want you. Don't you understand. All I ever wanted was you, until this became more important." She motioned to his glass. He hung his head and took another sip. Sveltie just stood there silently looking at her tormented husband. She didn't know what to do. But she did think to herself ...

I'll drive you home, but If I can't get what I want, I'm going to at least get what I need.

She repositioned herself as she watched Gomer and Coley disappear around the corner.

"Comon big guy, let's get you home and set up in front of the TV. I think the Sox are playing at 1. I want to be back in time for the parade."

Gomer thought about the last 15 minutes as the Odd Fellows hall came into view. He should have been listening more attentively as Coley gave him a rundown of all of the shit that has happened in Muskrat Flats in the last few months. He thought about Allie and her struggle with heroin and how he wanted to lash out at her for not being clean, making her inaccesible.

He thought of Sveltie and her issues with his good friend Jerry and how he felt powerless to say no to the prospect of meeting her even though he knew it was wrong. He thought about all of the insantity and how vulnerable he truly was at this moment. And thought to himself ... I can't wait to play some music tonight.

As the sun climbed in the sky illuminating a perfect spring day, it is unfortunate that there are two addicts that Gomer knows who will not be there to enjoy it.

Allie is probably in the South End of Dana right now, dope sick and trying to hustle enough money to get off empty after having spent her hard earned paycheck. And Jerry ... He will miss the beautiful day, passed out in front of the flat screen TV as his sexy and lovely wife watches his estranged best friend gyrating on the stage, playing with his favorite band. An unfortunate set of circumstances to precede the final reading of Sheriff Hawthorne's sex charged tale of murder, mayhem and immortality taking place in Historic Muskrat Flats.

Yep, Gomer dodged a bullet that afternoon with the phone call from Allie, one which was destined to shatter his skull, leaving him in a bloodied heap on the pavement.

Now, if he could only dodge the bullet engraved with Sveltie's name, which was soaring in his direction and threatened to pierce his heart.

Just a suggestion, Gomer, now would be a good time to get back on the road and begin ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Our Primary Purpose.

2009-02-25T10:43:00.013-05:00

I've been thinking about time lately. I'm pretty sure I've written about time before. Time keeps popping up as a subject these days.

"No time to lose," is what they say.

Others sing about time being "On my side."

Some of the old timers at the Odd Fellows Hall at the corner of Petersen and McKernan Streets, in Muskrat Flats proper, speak of "time being money," especially Sid Bartleby; he is kind of corny like that.

Then there is the big question. Often the question is asked confidently as if the inquisitor knows they are going to draw a favorable response. The tenor of the question can be intuitively modified to be phrased in a sympathetic and encouraging light, based upon the vibe of the situation. In other situations the question can be launched in the muddied quagmire of small talk, only to illicit a strained and sheepish response further sullying an already awkward situation.

This question being ... "How much time do you have?"

Is not such an unusual question. It is uttered in many different situations on a daily basis drawing responses such as:

"I've got five minutes before I have to pick up my kid."

"My schedule is clear. What can I do for you?"

"I'm running late. Perhaps we can do this tomorrow?"

In the "Iron Triangle," (the section of Muskrat Flats where you are perpetually on the other side of the tracks as it is bordered by train tacks on three sides) you may get a different response to this question, especially if you are standing outside of a 12-step meeting clutching a coffee in one hand and a Newport short in the other. Within the bounds of these circumstances, within the triangle, someone may reply:

"The Good Lord willing, I've got twenty years on the 3oth."

or "I've been clean for three days."

or my favorite:

"I was clean for Nine months, but I fucked up last week.

The last one is the response I gave last time someone asked me that question, almost nine months ago. I could have given a new response, one I picked up from on of my sponsee brothers,

"I've got the same amount of time you have, brother, I've got today."

This may sound like a smart ass answer to the outside observer, but when it really comes down to it I really can't ask for much more than that. In my world even one day clean is a freaking miracle and I'm not kidding.

As I watch a friend currently struggling with the disease -- how caught up they are; how the drugs just absolutely warp their sense of reasoning; how the drugs bastardize any semblance of normalcy they may have once experienced -- I remember where I was when I was in the same position.

I remember when I was so strung out that every day was a comedy of errors; a bizarre panorama, a faded and unfocused surrealistic landscape of shame and remorse filled self-loathing. I was a walking zombie on a mission to get high no matter what (If not high, at least to keep from getting sick). It didn't matter to what extent I jeopardized my life, my job, my child and everyone else who loved me and couldn't understand why I would choose to lead such an existence.

The funny part is, in my twisted up self-centered thinking, I couldn't understand why they couldn't understand. I mean, could they not see that I was sick? I had to use! I could not stop, otherwise I would get sicker. I wanted to get clean, but I wasn't about to get sick to do so. I was in the same position my friend is right now: I wanted to get clean, but I didn't want to suffer any consequences to do so.

Time - A dear friend of mine used to say, "You don't want what I got, cause I've got NO TIME."

I've been texting this friend of mine. Right now, my friend, who is struggling, has nothing but time on their hands. And that time is frittering away slowly, day by day. They don't want what I got, cause I've got no time for their shit. There is a simple solution to their problem.

Just Stop Using. That is the one common denominator shared by every recovering addict in the world. Just for one day, they stopped using. And they got up the next day, did it again, and again a third day. It is going to suck. You will feel like you have the worst flu you have ever had, but each subsequent day that you just focus on 24 hours of not using you will feel better. Although stopping is a big part, you also have to do something to to arrest the obsession to want to use and compulsion to go out and do so. That is where 12-step meetings helped me.

I did four medically supervised detoxes. One was an outpatient program prescribed by some quack I found in the yellow pages. I got higher on the shit he prescribed for me than I did with the junk I found on the street.

Since I had no guidance or suggestions from clean addicts as to how I could succeed I damn near killed myself when I did cave in after three days and picked up. A using buddy found me in the kitchen of my apartment, barely conscious, with a spike dangling from my bloodied arm. I am thankful they got me up and walking around instead of stealing my shit and leaving me there.

The next three detoxes I did -- the first shortly after the aforementioned debacle -- were in a locked ward. Sure, I could leave whenever I wanted but I didn't. Each time I got a little further along to discovering a permanent solution to my problem, which was me, not the drugs. I was -- and for the time being remain -- the problem.

In the end, when I finally walked away from the fence bordering that crimson poppy field, I did it cold turkey. I had no intention of stopping. I simply prayed to God and asked for help. Little did I know others were praying for me as well. That morning, instead of going out and copping, I just went back to bed and rode it out. The sweats, chills, the squirts, dry heaves, involuntary muscle spasms ... it sucked, but I did it.

I am praying that my friend makes it, because they know there is a better way to live.
I am praying for them; That is all I can do. No money, no rides, no hand holding. I have a hard enough time working my own program of recovery than to watch a loved one go through the hell of detox, putting myself at risk by being in the company of a sick, suffering, conniving manipulative, self centered addict who will do or say anything to get a fix. That would just be stupid on my part. I am not being judgmental when I say this; it is just the way it is. That is how we are when we are active.

I don't want to sound unsympathetic, but there are professionals out there who can do this ... because I KNOW that I can't. In my fellowship, our primary purpose is to carry the message to the addict who still suffers -- that message being that recovery is possible. However, this doesn't mean that I should put myself in harm's way.

My friend is not responsible for their disease, but they are responsible for their recovery, not me. I am praying for you, my friend. Consequences be damned, because right now they are not that bad. But I assure you, if you keep running, they will get worse. Can't you see that they already are?

The time to get clean is now, because Time is running out.

Yep, the time is running out about as quickly as I am ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"Cause I'm not feeling too good, I've lost a lot of blood ..."

2009-02-03T09:35:00.016-05:00

Once again the folks in Muskrat Flats are waiting for snow. It has been a tired and turbulent winter for our friends. Not so much from the climate or foul weather, there is only so much you can do about that. Sometimes foul weather can be a savior. Where would Coley Blackstone be had his house been left intact following the micro burst which ripped apart his living room and dining area last August?

His bedroom, with his large comfortable king sized bed, was untouched. The cardboard refrigerator box, in which he slept in his dining room, that is still caught up in a tree about 100 yards into the woods behind his house.

If that foul weather had not come, perhaps Coley, Muskrat Flats' richest resident, would still be walking up and down Petersen St., with his dog Chubby, fishing in the trash for bits of interesting paper. He might still be hanging out on a park bench across the street from the Odd Fellows Hall, smelling the aroma of Iva's blueberry muffins, some of which are grilled delicately in whole butter. How many days he would sit on that bench wishing he had the nerve to cross the street and ask for one of those golden brown nuggets. Instead he sat on the bench lost in the whirlwind of his insanity, scratching away at his black composition notebook, figuring out the interest his fortune was amassing on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. His obsession, driven by a chemical imbalance left him feeling alone and detached, so he figured might as well live like he felt ... homeless.

He was walking through the woods the on his way downtown and saw his box, wedged in the branches at the top of a black birch tree. He stopped and looked up at the box which was glistening in the sun as patches of ice melted away after the previous night's coating of freezing rain. He pulled an ice slicked sapling from one of the lower branches of the birch and stripped the black bark away with his fingernail. Chubby was nosing around in the snow and ice. Corey peeled back the tender membrane underneath the bark and put the wood in his mouth, tasting the bubble gum sweetness of the tender shoot. He rolled the stick around in his mouth, as he gazed up at the box.

"What the fuck was I thinking, living like that?"

As the sweetness of the branch dissipated, he spit it out, thinking that the sap from the maples would be running soon. Iva's muffins must be wondrous with some melted butter and some fresh maple syrup.

Coley was thankful for the weather. Even though it was cold and wet, and he occasionally had to pry balls of ice, wedged uncomfortably between the pads of Chubby's paws, it was severe weather which had exposed his charade.

Now, he felt joy. It wasn't such a terrible thing to let people into his life. His neighbors were making a difference. Perhaps if he walked across the street and asked for one those blueberry muffins, long ago, the good neighbors in Muskrat Flats would have come to his aid. Perhaps they would have found out that he was the mysterious resident who everyone had been talking about. But now he thought that probably wouldn't have made a difference in how they treated him. Yes he was the anonymous donor who kept charities functioning, scholarship funds solvent, social service programs rolling along with full budget. Not bad for a homeless guy. Can anyone doubt that he is the bastard Great Grandson of Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III? But, they would have seen that he needed help and would have assisted him in getting it, of that he was sure.

He gave the cardboard box one last glance, took a deep inhale of the crisp morning air and headed to the center of town.

At the Farm Museum, things were pretty normal. It was quiet with the exception of school groups who would come around for a tour of the blacksmith shop, to see how the animals are cared for in the winter and of course to enjoy the sleigh ride past rows and rows of Sveltie's barren and dormant grapevines.

Sveltie and Jerry were hashing out their problems. They loved each other but each were beginning to look outside of their relationship for the comfort and excitement they should have been providing for each other. Sveltie was beginning to worry about Jerry's drinking. When they were together his consumption seemed to be in check. The last time Jerry "let slip" that he was with another woman alcohol was a factor. She was wondering if it was not so much that he was looking for sex as he was looking for someone who drank like he did. This, of course, made her feel guilty being a vintner, his wife and, undoubtedly, his biggest enabler.

She was in the Blacksmith shop with a group of the school children as Kurt Bartleby was pounding away at his glowing rod ... of metal. Sparks were flying through the air. Behind the spray of sparks stood her assistant, Gina. What a beautiful girl she is Sveltie thought.

Gina was standing there smiling seductively at Kurt, who looked up and winked at her. The group of first and second graders were holding their ears as Kurt pounded away at the metal. He stopped and addressed his young crowd.

"Now, I'm gonna cool this off a bit ..." He plunged the metal into a wooden bucket of water. The metal screamed and hissed like a muskrat being suffocated by a large snake, as it hit the cold liquid, much to the delight of his young audience.

"Now, I'm going to put my rod in the glory hole and its going to get real hot when Gina pumps the bellows for me" He said with a grin

"Oh Jesus Christ!" Sveltie thought to herself. "You two seriously need to get a room." She looked at the Teachers and the group chaperones. Thankfully they didn't seem to catch the double entendre.

As he started pounding away and shaping the metal, the sparks started to fly again. Gina was framed by the the glowing shower of metal and the reflections flashed in her eyes and illuminated her lovely chocolate skin. Under her winter gear she was wearing a dress which exposed enough of her cleavage to make Sveltie want to do a double take.

Sveltie marveled at the sparks and the look in Gina's eyes as she watched Kurt. She thought of the rainbow points of light described by Sheriff Hawthorne in his diary.

Kurt was great with the children. He listened attentively and answered their questions as they fired away.

Sveltie's phone chimed. It was Jerry.

"I'm caught up with the story. Meet me at the hotel after work? Show me the secret room?"

"Of course my love. I've got a surprise for you."

***************************************

Sveltie and her husband walked into the Sheriff's most recent dirty little secret, outside of room number 10 at old Muskrat Flats Hotel. Jerry began to look around.

This is amazing he thought. He looked at the bottle of absinthe and uncorked it, taking a sniff. The anise infused herbal aroma tickled his olfactory receptors. He looked at the paintings.

"These paintings are probably worth a fortune. They need to be displayed where the public can see them."

He pulled two bottles of Muskrat Flats Vineyard's Reisling, some cheese and crackers. Sveltie should have felt disappointment at seeing the bottles of wine after the conversation they had last night, but she let it slide. She took her winter coat off revealing the costume she had worn at the Fall Festival. Jerry's eyes widened as he saw his wife dressed as Celeste, Sheriff Hawthorne's favorite girl.

Sveltie lit the oil lamp as Jerry peered through the grating into room number 10.

They sat down. He poured the wine and he began to read aloud, one again, the century old words of Sheriff Hawthorne.

"Isabella caused me to feel like I had never felt. There was the danger of the the situation which caused the most excitement for me. Knowing that as delicate and sensual her mouth felt upon my flesh, that mouth also contained those fangs which were capable of draining me of every drop of blood I possessed. As I sat in my office, feeling her mouth on me, feeling those talons raking against my flesh, feeling those mysterious rain drops of burning color soak into my body, I could se my tombstone coming in and out of view as her head slid up and down.

"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh." I read.

"They won't be laughing when they read this, What will they say if they find out about this?" I thought as I experienced a sensation the Padre down the road would prefer I feel for procreation purposes only. An intense wave of pleasure it was.

I was shocked out of my next thought as Isabella penetrated my mind once again to receive the thought.

"I would give anything to feel like this every day."

"Would you, now?" I heard her ask.

I countered this by thinking,

"Why ME, are you ever going to tell me. The carnival leaves in to days."

I composed myself, pulling up my trousers as Isabella lit a cigar. She walked over to the painting
I had behind my desk. She looked at it for a very long time, making sure to blow her smoke away from the art. How courteous, I thought.

"Jean Luc Lemay, a very talented artist. where did he paint this in Paris?"

"No, in this office actually ... you know of Jean Luc?"

"He speaks very highly of you. You made quite an impression on him, Sheriff. A man who would fake his own death to save a town. You seem a little more self-centered than that, but apparently I could be wrong. You did the right thing ... yes, you made quite an impression on Jean Luc, indeed."

I was growing impatient, wanting the answers to question I felt I deserved.

"We spent much time together in Paris. and he accompanied me back to Muskrat Flats. We still correspond by mail."

"He told me I would find an ally in you, that you were different."

I beagn to think about Jean Luc and his habits, he is ...

"One of us, Sheriff. He is a vampire. He should be an example to you that we're are not all heartless killers. Predators we are, but we can always find undesirables who deserve what we are more than willing to give them. "

"Like Caesar? He was an undesirable?" She kept pacing around my office touching my possessions as she spoke before finally settling to the chair. As she sat and took a puff of her cigar, some droplets of light jumped out of her and disappeared.

"Occasionally we find someone we desire, one who we would like to be one of us."

I got a chill as she said this, and saw more sparks leave her body. She shuddered as if she were being pleasured as we spoke.

"Your girl Celeste is enjoying Astrid's company right now. I can feel it."

"Those drops of light, how does that work?" I queried trying to change the subject. She ignored my question as she began to tell me her confession.

"Astrid joined our carnival about a year ago. I was immediately drawn to her, as were you."

"She has that affect on people." I noted.

"Before, she came to the carnival, I felt a presence which I could not quite identify. The Mexicans would always come to me and ask for help to keep away the nightmares. They would describe them to me, but I couldn't read their thoughts regarding the nightmares. It was odd. I tried to help them, but they are so superstitious they didn't fully trust me, either."

She uncrossed and crossed her legs, as my eyes wandered up her thigh. Isabella continued.

As Astrid and I became closer, she told me of a situation which had occurred with Caesar. He kept trying to get in her good graces, About two weeks ago, He tried to force himself on her one night, after they had been drinking. He ended up beating her. I was livid. I wanted to kill him, but Astrid asked me not to, fearing that I would expose myself. I have deep feelings for her she is special to me."

"You are in Love?"

"I don't know if love is what it can be called when you are immortal, Coleman."

"So, you confronted him, anyway?"

"Yes, again, I had that nagging feeling I just described. I tried to read his thoughts and he just laughed.

"You can't get in my mind, little girl." He said. "You saw what can happen when I don't get my way. You don't want to see what I can really do. The deserts we cross are very wide and vast ... a good place to hide the body of an annoying little girl who does parlor tricks with people's minds, a good place for someone - to disappear."

I took a pull of my cigar. She continued.

"The next morning Astrid was feeling exhausted. As if she had no sleep. She described a nightmare she had. She said she was awakened by a sound. Then she felt like someone or something was holding her down on her cot. She saw a purple and green mist which enveloped her and she felt like she was being raped, even though nobody was there. In her mind, she saw horrifying images of snakes."

That evening I went to see Caesar's show. He looked at me leering in a menacing way. I watched him wrestle the snake. During his act, something odd happened. As he rolled around on the stage with the snake wrapped around him, I saw wisps of green and purple. I knew right there what I was dealing with."

"What was that?" I had to ask.

"Caesar was a vampire who is a non-blood drinker, but drains people life force, their energy, their soul."

"He visits people in the night and penetrates their dreams, and rapes them? Like an Incubus?" I asked.

"Incubus? Very good sheriff, I'm impressed. But an Incubus is a demon. Caesar's type have trained their minds to prey on those of others."

I sat there stroking my mustache. She took another pull from the cigar and I said,

"Well, continue, how did he die?"

"Astrid was visited by him once more in the night. The next day I made her one of us. You saw the ritual. That gave her the ultimate protection and the strength for the ultimate revenge.
Astrid told Caesar that she had a change of heart and lured him into his tent, where I was waiting in the corner. She got on his bed and I saw the wisps of green and purple coming out of his body once more. He must have sensed my presence, because he turned to me. The clouds of energy drew closer to me.

"I told you not to fuck with me little girl. You don't know what I am capable of." He advanced toward me as did the clouds of energy.

I just stood there and released my own energy. The droplets of light you see began to pierce into Caesar. He was caught totally unaware. He had no idea what HE was dealing with. He screamed.

"Arggh! What are you doing to me?" He tried to turn up his own energy level but it was too late. I got inside his head and screamed as loud as I could.

Astrid jumped on him and sank her fangs into his neck and began feasting on his blood. I bore my fangs and advanced at him. He was shaking in fear trying to fight off Astrid. I swiped at his abdomen with my hand slicing his flesh. I licked the blood from my fingers. Looked him straight in the eye and said,

"Goodbye, Asshole!" As I cradled his head in my hands and snapped his neck. Then Astrid and I drank."

"Wow, why did you leave him out in the open to be found like that?"

"Astrid had spread the word that he was responsible for the night time attacks. All of the Mexicans described seeing snakes. She said the nightmares would never happen again and she is right."

"What about the energy, the purple and green cloud? Gone?" I asked.

"It is disembodied and we have protection against it. So you have heard my confession. What are you going to do?"

"What can I do, I guess it will have to be the chupabora who did this."

"Chupacabra, Sheriff. With me sitting in front of you, you can't acknowledge the existence of another supernatural being?"

"No, not right now."

"What are you going to do about the other thing, Coleman?" Isabella asked as she sashayed over to me. She smiled and bared her fangs. She sat in my lap, my hand ran against her smooth side cupping her breast.

"What other thing?" I asked coyly, trying to ignore the direction the conversation was headed.

I looked at the painting done by Jean Luc and thought of the portrait he had done of me which now is hanging in the Odd Fellows Hall. How could I have spent so much time with him and not even have the slightest suspicion that he was a vampire?

"I want you Coleman, do you want us? You faked your own death once before, you could just leave when we leave." She was kissing my neck, her breath in my ear, whispering how she desired me.

"I have to think about it." I thought. She continued kissing my neck grazing my skin with those fangs. I began to get aroused.

"Can I at least have a little taste, Coleman?"

I didn't answer. I simply put my head back as I allowed her to sink her fangs into my neck. I was once again bathed in a brilliant malestrom of light as I melted in her arms."

Sveltie opened her eyes to look at her husband Jerry. She was horny as hell and wanted him right then and there.

Sveltie saw the love in his eyes. She hoped that she could return the love he had for her. For she still had some unresolved thoughts on the matter as well as a wandering eye. She wondered why she couldn't just love him like she used to.

As odd a story as it is, rife with sexuality and fantastic forays into the supernatural, the constant in this plane of reality, this miniscule slice of time in the history of Muskrat Flats seems to be that Sheriff Hawthorne is still shaping the lives of Muskrat Flats' residents, descendants of neighbors he loved and cherished in his lifetime.

Perhaps it is time that the folks in the Flats, start to really take a look at the life of Sheriff Hawthorne and put an end to his posthumous meddling. We hear stories of the lives of legends from the American frontier people, like John Henry or Pecos Bill, even outlaws like Frank and Jesse James. They all seem so much larger than life and unreal. But in the case of Sheriff Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq., and his larger than life legend enmeshed in the history Muskrat Flats, the ante has been upped with a sordid story, in an old leather bound tablet, written by his own hand, in blood.

I say they get rid of Sheriff Hawthorne's diary first, before they start ...

Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats.

For information on Vampires written from an academic point of view please check out

http://www.konstantinos.com/

Thinking back to what I'm drinking. I think I 'll drink myself back home cause what is there is what is hurting."

2009-01-27T09:59:00.028-05:00

Cause I'm not feeling too good, I've lost a lot of blood.
and I should hope you that will tell my family -
that I want on my epitaph, "Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh"
and that's the best you could expect - a clown to be.

F. Alex Johnson

It was a cold brisk winter day in Muskrat Flats, about 15 degrees at the Municipal Airport. The sky was as blue as the turquoise ring around the cobalt center of the eye of a peacock's feather. It was a stunning blue, like you normally don't see. The kind of color which makes you check your glasses to make sure they haven't suddenly decided to become some odd shade causing the color spectrum to burst out of the palette.

The clear sky looked so peaceful. It didn't appear that in less than four hours another blanket of snow was destined to cover Muskrat Flats. It was to be a heavy wet snow. The kind Gomer Eckstein did not want his father, Moe, to be shoveling.

Across town, Moe was in the warmth of the Odd Fellows hall, underneath a wooden frieze with an etching depicting three links of a chain, Friendship, Love and Truth, enjoying his morning coffee and a warm, buttery blueberry muffin.

Moe was doing much better physically. The most recent round of chemo had eradicated the tumors and he was feeling virile, healthy and become his old cantankerous self. Fortunately for Gomer's psyche his dad was directing most of his bitching at either Sid or the printed page.

The most recent piece Moe had published, in Mother Jones, was the funniest Gomer had ever read from his father. Gomer appreciated his father's command of the language. Just as long as his pointed and scathing sarcasm wasn't directed at him, Gomer was happy to see or hear anything Dad had to say. It was when Moe started his sentences out with the words,

"Soooo, Sonny Boy ..." That Gomer felt like he needed to run for cover.

Gomer was sitting at his computer. Trying to dissect his thoughts. Sveltie seemed to have no problem with the recent rekindling of their physical relationship. He was fearing that the old emotions, which were brewing away, were the embers of an unquenchable inferno. He was confused.

He wanted to tell Miranda about the encounters, but that might not fall in line with the principles of the 9th Step, which warn of making direct amends to people we may have harmed, if to do so may injure them. What was he going to do?

It is funny how the brain works sometimes. Sveltie was a willing participant and manipulated the situation to her advantage with Gomer, after all she had her needs, too. At the end of the day, she was hurt by her husband Jerry's sexcapades at the Organic Farming Conference. Sveltie spoke slowly and carefully trying not to get mad.

"How ... could you not even know her last name? Don't you guys wear name tags?"

"I was drunk, I'm sorry." He replied. "What did you and Gomer end up doing that night?"

Sveltie was silent. Maybe these rules they had established to define their extramarital cavortings needed to be revisted. As wild a time as she had with Gomer, she felt anger at her husband and guilt regarding her own actions.

She sat silently as her husband clutched a glass of her Pinot Grigio, the fourth he had consumed that night. He sat silently as well, with tears streaming down his face. He contemplated his situation as he looked down at the glass of wine and the half smoked joint in the ashtray. He knew a little bit more of both would take away the pain, at least until he woke up.

He remembered the days when he, Gomer and Sveltie would party, see the Grateful Dead and rave all night long. He missed those times.

He wanted his friend back - not the guy who he found in their bathroom with a needle sticking out of his arm, and certainly not the guy who stands in the corner smiling and laughing with his clean buddies, like he doesn't have a care in the world.

How could Gomer do what he does and not be high? He looks high when he is on stage. He gets that crazed look that he used to get when they would party. That is the guy Jerry wanted to hang out with, but the second he comes off the stage, he is the new guy, they guy who looks familiar, but the guy he doesn't really know. He is like a pod that has had Gomer's soul sucked out, a pod that Jerry was really beginning to resent.

He wanted what Gomer has, especially now that it seemed his estranged best friend may also have his wife.

Gomer sat in his office at the First Step Is A Doozy Jump School, located at the Muskrat Flats Municipal Airport. He looked out the window, the brilliant turquoise he had so admired earlier in the day had devolved into darkness. As far as he could see, the runway was dotted with equally stunning blue lights. On the desk next to him was the tattered diary, written in blood, left by Sheriff Hawthorne.

The bloody cursive reminded Gomer of a story his father had told him of a General Inquisitor for the Spaniards named Tomas de Torquemada, a brutal and hated man, who signed the fate of many unrepentant Spanish Jews and Muslims in their own blood. Gomer thought to himself, as tawdry and fantastic as this artifact - this hostorical document is, it sure is making the rounds.

Gomer peered at his computer and re-read the passage he had been working on for the Shiva Las Vegas script.

"Cut to a parking lot scene at a Phish show. A tour kid name Poppa K is rolling along with his dog "Ground Score" who is tethered with a hemp leash.

Poppa K hears a particularly good guitar lick come through the air and begins to groove wildly to the music. He is roused from his psychedelic bliss as a Hockey referee wearing a black and white striped shirt, with a orange arm band, black pants and a helmet, comes out of nowhere. He blows his whistle, with his opposite hand he chops his hand on his knee and follows through. He shouts at Poppa K,

"Two minutes for Tripping."

The next scene Poppa K is a hockey penalty box enclosed by 6 foot panels of safety glass. He is distraught and freaking out as Ground Score sits outside the box, incessantly barking.

Gomer chuckles to himself and says of himself,

"What a weirdo!"

His phone rang - It was Miranda, they had a date. Gomer had been telling her about the Sheriff's adventures with the vampires Astrid and Countess Isabella. They chatted for a few minutes. Gomer didn't bring up the subject of Sveltie. Miranda finally said,

"So are you going to read to me or what?"

"Okay, hold on." He put down his phone and tapped his blue tooth.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yep, go ahead," She said. Gomer peered down at the rust colored cursive and began.

*****************************

I sat in my office. Looking out the window. The moonlight was shimmering through the trees of the mighty maple I had been swinging from just a few short years ago. Astrid was wearing a long white skirt, a blue silk bandanna strategically placed around her long neck from which hung was the oddly complex glass pendant Isabella had been wearing the night before.

I had tapered my alcohol consumption during the day as I needed to be relatively sober for this meeting. After all, I was the Sheriff. Astrid was peering at me seductively. Celeste was sitting to my left. I was still reeling from the debauchery from the night before. running my hand along Celeste's back and neck. She giggled as my fingers grazed some bite marks on her shoulders.

She was still delirious from the affect of the falling diamonds of light Isabella had conjured up. Celeste was slightly drunk from the having already had a few more than generous "clients" earlier, at the hotel bar.

I have to admit, I have never experienced such an exciting feeling of peace and solace as I did the previous night. I would think that the undead would be void of such feelings, if any feelings at all. But it appears that they feel just the same as their mortal counterparts.

Astrid was looking at Celeste seductively as she removed her vest, revealing that the dress she wore was backless, a daring fashion I had never seen.

We sat there waiting. As Celeste cooed over Astrid's attire, she sounded annoyingly like a school girl as she fawned and fussed, feeling the fabric and running her hands along Astrid's exposed flesh.

My heart leaped with anticipation as the door swung open and Isabella entered the room. I was beginning to wonder where these ladies found their clothes? The were so unlike the fashions to which we were accustomed in Muskrat Flats.

Isabella was wearing skin tight boots which covered much of her calf. Into these were tucked black form fitting pants, made of a material foreign to me, She wore a white silk blouse which was almost transparent. She wore a long black hooded cloak, within which her eyes glowed like those of a cat.

Her tight pants clearly outlined her sexy curves and valleys causing me to lust for a repeat of last night's events. How smooth her leg felt against my face. How excited it was to feel those fingernails, those menacing spikes, dig into my bald head so delicately, beckoning me and easing me closer to the oasis I so desired. Those nails eased me forward as if to indicate that any form of retreat would cause a painful and bloody episode.

I looked up into her eyes. They were made up with dark eyeliner, accenting her already exotic Oriental features..."

"Oriental?" Miranda asked incredulously.

"Hey this was written in the 19th century, don't forget."

"Yeah it just sounds weird."

Gomer got back to the text.

"I kept my eye contact with Isabella. I could hear Astrid and Celeste in the background. Occasionally Celeste would grunt when she was bitten only to sigh shortly afterward."

As I began to taste Isabella's nectar, my hands roamed feeling her flawless flesh. The diamonds began to fly out of hear head like a halo as she experienced the pleasure I was providing. One hand remained on my head as her other hand began to graze my chest. I felt one of her nails tickle around my nipple. I knew what was coming next. I knew the sacrifice I had to make to be so honored to be with this most alluring temptress. I saw white as I experienced the most intense pain I have ever felt including the time I was stabbed in the shoulder by a jealous husband. Isabella beckoned me up so she could taste the blood which was flowing from my chest.

As she suckled, my pain turned to ecstasy as those floating diamonds fell on me like raindrops and penetrated my flesh. I could live forever and not find the appropriate words to describe how I felt.

Before I knew it she was in my head again. Staring right at me smiling silently.

"Thinking about last night, Coleman?"

She shed her cloak and drew the curtains of my office window. Celeste returned to sit next to me as Isabella walked over to Astrid. She placed her hands on Astrid's shoulders and delicately kissed her neck. I marveled at how cruel yet delicate these creatures could be. Again Isabella looked right at me and answered my silent observation.

"Yes, Coleman, we are funny that way. We can be the most gentle and seductive of creatures ..."

As she said this, she began to trace a fingernail along Astrid's back. I noticed her nipples stiffen.
Isabella then increased the pressure carving a deep bloody trail in the white flesh, a trail which would heal as quickly as the flesh had been sliced. She bent down and licked. Celeste poked me to bring my attention to this phenomena, as if I could have missed it. Isabella continued speaking with an almost macho bravado.

"We can also be the most vicious killers. When I feed, unless I want you to know what is happening - to taunt you or to let you squirm before you receive the death you so deserve, it is quick and painless, your soul drifts off and you come around again as someone else."

I looked at Celeste and Astrid. I began to fear for Celeste's life. But then I tried to clear my head of all thoughts since they were being picked out of my skull like ripe apples.

"Do not fear for Celeste, she is with you, I will not harm her."

"Why am I so special?" I asked.

"For starters you are in charge."

"I honestly don't think authority matters to your kind." Isabella answered,

"We have to be careful, we just can't roam the country side killing indiscrimminately."

"Why Do I know about you, you exposed yourself to ME, remember? You seem like you are crafty enough to do what you have to do and make it look like an accident. If you leave a trail of dead bodies around, some one like ME HAS TO DEAL WITH IT!"

"I figured You would understand."

"But I really don't think I do ..."

"Besides, I had to monitor your interest in Astrid, I was very protective of her when she was mortal. That is why Caesar ended up having his "unfortunate" encounter with the Chupacabra.

I began to lose my composure as she walked around my office. She moved over to the Tombstone I had in the corner of my office. She ran her hand against the smooth polished black granite. She glanced over at me and smiled as she recited what she had just read.

"Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III Esq."
"Here Lies A Man That Made Them Laugh" Again I heard her silently.

"Nice tombstone Sherrif, are you going somewhere, again?"

"Jesus Fuck! What the fuck is a chupacabra?"

"It is the mythical creature that attacked and killed Ceasar. They need blood to live just as well as we do. Just ask any of the Mexicans about it, they will tell you."

Hawthorne mimiced them, "Chupacabras eets the chupacabra. Fuck that shit. I want to know why you killed him and left his body to be such a public spectacle. My residents are on the verge of hysteria."

I took a breath and calmed down. I pushed my luck, I knew I was being toyed with.

"I already figured that you killed Caesar. I want to know why. What I really need to know Is what role I play in all of this? Why me?"

Astrid cleared her throat. Isabella looked at her. Then answered.

"Yes you two can go back to the hotel." They left.

Isabella poured me a tall glass of bourbon and handed me one of her cigars. I leaned back in my chair and put my feet on my desk. She sat down and crossed her legs. I noted her dark nipples poking through the gauze seen through material of her blouse. She smiled at me.

"You never stop do you? And you wonder why I exposed myself to you? Do you want to play a little before I tell you my story?" Her sarcasm oozed like honey in November. " I think you deserve a little fun for all of the troubles I have caused you. " She got up and removed her blouse in a storm cloud of shimmering rain drops of light.

"Wow!" Miranda exclaimed.

Gomer stopped reading. He stretched and put the book down.

"So you read this book with Sveltie, huh?" Gomer flushed at the question. He quickly made a decision.

"Yes, yes I did read it with her."

"Hmmm. You will have to tell me the outcome of that story sometime. Uuhhh ... Look hun, it is getting late. I loved your last blog. Call me tomorrow, okay?"

"About, Sveltie ..."

"Gomer, you are a thousand miles away ... right now, I think I understand, look it's complicated."

"I really love you Miranda."

"I know, babe. I love you, too. Look I'm gonna see you in Vegas in five days. I can't wait. Goodnight."

She hung up the phone. Gomer rubbed his eyes. they were tearing up.

"I can't fuck this up." He told himself as he closed Hawthorne's diary.

Across town, Jerry and Sveltie lay in bed. He had stopped at four glasses of wine and began to sober up a little bit. Sveltie lay next to him, snuggling in and deeply inhaling his scent. He kissed her deeply and she reciprocated.

It has been an emotional week in Muskrat Flats as the residents grapple with who they really are, what they need, and what they desire. As was pointed out in the closing of the last installment, many questions have arisen for Gomer, Jerry, Sveltie and now Miranda. Oddly the catalyst for these question comes from a century old book written by the most notorious jokester ever to walk the streets of Muskrat Flats. If Gomer were to tell his father about Hawthorne's diary, Moe might cluck his tongue a few times, exhale dramatically and say,

"Sooo, Sonny Boy ...You what Ken Kesey used to say? "Never Trust a Prankster." That's what he used to say. Remember Sonny, Friendship, Love and Truth, three links in the chain which should never be broken."

Words of wisdom, which will never be heard if the the secret which is wreaking havoc amongst the friends, spouses and lovers caught up in the insanity, is never revealed.

I Can't think of a better time to be ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Thanks to F. Alex Johnson of the Drunk Stuntmen . I know I took some liberties, buddy. But you write such compelling lyrics. Click down there to read Alex's even more compelling blog -

Fearless By Default

"Shall we go, you and I while we can? Through a transcending nightfall of diamonds?"

2009-01-21T15:32:00.010-05:00

It was a brisk morning in Muskrat Flats. Coley Blackstone was walking his dog Chubby. The wire haired terrier began to get excitable as they traveled closer to the pedestrian crossing near the Odd Fellows Hall. Coley became slightly distracted as he and Chubby crossed the street. He was fiddling with the Stocks application on his iPhone when Chubby broke away and galloped toward the entry door to the basement banquet facility. Sid Bartleby was there holding the door with one arm and a box of condiments he had just purchased at the Costco in Dana in the other.

"Comon, Chubby, comon boy!" Hearing this caused Coley to look up. He smiled and waved at Sid as he headed for the same door himself.

As he entered the hall, his senses were bathed with warm and inviting stimuli. The colors of the wains cotting, the paintings and photographs soothed his eyes.

Across the room he heard laughter as five of the older members were ball busting with Paul and Donnie, who were caught up in some sort of rehashing of one of their youthful exploits. The older members hung on, living vicariously through their hilarious accounting of getting their car caught in a plywood covered ditch.

Coley felt the warmth. He felt the warmth of the room, he felt the warmth of the people as some waved to him and others shouted out his name. He felt. Something he hadn't done for a very long time ... just feel. Something he had not done at all, for a very long time. The only time he felt anything was when he picked up a drink or drug. Even when he stopped drinking and drugging and welcomed Chubby into his life, he still rarely felt anything except for his affection for his black terrier.

Through an unexpected act of God or nature, whichever you choose to call it, his clandestine dysfunctional lifestyle of being a "homeless" millionaire was exposed. He saw this as the opportunity to get the psychiatric help he needed, and it was working.

He looked over at Sid who was standing over Chubby tempting him with a nice ripe banana.

"Who's the good boy?" He cooed. "Who's the good little boy? Is Chubby a good boy?"

Chubby sat at attention looking up at Sid,

"ruff ... mmph, ruff." He grunted, followed by a little wheeze as the terrier inhaled expectantly. Chubby got really excited when Coley came up and said,

"What's Sid got, Chubby?"

Chubby really perked up now that his master had gotten involved in the begging stalemate. Sid dropped the banana and Chubby caught it, in mid air, taking his prize under the table where Moe Eckstein was sitting chatting on a cell phone.

"Those blueberry muffins smell as enticing as ever, Sid."

"Thanks Coley, Iva just took a batch out of the oven a few minutes ago. Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the next meeting of the board of directors for the Blackstone Foundation, it would be great if you ...." Coley listened to Sid intently.

Moe was listening to the cell phone as Chubby slobbered his banana noisily under the table.

"Sonny Boy, what are you telling me?" He lowered the volume of his voice to a hush.

"Ex-girlfriend or not, she's married ... to your best friend, comon Sonny, you know better than that. What about Miranda, did you think about her. Wait ... I don't want to know. You were probably fantasizing about her while it was happening."

"Well, actually I was thinking about trying to get the two of them together ..."

"Sonny!" Moe Shouted. Others in the room looked in his direction.

"Dad, calm down it was a joke."

"Eh, some joke, you are going to get hurt, you are going to hurt someone. That girl, that vision of loveliness, Miranda, she's the best thing that has happened to you. Am I right, or what?"

"Dad, I wasn't thinking with the right head."

"Damn right you weren't." Moe chided.

"You should have seen the texts that Jerry had sent her, they seem to have an open relationship." Gomer tried to reason.

"Why are you arguing with me? You know you are wrong. That is why you called me ... huh? Well, am I right or WHAT?"

"Yeah, you're right. you're RIGHT! Jesus Christ!"

"He was a Jew, you know, before he went all crazy and shit."

What?!! Daaad!"

"Comon Sonny Boy. Jenny is a lovely girl. What she and Jerry have between them as far as rules or whatever, that is their shit. You need to think about your own shit. Think about your recovery. Be faithful to Miranda, she's the one, I can feel it, and you KNOW it. I'm not going to tell you what to do, I know Jerry is out of town for a few more days. Just don't get hurt and don't do anything crazy, like smoke that joint in your ashtray."

"I actually got rid of that, I am beyond that, besides I don't want to get arrested for something really stupid, the stuff I get arrested for now, is stupid enough." Gomer became defensive again when his Father started in with,

"Sooooooooooo ..." Gomer took in a deep breath, preparing for more of the same.

"Speaking of Rabbis, Sonny Boy, "Shiva Las Vegas?" - I mean - really! Oy!"

Across town Jenny Smith sat looking through the Sheriff's leather bound writing tablet. The odd, rust colored cursive was no longer shocking to her. The thought that this was written in blood, whose blood, though? His, the vampire's? She found her hand wandering as she tickled her own sides with her long fingernails. Her flesh responded as goose pimples began to erupt where her nails had lightly teased.

She looked at her phone. It had been about 45 minutes since she texted Jerry. Still no response.

"Prick." She thought.

One hundred miles away, his companion from the night before was quietly getting dressed, hoping to sneak out of the room before yet another uncomfortable "morning after" conversation had to take place. She was slipping on her shoe as his phone chimed again. She stopped. Waiting, hoping he wouldn't wake.

He lay there, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes.

"For a guy who didn't smoke, he sure plowed through a good portion of my pack," she thought.

She looked in the mirror, adjusted her hair and the lapels of her business suit, then she looked down at his phone.

"Wake up, Loverboy! Love, Da Wife!" The display read.

"Fucking married, men ... why do I keep doing this?" She asked herself, as she slipped out the door of his room.

Gomer's phone chimed.

"I need to see you again, tonight. Don't feel bad about what happened, it was wonderful."

Gomer sat in a Hot air balloon gondola, in the hangar of his business, The First Step is a Doozy Skydiving School. It was a business that was running itself as his music career began to take off. Why bother closing it? The only condition set by his manager was that he do at least 6 jumps a year. A quota he handily met, last season. Gomer sat in the gondola, re-reading the message. He responded.

"I'd love to see you again. What time?"

Gomer sighed as Sveltie hugged him tightly. He kissed her as her tongue poke playfully into his mouth.

They entered Sheriff Hawthorne's secret room. She sat in the leather chair. Gomer sat in one of the wooden chairs. It looked like she had spent some time in Sheriff Hawthorne's unseen lair, that day. The room was meticulously clean. The cobwebs had been removed, the floor dusted and swept. She left the glasses and the bottle of Absinthe untouched. Unbeknownst to Gomer, she even did a thorough check for more hidden compartments which would yield another one of Hawthorne's treasures under loose floorboards, perhaps, or behind a wall panel.

She leaned back in the chair, lifting her skirt, exposing her thighs. Little wisps of white cotton peeked through the shadows underneath the skirt. Gomer focused his attention on the prize he did not get last night when he only enjoyed her hands and mouth. She leaned back seductively running her hands up an down her legs.

"Read to me." She said as he accepted the book from her. He turned up the oil lamp a little to get more light.

"I can't believe he wrote this in blood." Gomer handled the book carefully as he admired Hawthorne's written words. He cleared his throat and began.

"Still uncomfortable from fantastic events I had witnessed the night before between Astrid and Isabella. I was enjoying some much needed bourbon, in the bar, when my Deputy Sheriff, Waldo Robertson came in and whispered in my ear.

"You gotta see this Sheriff. "

My heart began to pump as Waldo, the only guy I ever met who could out drink me, led me in the direction of the carnival worker's camp which was located in the Flats near the Silver mines. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon. As I approached, I thought nothing would shock me after what I witnessed last night.

What I encountered defied explanation. A circumstance which was happening with increased frequency, these days.

Behind a road wearied coach, I saw a crowd in a large circle. In the middle of the circle was the corpse of a man sprawled out with a large snake, a brownish and beige reptile with dark brown markings - a constrictor, coiled on top of his body.

In the circle was a dwarf, dangling a live muskrat by his tail trying to entice the snake.

"Come, Salazar, I've got a nice rat for your dinner."

The snake followed the dwarf and the rat with his dark serpentine eyes, seeming to not want to move from his perch on top of the dead man.

I asked on of the carnival folk who the man was?

"That's Caesar. He wrestles the Snake. The snake won't let us near him."

The dwarf continued to circle the snake while another of the freaks, one who had reptilian features himself, slowly approach from the opposite direction.

The muskrat hissed and thrashed as the dwarf continued to dangle him in his gloved hand. I feared that the snake would bypass the muskrat and strike at the dwarf, instead. With one graceful move, as the snake coiled and attacked, the dwarf dropped the terrified muskrat and leaped backward.

Salazar the constrictor wrapped himself around the screaming muskrat, snuffing the life out of him quickly. The reptile man quickly tossed a burlap sack over the snake and scooped him up. The crowd moved in to get a closer look at Caesar.

I announced my self as the sheriff and beckoned everyone back. Caesar had a lean muscular build, many tattoos and was missing his front teeth. I turned him over exposing his front. He had a large gash in his abdomen exposing his bowels. Oddly, for such a grisly crime, there was no blood. It was then that I noticed fang marks in his neck. I pulled my knife out, some of the crowd gasped as I sliced his wrist. His body was bone dry, as dry as the silt on which he lay. There was not a drop of blood in sight.

There was a group of six Mexicans who came in close and the started chattering to each other wildly. Crossing themselves, as if God could help them at this point.

"Eets the chupacabra." When he said this word there was more chattering and nodding of heads and sombreros.

Si, Senor, el chupacabra" Then they all began to repeat this nonsensical word.

The crowd began to creep in closer to assess the situation for themselves.

I lost my patience shouting,

"What the fuck is a kookaburra?"

"No senor, Chupacabra. Eet ees a monster, they leeve in the mountains, y suck up you blood. They get the goats and cow. Eets a chupacabra. The vampire. They suck the blood. " Again the crowd of Mexicans was chattering this maddening word. The dwarf and the reptile man continued to tend to the snake, who actually appeared to be protecting the body of his master.

I leaned down and turned Caesar's head, which turned with alarming ease, as his neck had obviously been snapped. I looked at the bite marks on his neck, once more. I reached into my pocket, checked my watch, and took a pull of the bourbon I had in my metal flask. Caesar's girlfriend showed up and began to wail.

I spoke to the manager of the carnival and told him I would like to talk to anyone who may have seen or heard anything. I would be at the Hotel Saloon.

Just then, under a light silky cloak and umbrella, protecting her from the sun was Isabella. She made piercing eye contact with me. The crowd crept back allowing her to pass as Isabella worked her way toward Caesar's corpse. Astrid was following closely. I couldn't linger too long, looking at her embarrassed as I was, having missed our date, that afternoon. She was so beautiful, as was Isabella.

I couldn't help but notice as Isabella bent down to take a closer look at Caesar's neck, the blue and turquoise pendant she wore around her neck on a long chain was nestled seductively in the valley between her enticing breasts. She must have been penetrating my thoughts as her hand reached for the chain and slid down to the pendant. She lightly grazed the firm flesh of her breast with those razor sharp weapons she called fingernails. leaving a visible scratch which disappeared instantly.

"Even under such disturbing circumstances, you just can't help yourself, can you, Sheriff?" It was the most unsettling feeling. I heard her as clearly as if she were speaking to me, but no words were uttered by her mouth.

"Senorita, Isabella, eet ess el Chupacabra. My brother Juan, fought one in
Guadalupe last year."

"It could be the chupacabra, Jorge. Can you boys, take care of Caesar, clean him up? That is if it is okay with the Sheriff?"

I was dumbstruck. All I could say was, yes, go ahead.

"Si, senorita!"

I began to walk away, as I heard her voice bathing my mind like the most potent aphrodisiac.

"Astrid and I will meet you in our room. Perhaps we can explain what has happened here and how we can make this situation go away. Don't get too drunk, you will miss all of the fun. After all, we have a surprise for you."

Gomer brought his fingers up to his eyes rubbing them. He put his glasses back on. Looking at Sveltie who was looking very aroused and even more comfortable as she had shed her panties and was giving Gomer flashes of what he desired so much.

"Keep reading, your voice is so sexy." He couldn't keep his mind off of her. He had to have her, but continued to read.

"About an hour later, I was about to knock on the door to Room 10 in the Hotel. Astrid answered the door, nude. My heart leaped again as I walked in. On the bed splayed out in the same sheer outfit she had worn the night before, was Isabella. Between her legs was was a familiar blonde head. Circling that familiar head was a multi-colored swarm of light, as bright as the sun, which illuminated the room. One by one the lights began to penetrate the skin of the blonde on the bed.

Celeste, my favorite girl, turned to me and said,

"Coley, you have to try this, I've never felt so good." As she said this, she began to shudder. One by one the galaxy of stars penetrated her soft, white flesh. She was writhing shamelessly as Isabella pierced Celeste's hand which was massaging her golden breast, with a fingernail. I heard Celeste whimper at the She drew Celeste's hand to her mouth running her tongue along the trickle of blood. Isabella continued to stare at me seductively as Astrid began to remove my clothes."

"Man what a Freak!" Gomer said as he got on his own knees, looking up at Sveltie. She ran her fingers through his hair, smiled and asked,

"Are You going to make me see a galaxy of stars?"

Throwing caution to the wind, once again Gomer and Sveltie succumbed to desires which had been building for some time. It was just that each had refused to acknowledge what was happening to them, to each other. Perhaps it was a phase for both of them, perhaps they could just "stop" and resume their lives.

These are questions, the hard questions they have to ask themselves. Where is this going to lead? Is it just fun and games? These questions will just have to remain unanswered until that one clear headed morning arrives. The morning which will probably lead to one or both of them ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Hey, did you hear the one about the guy who got picked up by a Playboy model and woke up missing a kidney, in a bathtub full of ice?

2009-01-20T22:38:00.005-05:00

It was a lovely holiday season in Muskrat Flats, with business as usual at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets. Inside the old wood framed structure of the Odd Fellows Hall there was a lull in the action between Christmas and New Years.

Jeff Nelson had his work cut out for him on Christmas Eve as the Odd Fellows, once again, gave back to the community by hosting their annual Toy Give away. He and his lovely daughter were dressed as elves while Santa Claus occupied his opulent and gilded throne. Sitting on a little ottoman next to Santa was his special little helper, Chubby, the little black terrier. Chubby had his well chewed plastic banana nestled in his paws as he sat there … just sitting there in his little red veloure coat lined with white trim and a little matching hat which jingled every time he looked up at his master.

A blond boy about 10 years old sat on Santa’s lap, his mother and father looking on. His mom was smiling. His father had a forced smile trying to mask his somber mood. After all, he lost a good job two weeks ago when the Dana Textile Mill, where he was a foreman, suspiciously burned to the ground. The company was flourishing and would rebuild. But, for now, he was taking home about 60% of his salary. In the interim, that left him to make decisions we all make when our bills exceed what we earn, such as buying Christmas gifts for your children or buying food.

He broke into a broad smile as Santa asked his little boy if he would do him a favor.Santa reached into his bag and pulled up a yellowish brown speckled banana and handed it to the child.

Go, ahead, give it to him. He doesn’t bite.”

The boy looked at his beaming father, who nodded his approval. Chubby smelled the treat and perked up. He was excitedly running in little circles on the ottoman with his closely cropped tail cutting through the air at supersonic speed. He even barked a few times. The child handed the banana to Chubby.

Coley Blackstone, in a remarkable Santa Claus voice, let out a hearty “HO, HO, HO!”

The little boy giggled as Chubby began to peel the banana and feast on the perfectly ripened fruit.

There are such idyllic and romantic times to be had at the Odd Fellows Hall in Muskrat Flats proper during the winter Holiday season. The Farm Museum is aglow for its nightly sleigh rides with white lights, lit torches, luminaria and of course the bon fire. Kurt Bartleby adds to the warmth as glowing orange sparks can be seen flying as he hammers away at the forge.

Downtown, as the afternoon sun disappears behind the trees along Petersen Street, all of the little shops are lit up. There is Sid and Iva’s Mercantile. Muskrat Flats Glassworks, where the flame workers can be seen through a large plate glass window spinning their glowing glass orbs on thin rods putting their hands dangerously close to the flame as they concentrate on keeping the centrifugal force and the rotation going - keeping their molten globs of super cooled liquid on axis.

Next door is Cassidy’s Art Supplies, and Mother Maybell’s Acoustic Instrument Emporium. The Artists’ at Link’s Tattoo shop are lounging and looking at flash, some are sketching as customers are mainly coming in to get gift certificates or to talk to Link, who always seemed to be missing. It is like a Norman Rockwell painting, of course if Rockwell did happen to use a tattoo studio as his subject for a Saturday Evening Post cover.

Perhaps it is this way in your hometown?

This holiday season, Muskrat Flats looks a little more like the fairy tale in which we would all like to live at least it does on the surface. Behind the scenes, for the few people in the know, there is a new chapter to be written in the history of Muskrat Flats. And once again, the person behind this most likely charade is the notorious founder of Muskrat Flats, the prankster, the Oddest of Fellows - Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne the III.

Jenny Smith was leaving her office, in the Railroad Station, at the Farm museum and heading out across the snow covered green toward the old Hotel. The hotel now functioned as a educational center where visiting schools groups would meet before exploring the museum. Tucked inside her bag was Sheriff Hawthorne’s leather bound writing tablet. She heard a chime from her bag. She reached in a looked at her phone. There was a message from her husband Jerry, who was attending an Organic Farming conference about 100 miles away in Chesterfield. The message read …

“What do you think of her?”

Jenny rolled her eyes, a bit, and opened the file.

She gazed down at a picture of a smiling brunette, smartly dressed in business attire, with short hair, and small breasts holding up a Cosmopolitan in an oversized Martini glass.

“Cute … are they using organic grapefruit juice in those Cosmos?” She responded.

She kept walking. Her phone chimed again.

“LOL … I think her name is Isabella”

Sveltie chuckled. And replied,

“I thought we had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it came to situations like these?”

As she approached the hotel she made out the form of a shadowy figure lurking on the porch.

Her phone chimed once more.

“Sorry, I’m drunk 8-)” She stopped walking and replied.

While she was typing he chimed in again.

“She seems like your type. 8-)”

“No kidding, watch those cosmos, and b careful. I don’t need u waking up in a bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney, or ravaged by a vampire. She’s cute, just be careful. I’m going to meet Gomer ttyl.”

He replied immediately.

“Gomer, huh?”

“Jealous?”

“Well, not really.”

“Enjoy your company … Bye love, call me in the morning. And don’t forget to tell her you’re married”

Sveltie began walking again. Someone is going to have some fun tonight, she thought, maybe Jerry will, too…

Gomer was standing on the porch of the Hotel. He was dressed in all black, His pony tail was braided and his facial hair had changed. His goatee was longer and thinner than Sveltie had remembered it. His hazel colored eyes were peering at her over his half moon readers. She said hi and hugged him closely. He felt her warmth momentarily chase away the nippy winter’s evening breeze. She unlocked the door to the hotel and they escaped the cold.

Gomer watched as Sveltie took off her coat. Even bundled up it was obvious her body was probably just as he had remembered it, when they used to play, so many years ago.

There was no real reason why they broke up, they just began to drift apart. They both left Muskrat Flats to attend college. She, in California at UC Davis, And him, in Massachusetts at Amherst College where he gained instant notoriety from both his musicianship, with his band Summa Cum Loudly. It didn’t hurt Gomer’s reputation as news quickly spread throughout the campus that he was Moe Eckstein’s son.

Sveltie turned on the lights. In her hand, she held a key.

“This is interesting, a secret room you say?” Gomer asked.

I figure it has to be either behind room number 8 or 10. It sounded like they had no windows in their room. Gomer shook off his cloak. Sveltie eyeballed him, she never realized that whole Goth look Gomer had kind of gave him Vampire-like characteristics, this caused a little excitement for her.

They went upstairs, it was dimly lit. Gomer and Sveltie strolled down the hall to where rooms 8 and 10 were located. Sveltie opened the rooms and they began to poke around. She began to make small talk.

“How are things going with you, the band?”

“The band has a break for about a month. Morbid Morty suggested we not take any gigs while the case with the Rabbi is still pending. Speaking of Rabbis, I’m going to Vegas next week, I wrote a pilot they are considering shooting for Showtime.”

“Are you Serious? That’s Great!” Sveltie said. Gomer smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m pretty psyched. I mean it’s just a pilot, I hope it gets the nod to go ahead. I’m being considered for the lead character as well.” Sveltie was beaming.

“You’re serious aren’t you? I thought this was one of your jokes.” Gomer looked at her over his glasses and said,

“When you hear the premise you will think it’s one of my jokes but this is for real. … It’s about a Las Vegas Rabbi who is a funeral director. The show is going to be called … “Shiva Las Vegas.” Sveltie’s smiling face dissolved into one that displayed utmost skepticism.

“Gomer …..” she admonished.

“For real, no joke.” Realizing that he was telling the truth She finally allowed herself to laugh even though Sheriff Hawthorne’s Diary was burning a hole in her sack and she was consumed with the desire to continue reading it.

Ok, over here, the grate above the mantel piece … that must mean …” Gomer rushed out into the hall way. He went to the end of where the room would be. Running his hand along the wood behind a large oak trimmed full length mirror attached to the wall. He pulled and it swung outward revealing a door. Sveltie gasped and smiled. She placed the key in the lock and turned.

The door swung inward. Sveltie looked into the darkness with trepidation. Gomer decided it would be a good time to poke her in the ribs. She screamed and pulled away, then socked him in the arm as hard as she could.

“Ow! I guess I deserved that.”

Gomer produced a mini mag light and illuminated the room. It was dusty, and cobwebbed. Looking around he noted it was built for comfort. Along one wall was a painting of a Paris street scene, Montmatre with the unmistakable outline of the Basilica of the Sacre Couer. Next to the painting was a coat rack on which hung a holstered, loaded, six-shooter. Across from this was a small banquette table with two wooden chairs and a high backed leather upholstered easy chair.

On the table was a brass oil lamp, a couple of dusty tumblers on which sat a flat, ornately decorated perforated spoon, and a bottle which contained a greenish liquid. The label on the bottle depicted a leering Red Devil, pouring greenish liquid into a glass which he was stirring with his sharply pointed tail. Next to these items was a wooden box, which Sveltie opened. It looked like it contained crudely made lumps of brownish sugar. It was odd that all of these items had survived so many years. They were very obviously exactly where Sheriff Hawthorne has left them.

Gomer picked up the bottle. There was no writing, just the picture.

“If I had to guess, I would say this is Absinthe.” Sveltie looked around the room.

“How is it that we have never found this room before? The Sheriff was good at keeping his secrets when he was alive, wasn’t he.”

Gomer looked around the room, again. It was so eerie. He felt vibes in the room he could not explain. Sveltie felt the wick of the oil lamp and decided to light it. A warm glow permeated the room casting odd shadows into the corners. The flame leapt as the wick resumed the task it had not performed in decades causing more shadows to dance along the ceiling.

“I feel like he is here, Sveltie. I can’t really describe how I feel right now.” His heart was pumping. He looked at Jenny who had removed another layer of her clothing. She was dressed in a fuzzy purple wool sweater, probably made from alapaca. She had on a long black cotton skirt with black boots which cover her calves just below the knee. She pulled the diary out of her bag and handed it to Gomer.

“If he is here I want him to see what happens.” She said with a look in her eye that Gomer had not seen in years.

“Read.” She simply said. She dusted off a space on his chair and she dusted off the leather chair. She sat there watching him as he read for about 10 minutes, occasionally looking up at her. As she sat there eyeballing him she was rhythmically swaying her leg to and fro, watching Gomer squirm as his erection began to shift uncomfortably in his trousers as he read about Hawthorne spying on the two Vampires as they engaged in their erotic, blood soaked ritual. He was trying to discreetly reposition himself with no luck as Sveltie dropped to her knees and moved forward. Gomer watched her intently as a rush hit him. He began to shiver with anticipation. He managed to ask,

“What about Jerry?” Sveltie handed him her phone which was already cued up to her message inbox. He read through the messages as he felt his belt and pants being undone. He felt the warmth of her breath as she inhaled his aroma and flicked at him with her tongue.

Gomer chuckled, not only at his good fortune, but at what he just read on her phone.

“Missing a kidney in a bathtub full of ice, huh?”

“One of his kidneys is probably already on a plane to Hong Kong,” She said, as she slowly lowered her head causing Gomer to let out a sigh of ecstasy … sure that somewhere in that room, the eager eyes of Sheriff Hawthorne were riveted on the actions of his current guests.

As Idyllic a place as it is often purported to be, sometimes things get a little freaky down on the Farm. At least they do if you happen to be playing on the tracks in Sheriff Hawthorne’s private viewing room outside of room number 10 at the old Muskrat Flats Hotel. A trip to Las Vegas might be just what the doctor ordered for Gomer. It might be the very reason he needs to be …

Running Hard Out Of Muskrat Flats.

To be continued.

"If I needed someone to love, your'e the one I'd be thinking of ... If I needed someone."

2009-01-12T09:07:00.010-05:00

There have been weird times in Muskrat Flats for the last couple of weeks. . Some times are too weird to document, others were just weird enough that you can't look nor can they be ignored. Regardless, I will try to document the ones which are too weird.

The folks at the old wood and brick structure at the corner of McKernan and Petersen Street are entrenched in their daily routine. The meals on wheels are going out like clockwork under the watchful eye of Sid Bartleby and Moe Eckstein. Their right hand men Paul and Donnie have risen from the ranks of dishwashers and have become and integral part of the food production and distribution. Their first task, other than train the new kids Harry and Marley regarding the mechanical ins and outs of running the dishwasher, was to train them in the proper scaling and measuring of the ingredients for the blueberry muffins. Those famous blueberry muffins which Sid Bartleby's Great Grandmother Edna began selling at her Mercantile back in 1879, when Muskrat Flats was still a baby, but had already developed its unique and inviting character.

Thank you for all of the kind comments on the pornography I posted last time around. As one reader pointed out,

"Man, Sheriff Hawthorne was kind of a freak, huh?" He sure was, Corey Check.

As this is being written, more on Sheriff Hawthorne's interaction with the vampires Astrid and Isabella is in the works, and you will read it soon.

And Thank You for not throwing Holy Water on me. That shit burns.

If I needed someone ...

If you have read any of my diatribes in the past there are a few points of interest in my life which you probably already know.

I am a 44 year old divorced Father of an 11 year old girl.

I am an addict recovering from the disease of addiction. My drug of choice was anything you would put in front of me, for more than half of my life.

It was crack cocaine and heroin which brought me to my knees and unceremoniously dumped me out of the back seat of a beat up, rusted Chevy Camaro. The old clunker, which was only running on seven cylinders, didn't even slow down as a size 7 Timberland boot catapulted me out the door. I hit the pavement on the road to recovery, bruised,bleeding, tired, hurt and confused. I brushed off my coat, pulled the pebbles and broken glass out of the skinned flesh on my knees and palms and did the only thing I could do ... began walking.

There have been numerous times where I stumbled and fell back down, but I always was fortunate enough to get back up and continue walking. I am still walking that path today.

Yesterday, marked the 6 month anniversary of my clean date. Half a cake. as some folks call it.

I have a problem with women. It is not so much that they have cooties ...

But seriously, every relationship I have been involved in, since I have been separated and eventually divorced from my wife has been disastrous. In active addiction I had two women popping in and out of my life, both were addicts, both were smart, funny, beautiful and very sexy.

Both were relationships I knew were doomed from the start. I am lucky, as are they, that Death wasn't the ultimate price to be paid for that high. All three of us have experienced two of the three guarantees of living a life of active addiction ... jails and institutions.

Detox is what it is, but jail - I was in a lock up for 8 hours. Trust me, that is enough for this addict, kids. Never again.

I have came to accept that I can never choose to associate with these two ever again. Even if we have years of recovery each, it would be a volatile situation for us to be alone together. Each time I slipped and fell, walking that road to recovery, one of these lovely ladies was involved.

So, when I got serious about wanting to live a life free from active addiction, I made a decision to listen to that little voice in my head, the one that always was the voice of reason, compassion and righteousness. That voice, along with that of a very dear friend, both told me that I'm better off single.

"Just work on yourself, when the time is right you will know it." He said.

In the last four months, I guess I have turned into some kind of super stud, because the ladies have been coming out of the woodwork and pursuing me. WTF? Where did that come from?

I mean, the attention is great! I have never been in a position where I was aware that I was the object of someone's desire. I did the little dance and flirted with a few, but the results left me with the same feeling that I am better off on my own.

One, I really liked, but she is an Alcoholic who by her own admission, has been getting "worse lately."

Another seemed pretty normal, and I may have hurt her. That is what happens when you start out a relationship omitting a key piece of information like the "boyfriend" you are still living with is actually your fiancee that you can't seem to dump until you find someone else. I told her she used people like I used to use drugs.

I know, kind of harsh, but that is a whole heaping bag full of insanity to bring to a new relationship, especially if you seriously think that you want to make it one which is going to last.

Right now, there is another woman I have met who possesses traits which are endearing to me. I am very attracted to her. I think there is a mutual affection. Let's put it this way, she actually gives me the time of day.

She has a real job, with responsibility. She is a writer, she has a child, she is a vegetarian, which means she actually cares what she puts into her body. She is almost as tall as I am. Wow! I asked her if she minded that I call her, and suggested we meet for coffee. She agreed that would be nice. Then she dropped the bomb. She only had a few days clean.

I just realized I am getting a headache.

She told me she was going to a particular meeting that night. I actually considered going to this meeting and told a friend of mine this.

"Dude, maybe you should go to another meeting and think about your recovery other than who is going to be at the meeting." Hmmmm... okay. He's right.

His roommate, a female in recovery as well over heard not only what we were talking about but about whom. She got on the phone and said.

"Listen, she is crazy, She says she wants recovery, will go to a meeting and then go out and cop afterward. You need to not be a predator, and leave her alone. I love you, Paul." Then she got off of the phone.

I was aghast. My friend got on the phone and said,

"Did she say "predator?" Yes she did. Needless to say my feelings were very hurt, and I had a good cry.

Although I don't necessarily agree with the term predator, and she recanted that term and better explained her point of view in a follow up conversation, there was truth to what she said.

"I would tell her the same exact thing." She asserted.

Why would I jeopardize my recovery to get involved with someone who is struggling in her own addiction? I really need to take a look at my own motives and and how my character defects are still affecting my decision making process.

I went to another meeting that night,one of my home groups, where I was asked to be the Chairperson. Then I went out after the meeting, for some food, with three other members of my home group, just me and three ladies. I told them all that had transpired earlier in the evening got some good feedback and advice.

This morning, I found out through the grapevine of thinly veiled anonymity,that my friend went out and used that evening. To think I could have been in her company and what my actions may have been? Perhaps being called a "predator" by someone I love and respect saved my life that night. At the very least she put me in a position where I was doing the right thing for the right reason, keeping me out of harm's way.

I am an addict. I have many different things that I am addicted to, whether it be a bag of dope, a rock of cocaine, a tumbler of Jack Daniels, some heady green nuggets, an icy cold balloon full of nitrous oxide, a cornucopia of pills, or a handful of psychedelic doo dads, food or a warm and willing female. I have to have what I want, when I want it, and when I'm done you bet your ass I'm going to want more.

I actually saw someone during a holiday function have a beer and only drink two sips of it. How do people do that?

Everywhere I look, I am reminded that I am an addict.

I went to have my wonderful 16 year old cat, Harrison, euthanized on Thursday evening. My ex-wife and I went together. We took him into the room. As emaciated and ill as he looked he was nosing around the Vet's office as curious as ever, still full of life and energy.

We held him down on the table cuddling him and bidding him farewell. The vet shaved a portion of his leg and out came the needle.

Man, I was fixated on that thing like it was the only object in the room.

She went in.

The anticipation of waiting to see the blood from Harrison's vein rushing back into the barrel of the syringe was unbearable. She missed and had to stick him two more times. Each time my pain and anguish increased, bringing me back to the darkest times in my active addiction where I was dope sick and struggling with a dull, overused needle, probing around ... waiting ... praying to see that rush of blood go into that barrel so I could finish my dirty business and momentarily get back to my so called "life."

I continued to hold my baby, and stroke his bent limp ears, telling him it would all be okay in a few moments. The vet finally hit a vein, the blood rushed in and she injected him.

He got very calm. I continued to look into his eyes and felt his heart beat slow. He stopped breathing. I felt his energy dissipate, leaving his once powerful and majestic body a limp mass on the examination table.

How good that shot must have felt. I bet it would feel great the last time I used, especially if I accidentally stumbled upon the end result I so mercifully delivered to my feline friend.

My ex-wife and I stood there and stroked his limp form for a few minutes, commiserating. I kissed his head, closed his eyes and said my final goodbye as I silently Thanked my higher power for putting me in a position where I did not have to use that day.

Perhaps it was divine intervention the night that I got really high and didn't die even though across town, the very same evening, a friend named Brian did. That should be enough of a reason to not use ever again, but I went out numerous times after that, even after a few more funerals for fellow addicts I knew.

Perhaps it was the same divine intervention that told Tanya to use a word which would slap me in the side of the head, causing me to wake up and refocus my energy on my recovery.

Whatever the cause or reason, once again, I have woken up alive, with a new fire - a new reason to live my life to the fullest.

George Harrison was right on when he said,

"If I needed someone to love, you're the one I'd be thinking of ... If I needed someone."

Perhaps, someday, but not right now. I need to think about that other half a cake.

I am going to help my daughter with her power point project when she gets out of school today. Because I am alive, because I can, because it is the right thing to do, and I can't think of anything else I would rather be doing at 3:30 this afternoon.

Life is short, enjoy it.

Once again, you will find me on the center line of the road to recovery as I am ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

A strange and dark tale as told by Sheriff Hawthorne.

2008-12-29T07:36:00.012-05:00

Anyone who has read any of my posts in the past, knows that I really don't hold back when I am writing. Whether is it my opinion, my ideas and thoughts on recovery issues or these little forays into Muskrat Flats - my little fictitious, Utopian James Thurber and Garrison Keillor meet Hunter Thompson and his Attorney in a Dark Alley, kind of place, I have a tendency to not hold back, just let it out.

One of my readers, contacted me and challenged me to write some Vampire erotica. It sounded interesting, challenging and fun. Vampires are all the rage these days why not. I even let them pick the name of the Vampire.

This is a ribald, graphic, erotic story. If you are offended by lesbians, vampires, kinky married couples, drunk horny opportunistic sheriffs, Odd Fellows, Blueberry muffins, cigars, carnies, displays of supernatural power, S&M, domination, voyeurism, creative erotic descriptions of bizarre bloody vampire sex ... you might not want to read beyond this point.

Okay? Got it? No nasty comments, no restraining orders, no coming to my work and throwing holy water at me. No smiling at me and looking at me like I should be locked up ... you should have made that determination long ago.

If you are reading on Myspace, follow the link to a less discriminating Website ... One that will not shut down your account for questionable pictures such as a mushroom which looks like a butt, even though they constantly have ads featuring videos of trashy little tarts in my hometown who want to "meet" me.

Here is your last Chance. If this type of literature offends you follow this link

Muskie

It has been a busy week in Muskrat Flats. Once again, the kitchen at the Odd Fellows Hall is in full swing. Paul and Donnie, the dishwashers are taking care of all of the loose ends - everything from daily sanitation and upkeep to moving equipment and getting the catering supplies restocked and organized. All of this is happening under the direction of Sid Bartleby and his partner in crime who recently re-assumed his position at the top of the kitchen echelon, after a long hiatus, Moe Eckstein.

There were hundreds of pounds of blueberry muffin batter to be made for the Christmas Festival at the Farm Museum and Archive. That and gallons upon gallons of hot cider pressed from the apples grown in the Farm Museum's orchards, to be mulled and sold to the bundled up masses as they snuggle under blankets for warmth as their horse drawn sleigh rides take them through the panoramic tableaux of 19th century Muskrat Flats. The Farm Museum is decked with wreaths and swags fashioned from all sorts of conifers. These are accented with red and green bows, silver and gold. The sleigh riders will take in the wonder of carefully carved, luminaria displaying glowing snowflakes moving ever so gently in the calm winter wind as they sit on the peaks of freshly shoveled snow, lining the sleigh route.

Over at the Farm Museum’s main building, Jenny Smith, also known as Sveltlana by her husband and friends, was going through the archive room. There, in a back closet filled with file boxes, she found a dusty mess, and could not help but to tend to it, even though she had more important things to do.

There were schedules to be written, pamphlets to be printed and one of her most recent tasks, keeping her new assistant, Gina, focused and busy with all of these tasks, in addition to keeping her in the Gift Shop, when she was not stocking shelves and ringing customers and away from the Blacksmith shop where she would rather watch Kurt Bartleby further tone his muscular arms and torso. Yes, it is winter but he still finds a reason to take his shirt off when he is ensnared in production mode and Gina is around.

Sveltie was clearing out the file boxes and sweeping out the closet in the back of the old Victorian Style Rail Road Station. She finally removed most of the dust with the broom, before she attacked the remaining dust with the shop vac.

She was vacuuming a corner when something startling happened. One of the floor boards was sucked up by the vacuum cleaner exposing a shallow space hidden beneath the floor boards. She then removed the next board and found an ornate box which looked like it had to have been made with mahogany. On the top of the octagonal shaped box were the letters SCH III Esq., in mother of pearl inlay.

Sveltie gasped! A secret box? Sheriff Hawthorne’s? She called Jerry, her husband and director of the Farm Museum and Archive, telling him what she had just found. He came right over. Together they admired the workmanship of the box.

"What do you think Jerry?" She asked.

"I think we should open it, don't you want to?" Yes, she nodded with wide eyed enthusiasm.

He took the box to one of the lighted work tables. He grabbed a pair of cotton gloves and some brushes. He brushed off the outside of the box, revealing the wondrous luster of the finished wood and its rich dark parquet patterned tones.

Jerry carefully removed the documents which had remained untouched for presumably the better part of 120 years.

Ten of the documents were the eviction notices Sheriff Hawthorne had collected from the Silverstein Brothers’ land grab scheme which was foiled when Hawthorne faked his own death and left a trust, which paid off the debts of the downtrodden Flatlanders. Underneath those was some Confederate currency which was in very good shape, and a leather bound writing tablet … its leather tab sealed shut with wax. Jerry's heart began pumping. Sveltana leaned placing her hand on Jerry’s back, gently scratching and tickling him with her fingernails.

"Open it." She demanded. Jerry looked at her and quickly obliged her demand. He grabbed an exact-o knife and carefully sliced through the brittle wax seal. He slowly opened the cover. On the first page in writing Jerry immediately recognized as Hawthorne's meticulous cursive, was the title.

The Strangest Story Ever …

Jerry gazed at the writing and seemed slightly unfocused and taken aback at what he saw. He was creeped out. He began to speak to his wife,

"Sveltie, this looks like it is written in …"

"Blood!" she blurted, completing his thought.

He gazed at the odd rust colored cursive and questioned - Why would Hawthorne do such a thing, such a ghastly act? He was sure it was blood, and how he wished he had been wrong.

Jerry adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat as he prepared to read aloud. Jenny loved his voice it was so deep and sexy. He looked at her and she squinted and smiled.

Underneath the title, Hawthorne had written the word “Disclaimer.” Followed by a short explanation.

Jerry began.

“The conclusion of my days on this earth is near. I have lived a full and rich life have traveled the world. I have had many unique, interesting and soul fulfilling experiences. I have led a hedonistic life, a Bacchanal existence driven by a lip for the drink with the eyes, hands and mouth which craved the exotic. Anything which could satiate these senses was fair game and in demand - especially food, art and literature, and the comforts of a warm feminine form. I am positive I have entered this world too early, as some of my thoughts, desires and experiences far exceed what is considered the norm or even acceptable in any God fearing land.

With that said, I am about to relate a tale told to me by a young woman along with an accounting of what I actually witnessed myself.

I had met this young lass, Astrid, when I was in my 40th year. Thirty nine years later, just last week, the same young woman had come calling. She had not aged a day since she last sat in my office half a lifetime ago. It is she who provided the blood with which I have written this detailed accounting of the tale which launched a most bizarre and supernatural chain of events in Muskrat Flats, a tale which began on that warm August eve almost four decades ago.

This tale is the truth, it is dirty, it is lecherous, it is an affront to anything we hold pure and decent. It is a tale of supreme decadence and a shadow world of which I surely caught just a brief glimpse. This tale it is not intended to be read by anyone during my lifetime. I daresay that if it is read, posthumously, which It probably will be since I did such a half assed job of hiding this box, I may be deemed a heretic and my grave and good name desecrated. I fear for the very existence of Muskrat Flats if this is read, which is I why I pray that whomever finds this tablet and reads is contents, has the best interests of Muskrat Flats in their hearts. As graphic and fantastic as this tale is, I cannot go to my grave without documenting this experience.

Sincerely

Samuel Coleman Hawthorne III

May 29, 1899.

Jerry and Jenny looked at each other, flabbergasted.

Once again Jerry focused on the rust colored cursive adorning the page.

“In August of 1850, The carnival came to Muskrat Flats. Naturally, being the Sheriff of this town it was within my duties to make sure that the proper permits and fees and taxes are levied. As nightfall came I made my way through the carnival, a young woman caught my eye. She had exotic features, long blond hair, almost tomboyish in looks and stature, but very feminine. She was very pretty and I knew I wanted to spend some “quality” time with her.

I struck up a conversation. Her name was Astrid. She was interested in art. I told her about some of the impressionist paintings I had accumulated. She wanted to see them.

While we were talking, she introduced me to Isabella the Infamous, the carnie with whom she worked. Isabella was a fortune teller or Mystic. She had a legendary reputation for being able to see people’s secrets. Isabella went to lounge on a chair near their tent.

She kept looking in our direction as we spoke. She appeared to be about 30 years old, stunningly beautiful with short black hair, and a light caramel colored complexion. Her eyes were dark and calculating with thin precisely manicured brows. She was dressed in casual attire wearing faded denims and a tight pull over shirt which accented her slender but shapely body. As she sat in a chair about twenty feet away from us, she gazed upon us as if she could see right through me. As if I had unwillingly revealed to her the lecherous intentions I had in mind for her assistant. Isabella sat in a wicker lounge adorned with multicolored tapestries, smoking a fine cigar. Her piercing stare was unsettling.

Most of the carnies had set up in their encampment, a ramshackle traveling caravan of worn and tattered coaches and wagons. As trail wearied and weathered as they seemed, they displayed bright and colorful banners advertising the various acts, Freaks and games of chance. From what I gathered, Isabella was the Star of the show and the biggest draw. She continued to gaze upon Astrid and myself as we flirted. She spoke.

“Astrid, it is time! You and the Sheriff can discuss your artistic interests tomorrow during the day while I get my rest.”

Isabella stared straight at me again with that intense, hypnotic eye contact. She was beautiful, but I desired Astrid. I generally don’t submit easily to these whimsical infatuations but Astrid held such an allure for me. I couldn’t explain it at the time.

“Astrid, please bring my cloak and my bag to the hotel, I will catch up in a minute.”

“The hotel. Very nice accommodations, My lady. But I would expect no less from such a beautiful flower, obviously the star of the show.” Isabella held out her hand and I kissed it. Holding her hand was electric. I had never encountered such unsettling but desirable women before.”

Jerry stopped reading and looked at his wife. She nudged him,

“Keep reading … this is fascinating.” He smiled a mischievous grin as she walked over to the doorway to the office and locked it.

“Isabella just looked at me with such confidence and self assuredness. She said,

“It was my pleasure to meet you Sheriff Hawthorne. Perhaps you will enjoy dinner and drinks at the Hotel with Astrid and I before we retire for the night. It will give you two a chance to get better acquainted, before your “date” tomorrow afternoon.”

I could feel an energy I still shudder to describe. It was as if she dared me to decline her invitation. However my libido was steering the ship on this voyage. I accepted Isabella’s invitation.”

“We dined and drank in the hotel, having a pleasant and lively conversation. It was apparent why Isabella was the star of the show. She didn’t smile much but was far from serious. She had a whimsical and infectious personality.”

She announced that they would be retiring to their accommodations, and bid me farewell. I am ashamed to admit that I would engage in such acts of treachery, but I slipped into the clandestine surveillance area I had built into the hotel, and went to an observation area behind the wall of their room. “

Sveltie gasped. Jerry Laughed.

“Oh my, what a cad.” She declared.

“Are you really surprised? Based upon what we already know about the guy?”

“No, not really.” Sveltie’s breathing had increased a bit she was getting aroused. She leaned into her husband as he continued to read, grazing his arm with one of her taut, erect nipples.

“Astrid had set up numerous candles in the room. She seemed nervous. Isabella walked into my view. She was stunning. She was wearing nothing but a long black see through cape woven from the finest silk. Her erect brown nipples seemed to be teased as the fabric brushed against her skin. Her pubic area was covered with a dark finely manicured patch of dark down. She stretched and twirled. As she did so, I swear I saw flashes of light fly out of her body. She twirled again spraying the room with another splash of light, bright radiant droplets of energy as bright and exotic as the finest cut, African diamond. She swayed over to Astrid, who was now nude and bowing at Isabella’s feet. Her long, sandy blond hair obscured her head which was obviously touching the floor.

“I apologize if I insulted you, Countess Isabella. I have never met such a man, he is different.”

“Yes, he is, I can see what attracts you to him. As I have said, you can have him, during the day, when I take my rest.”

Astrid, looked up and smiled. I love you. Mistress. Thank You so, Much.”

“You still desire me, young one?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then why won’t you be with me?”

Astrid, became uncomfortable. It seemed as if a cloud of darkness tarnishing their conversation had begun to dissipate but returned instantly as Isabella asked this question.

Isabella reached down stroking Astrid’s blond mane as she spoke.

“You know I can take you whenever I want. I will take you … you are already mine and you know it. But I want you to want it. I want you to want ME.” She hissed these words seductively causing a queer state of arousal like I have never experienced.

“I can feed anywhere. Yet I choose to let you live, relishing you like an appetizer. Let me make you. Be one of us.”

While she spoke Isabella’s fingers stroked and tickled Astrid’s Flesh. I noticed her nails were like talons or daggers. Astrid responded by sighing deeply as Isabella ran her seemingly razor sharp nails against her flesh.

I saw goose bumps rise on Astrid’s flesh as Isabella’s hands tickled up from her flat stomach to her sides and the round sides of her small, taught breasts.

Isabella leaned down and hissed in her ear,

“I want you to want me.”

“I do, mistress I do.” Isabella’s hands continued to roam, grazing her back, back to her breasts. Astrid began to moan and whimper as Isabella used a little more pressure with her talons on Astrid’s cream colored flesh. She reached up and placed her hand on Isabella’s thigh.

“DID I SAY YOU COULD TOUCH ME? Ask me nicely perhaps I may allow it.”

Isabella moved around with her back to me. She had an elaborate black tattoo on the small of her back right above her amazingly round derriere. I experienced a sensation of feeling cold. I was disoriented and my thoughts were scattered. Isabella was whispering into Astrid’s ear as she continued to stroke, scratch and caress. Astrid muttered something - a faint and inaudible submissive squeak. Isabella smiled and leaned in her flesh pressing into Astrid’s back as her breathy voice filled her ear.

“What’s that, my dear? Harder?”

“Yes.” Astrid whispered. Isabella bent down one more time and whispered,

“Again,” Astrid replied.

“Yes Harder! HARDER!”

I watched as Isabella drew her hands across Astrid’s chest lightly tickling, not using the force her assistant desired. Astrid whimpered. Isabella let out a resonant otherworldly laugh which chilled me to my bones. Her hand moved down Astrid’s pale, smooth stomach and cupped the golden brown region between her long muscular legs.

“If you want it harder, I’ll give it to you, only if you want me. You don’t want me, do you? You try to touch me but you don’t want me?”

She cupped Astrid’s nether region with those nails dangerously close to her delicate areas, teasing and torturing … ever so slowly and seductively. I was riveted, being forced to wipe away a trickle of drool which escaped my mouth, with the monogrammed kerchief given to me by Samuel Clemens. Then Isabella Laughed that roaring, resonant laugh again. Astrid shuddered and twitched beneath the precision touch of her mistress. Wherever her hand traced a trail of excited pimpled flesh appeared.

“What do you think, Hawthorne would think if he saw you kneeling in front of me, begging?”

As she said this, Isabella turned her head and looked straight at me. With a leering smile on her face she said,

“What would he do if he were watching?”

“I want you, please, Countess Isabella, please?”

“Do I hear you correctly, child. You want me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Forever?”

“YES!”

Isabella gestured for her to get off of her knees. She once again began running her hands and talons across Astrid’s chest until she was just using one nail on each hand to graze against her. She circled Astrid’s breasts with the nails slowly working her way to the center, to her pink nipples. Astrid, was whimpering, experiencing a spasm of pleasure and writhing as she stood there. Isabella hooked her nail underneath Astrid’s aroused and taut nipple. I saw her breast rise as Isabella’s talon hooked into the wrinkled flesh. Isabella continued to lift causing her delicate skin to strain against her nails.

Astrid was crying. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, as she begged - whispering over and over.

“Harder, harder, harder, oh ohh , please, uuhhh, harder, harder.”

She gasped and began convulsing and let out a cry of ecstasy as I watched Isabella’s nail pierce straight through her nipple. Astrid’s hand moved between her own legs and began to move back and forth furiously. Her chest was bleeding.

Isabella, turned ever so slightly and looked at me again, as if the wall didn’t exist, and winked.

The blood flowed from Astrid’s nipples as Isabella removed her talons from Astrid’s flesh. She bent down and seductively licked up the blood. Sucking on Astrid’s nipples, alternately between running her tongue against trail of blood on her flesh , leaving traces of crimson and saliva. Isabella began to tickle Astrid’s tortured flesh, gently once again as she moved her pouty lips down her belly following the red droplets of blood.

Astrid stroked her fingers through Isabella’s short dark hair as Isabella began to flick her tongue against that delicious area between her legs which I so desired.”

Jerry undid his pants. By now, Sveltie had already removed her panties and he was sliding one of his fingers in and out of his wife’s drenched pussy. She was panting. She grabbed his cock and began pumping.” Her hand felt so good

She closed her eyes in ecstasy and hissed.

“Read!”

“As I sat there, fully aware, that Isabella knew I was watching, I sat awed as she ran her tongue against Astrid’s pink tender sex , pumping two fingers into her rhythmically. She devoured her assistant, her lover, and now her partner for eternity. Astrid had a furious orgasm as Isabella moved her head rhythmically between her long legs.

“Uhhh, ohh. Im ready. Do me, do it do it DO IT!”

She rubbed her thumb against Astrid’s maidenhead. Isabella turned to look at me one more time, this time, flashing a pair of sharp fangs as she smiled. The smile shrunk from her face, which became dark and serious. Astrid gasped again and exploded with pleasure as Isabella wildly sunk her fangs into the artery in Astrid’s thigh. Isabella let out a roar and licked her blood spattered lips. She placed her mouth once again on Astrid’s leg as she drank and feasted.

She drank for a minute and then rose, seemingly intoxicated and collapsed on the bed. Astrid kneeled and placed her head on Isabella’s thigh, as the Vampire lay there panting and gasping for breath. She grabbed a handful of Astrid’s hair and pulled her head into her dark mound, which she began to pleasure and adore. What happened next shocked me. Isabella tore at her own wrist with her fangs. Still holding onto Astrid’s hair, she lifted her head, so Astrid could see what she was doing. A stream of her blood began to flow dripping down and glistening her dark pubis. She pushed Astrid head down as she eagerly began to lap up the blood. Isabella moaned. Her body shook and once again the droplets of light projected from her body. They stopped. By stopping I mean motion stopped the were frozen in time for a moment. The light which emanated from her body then fell to the floor like rain, drenching Astrid. Isabella held her wrist to her mouth and said,

“Drink!” Astrid placed her mouth on her wrist and began to loudly suckle.

It was then that I made my exit. Feeling dark, confused, depraved.

Sveltie was grunting as Jerry removed his hand from between her legs. He put down the book. Sveltie got down on her knees and saw his raging aroused state, his body drooling with anticipation and excitement. He sighed as her warm mouth began to slide up and down his rigid flesh.

He could not believe what he had just read. Hawthorne’s description of Isabella and Astrid was so alarming and so hot. Were there really vampires in Muskrat Flats?

As Sveltie bobbed her head up and down he tried to picture Isabella with her dark honey colored skin, tattoos and dark features sliding her mouth up and down, bringing him closer to release with every stroke. He envisioned running his hands all over her smooth body. Cupping those lovely breasts, running his own tongue along her musky femininity. He pictured those dark eyes looking up at him, seeing that serious and stormy expression Hawthorne saw on her exotically featured face. He felt the tension increasing, he was close. He shut his eyes and saw Isabella’s eyes piercing into his. He began to gush and cried out …

“Bite Me!” He heard Sveltie snicker as she devoured his pulsing flesh.

If you made it this far, now would be a good time to start ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Till The Morning Comes

2008-12-11T22:58:00.017-05:00

'Till the morning comes, it'll do you fine.
Till the morning comes, like a highway sign
Showing you the way, leaving no doubt.
Of the way on in or the way back out."
Garcia/Hunter

Muskrat Flats is an odd place these days. Perhaps it is a good thing that there are so many Odd Fellows in the town proper.

Sure there is always much more going on in Muskrat Flats than we let on here. There is the section of town which is enclosed by three sets of train tracks, Silverstein's Triangle, or the Silver Triangle we call it.

There you will find poverty, drugs and lower rents. It is a hard concept for the residents of the Silver Triangle to accept ... no matter where they go in their neighborhood, they are perpetually on the other side of the tracks. The Silver Triangle is where 20 year old Kurt Bartleby, Sid and Iva's son, went yesterday afternoon.

Now, it is not what you think, Kurt is a good kid, he wasn't heading to the triangle for reasons that others may. He was going to check in on his mentor, Jim Benoit - Benwah as we have come to know him.

You see, Benwah had not shown up for work in the smithy shop at the Farm Museum in a couple of days. Kurt had some items to make to repair one of the yokes they used for the oxen who would be pulling the sleighs at the Holiday Festival. He was unsure how to proceed and knew his master could steer him in the right direction.

When he got to Benwah's door, a foul odor hit him. It was much too foul to have simply been some un-discarded pizza boxes or garbage. He immediately got on the phone and dialed 911, unwilling to enter the apartment, even though he had a key.

When the authorities entered the apartment they found Benwah's bloated body in a swarm of flies, flanked by a bottle of of whiskey, an empty prescription bottle of Ambien and a syringe sicking out of his arm.

Gomer and Moe Eckstein sat at the wooden table underneath the impressionist style painting of Sheriff Hawthorne done by one the ex-patriate artists he brought back to Muskrat Flats from Paris, after the elaborate charade which preceded his miraculous resurrection.

They were joined by Jeff Nelson, the owner of Wake of the Flood plumbing. Jeff was crying as he traced the outline of the tattoo on his forearm. The tattoo was three links of a chain with the letters FLT centered within each of the three links. Friendship, Love and Truth - three principles held dear by the fellows and gals who gather in the warm wood paneled room at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets.

Gomer read aloud as his father held his hand.

"To Whom It May Concern - I was born 20 minutes late ... so they say. All of my life I have been

racing to catch up

and regain

that precious one third of an hour.

A lot can be accomplished in 20 minutes. Sometimes it can drag on forever when I am bored and unoccupied. Other times I feel that I am on the verge of letting that 20 minutes slip away, further setting me back as I traverse this infinite, endless trek we call life.

It seems like I am 20 minutes late for everything these days. Work, appointments, I was even late for a meeting because I had 20 minutes to kill and fell asleep (passed out) for 30. I was 20 minutes late for the last meeting of the Flatlanders. I was supposed to be piping when they cut the Haggis. I was twenty minutes late when I caused that accident in Dana.

When I say I've been 20 minutes late all of my life that is an exaggeration. There was a time in my life when I was either on time, or early, obsessively so. You could set your watch by me If I was supposed to be somewhere at Noon I was there.

You hear idioms and phrases tossed around about time every day. Time is money, time is of the essence, no time to lose. Good Times, Bad Times. Time to get down to Brass Tacks. Wow Brass tacks. I'm not making sense anymore. I guess the pills are starting to work. Got finish this little task soon, otherwise I may wake up.

I'm finding it harder and harder to go on. I know these problems may seem insignificant. They tell me that I need to listen and that God is going to tell me what "his will" is for me today. The last thing I need is one more voice in my head.

Believe me when I tell you this. I deserve what I am about to get. Hopefully God has forgiven me for what happened in Dana, when I killed that lady and her little boy. I was late and I was drinking and drugging.

I deserve what I am about to get, but I also deserve to sleep peacefully, if it is forever, so be it.

Don't replace me at the Museum. Kurt is a good kid and a skillful blacksmith. He will do a far better job than I ever did or could. I leave him my set of pipes.

I'm sorry if I disappointed anyone. I'm sure if some of you were here to tell me there is another option I might believe it ... for a little while, but, I just can't see any other way. "

Signed,
James Benoit

Sid and Iva were at the next table listening intently as they each held one of Kurt's hands.

Jeff wiped his eyes.

"Why didn't he call me?"

"Comon Jeff you can't say that." Gomer retorted.

"Sonny is Right, Jeff. This was written by a man who had made up his mind."

"That is pretty clear." Jeff said.

Small talk ensued and they had a few good laughs remembering some of Benwah's more hilarious moments, such as the one at the last Silver Days celebration when he got caught on the railroad tie, and crashed into the table full of pipes, as he stumbled after freeing himself. As you may recall the weight of his body tightened one of the bags which let out an awful whine as the pipes snapped upward, cracking Benwah right in the face.

Jeff and Gomer walked out the parking lot lingering and moving along rather slowly. Across McKernan St., in the park Coley Blackstone was flying kites with a group of ten young children from the day care center across the way. They were laughing and running around with not a care in the world, oblivious to such matters as a sick and suffering addict willingly taking his own life as a means to end his pain, rather than doing the work and recovering a life which he would never have the opportunity to discover wasn't so bad. Coley was instructing about five of the children on the finer points of kite flying, in the mild December weather. The rest of the children were with their teachers playing fetch with Coley's dog, Chubby, and a plastic banana.

"So, You gonna be alright?" Gomer asked.

"Yeah, it just sucks, you can't help someone who doesn't really want it ... You gonna be alright, he was your last remaining sponsee brother."

Gomer laughed.

"Yeah, about that. Kind of like a Spinal Tap drummer slash Grateful Dead Keyboard player kind of thing, your sponsees are dropping like flies. I'm the last one, huh?"

"You are it my brother. When word gets out amongst the so called anonymous, I doubt I will get asked to be a sponsor anytime soon."

"It's okay, we've got each other and we've got a network. Don't beat yourself up brother."

"I won't." Jeff replied. "How's Miranda?"

"She's doing very well. We talk to each other every day. She's my kind of freak. She promised me that if she ever got bitten by a vampire, she would bite me first."

"Oh, yeah? Thanks for sharing." Jeff smiled. Gomer pulled back his ponytail and began to clean his half moon sunglasses.

"I'm going to see her next month. The Satans are doing a small tour starting in LA on January 9th then we go up to Big Sur - a private party on Thursday the 15th in Sacramento, down to Palo Alto and we end up in San Francisco on Saturday night. Then she is coming back with me for about two weeks ... If I'm not in jail of course, my next court date is in a about a week."

"Oh, yeah, that's right." The hugged and bid each other farewell.

In the blacksmith shop Sid and Iva's eyes were shrouded by dark protective lenses as were Kurt's. He held up the glowing wrought iron bracket which would attach the reigns to the yoke. The yoke was made in two parts attached together by three chain links, each of which, Sid noticed had been adorned with the symbolic letters FLT. Kurt inspected the glowing iron. Sweat ran down from his forehead mingling with his tears. He placed the piece on the anvil and lightly tapped it a few times. His parents watched intently, proudly hugging each other as they watched their son plunge the bracket into a bucket of water.

Kurt was well on his way to a rich and fulfilling life. He didn't have to wear a suit, or sit at a desk. Although his college major had been finance, he chose a different path. He loved Musktrat Flats and doubted he would ever move away.

He looked out the window as the new girl from the gift shop was making her way in his direction. She had just moved here wanting to work with Sveltie in the Winery. For now, she was in the gift shop, but she would get her crack at the vineyards in the spring. She walked in to the Smithy shop. Kurt took off his glasses and toweled off his face. She was holding a bag and smiling at him.

"Hi, Gina."

"Hi Kurt." She nodded and smiled to Sid and Iva.

"I heard about what happened. I figured you might need a break."

"Thanks, Gina, that's sweet." She handed him a coffee. He uncapped it and began to put in the sugar and cream she handed him.

"I brought you some of these blueberry muffins, They are the best I've ever had." Sid and Iva looked at each other and smiled. Kurt noticed this as well. He smiled a sly grin at his parents.

"Yes, they are, Gina, they are legendary in these parts." Sid and Iva waved, and said goodbye, slipping out the door. As they looked back through the window they saw that Kurt was showing Gina the bracket he was working on. She looked at him admiringly.

Yes, tragedy came to Muskrat Flats this week, We lost a good man. Sid and Iva weren't worried about their son, They knew he would do just fine. He was heading into a bright and shining future and it looked like he may have found someone who would like nothing better than to walk along that road by his side.

Yes, tragedy struck a chord this week, but the music of Friendship Love and Trust will always overpower that dissonant chord tragedy has to offer. All you have to do is listen, even if you do have to sift through a few extra voices in your head to hear it.

Just for Today and hopefully for years to come, Kurt Bartleby will have to look pretty damn hard to find a reason to be ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

A) Jails. B) Institutions. C) Death. D) All of the Above.

2008-12-03T23:47:00.004-05:00

Here I am again. The countdown has begun. I always start at the Magic number Eight. Then I start subtracting. Since it is 10:30 PM, that means the number has dwindled to Six and a half hours left to sleep, before I have to get up and do it all over again.

Lately, I have frittered away this number until it has reached Five, which really means 4:45 or even 4:30, since I doubt that these racing thoughts, these burning desires, delusions paranoid, or otherwise will quiet themselves in a mere 15-20 minutes.

I doubt that I will ease into the abyss of nothingness so quickly that once again, I may escape into that wonderful world of unconsciousness.

I used to live on the steppes of that Mountainous terrain known as unconsciousness. I existed in the Flats. That lonesome prairie between the foothills leading up to the jagged cliffs and rocks, and the life breeding lush and fertile valley down below.

These Flats, unlike that Utopian locale Muskrat Flats, where Friendship, Love and Truth, the links in the chain which bind the so many members of the Odd Fellows to each other and their community, are a barren place. A place void of feelings and emotions. I used to relish the notion of idly spending my time in this zone lamenting the labors and pains associated with life with the likes of Kerouac, Burroughs and Bukowski. Living like a zombie as I nodded and swayed through my halcyon heroin induced stupor, occasionally rousing myself enough to attend to that errant itch on my nose or behind my neck.

It doesn't seem to me to be a coincidence that the higher you get when you have a "good nod going on" is much like climbing a mountain. You get less oxygen, the cliffs are a little more jagged and dangerous. If you get too high, you will suffocate. If you fall, it is a long an painful fall. Every twitch and every tumble brings another unpleasant sensation. Some think that if you are lucky, you will get impaled on some sedentary shale protruding like a spire out of the side of the mountain.

If you are really lucky you will tumble all of the way down and land on the banks of the river, underneath the lush canopy of a weeping willow protecting you from the sun and the rain as you begin to breathe again. Perhaps you'll even have a drink of fresh water. If you are lucky.

It has been an alarming week, for me. I have had many ups. Fellowship and fun with those who matter to me most, generous gifts from friends and family - nothing flashy or gaudy just utilitarian items which make a difference in your life or just simple pampering. A shave and a hair cut, the luxury of being wrapped in a cocoon while getting my face exfoliated, moisturized and massaged, then bathed in a misty cloud of warm steam, before the process is repeated once again. Things I never would have thought would make a damn bit of difference when I was using. But they do.

I have written before that I have tasted the nectar of the forbidden flower, not in a Roman Polanski kind of way, mind you. I have lingered at the fence surrounding that crimson dotted poppy field. I have felt the daggers pierce my skin again and again, holding onto me for dear life. As if I were the necessary component for some morbid brand of symbiosis. Like that flower needed me to exist. The daggers have left scars and discolorations both physical and psychological, which remain hard to explain away.

Now, I have tasted the nectar of the flower of Freedom. Freedom from active addiction, The Freedom to ask for help; to listen for inspiration: to understand that a power greater than myself has been guiding me ... all along. It is just more apparent these days as I begin to notice where I fit into the grand scheme of things - how I can make a difference. I'm sure it was his will not mine that I lay in that chair for an hour loving life and all it has to offer as soft fingers danced across my face and around my eye sockets. The ladies running the show even told me how smooth my skin is ... I know, it is their job to tell me that, Just like the awe the Gypsy tailor down the street demonstrated as she assessed a new suit my friend brought in to be altered. "that's a nice-a suit." she said. Of course it was.

In spite of all of these good things. I felt like using this morning. I could smell it, I could taste it. It was fresh in my mind as I awoke from a vivid technicolor dream where I found a stash and didn't hesitate to inject it. When I have those dreams, I do get high, trust me. And it fucks me up when I awake.

So, needles to say I had a bitch of a day. I burned the gravy and had to make a new batch. When dealing with the fallout and triage from the previously seared pot I spilled a little on the floor. Between the color, and the finely chopped veggies contained within, it looked like a puddle of vomit.

Thank God, for the little things in life, because seeing that puddle of gravy on the floor made me laugh my ass off.

I didn't get high. I didn't obsess about the feeling. I said a prayer and took five minutes to meditate. The laughter helped. And the feeling passed.

When they say Jails, Institutions and Death, it is no joke. I have been feeling funky since I found out that an addict I know, overdosed on Thanksgiving. He hadn't had enough and had to try to climb that mountain one more time. He didn't end up on the banks of the river. He got so high that he ran out of oxygen. Now he is free. Sad, but True.

In spite of knowing all of this, the idea, the tought that I may be able to use and get away with it, still presents itself as an option.

I've been writing for an hour. The magic number is 5 hours and 30 minutes of sleep available to me before I have to get up and do a massive catering order on top of my usual duties.

Perhaps I keep doing this to myself so I can make it until Midnight where I can tell myself, once again, I made it, another day clean.

Now that, my friends, is some Freedom I can get on board with.

I'm going to go and change my profile heading right now, because nobody should be feeling sad and discontent when they are ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

"Sometimes I Feel, Like I've Been Tied to the Whipping Post"

2008-11-29T11:54:00.013-05:00

Thanksgiving has come and gone in Muskrat Flats and once again there was much activity at the corner of Petersen and McKernan Streets. The Odd Fellows Hosted their annual free Thanksgiving Dinner with all of the trimmings, feeding about 1,500 residents of the Flats and the outlying areas. There were free shuttle buses going to shelters in Dana and Prescott.

The banquet hall was warm with the glow of votive candles, with bursts of orange and brown decorations and ornately carved luminaria. The warmth was accentuated by shiny glazed bread cornucopias filled with fresh hand fruit and colorful gourds, the savory aromas of roasting turkey and sausage stuffing, the sweetness of roasted butternut squash, pumpkin pies, and of course Iva Bartleby's blueberry muffins.

The meal was paid for by the various fundraisers the Odd Fellows had hosted during the course of the year, particularly the Labor Day Bike Run and the concessions at the Silver Days Celebration and the Fall Festival at the Farm Museum.

This year was the first time that the formerly annual anonymous donation of $2000 toward the production of the meal, officially came from the Coleman Blackstone Foundation. This foundation, set up recently, with the mission statement of facilitating the rehabilitation of the homeless through arts and music programs in conjunction with mental health, drug and alcohol counseling. Coley Blackstone, Muskrat Flats' wealthiest resident, who himself lived as a homeless man as he grappled for years with untreated mental illness, was actually on hand and volunteering for the event.

Coley was the judge for the Annual Checkers Tournament. Surprisingly, the tourney was won this year by a kid named Matt Derose, a 14 year-old with Down's syndrome, who turned out to be something of a checkers prodigy. There were snickers from the peanut gallery early on in the competition as he would enthusiastically shout in a special needs kind of way,

"King Me!"

These snickers quickly turned to cheers as he dominated the competition and the onlookers shared in his enthusiasm by shouting along with him as he marched on to victory.

Moe Eckstein was looking at the front page of the Muskrat Flats Telegraph. The lead story was about the Odd Fellows Annual Turkey Dinner. This was accompanied by a picture of Coley Blackstone, holding up a beaming Matt Derose's hand in Victory as his other hand hoisted the Winner's Cup above his head.

Moe Eckstein had just sat down, with his coffee and muffins, after having gone for a brisk walk, that morning. He had stopped his chemo therapy weeks ago and was feeling healthier than he had felt in a long time. The doctors were happy with is alarming progress. Sid Bartelby was sitting across from Moe.

"Whaddya make of this guy, Coley?"

"Eh, what's to make? He is pure Muskrat Flats. No doubt that he is a chip off of the Hawthorne block. He was a misguided kid who is starting to make a better life for himself and the people around him."

"Yeah, but he is nuts." Sid said as he continued to scan his copy of the Telegraph.

"I thought that was a prerequisite for being a resident of the Flats." Moe quipped. Sid chuckled.

"Comon, Sid look around you, look at your past, look at mine … this town has always attracted a rare breed. Some of us - a little crazier than others, but I love it."

"Yeah, you're right, I shouldn't judge." Sid replied.

"That's right. I don't know if I would want people to meet some of the creatures who live in my forest, and that is a hard thing for a writer to say," as Moe tapped his skull.

"Oh, shit!" Sid cried. "page four, Moe. Speaking of creatures in your forest…"

Moe turned to page Four and read the headline.

Local Musician Jailed After On Stage Prank Goes Awry.

Dana - There was a near riot at the Dana Arts Center as local musician Gomer Shabbos aka Gomer Eckstein and Rabbi Robert Feldman from the Ark of the Covenant Synagogue in neighboring Baptist Lake were jailed after an onstage scuffle, Wednesday night, causing the crowd of 2500 onlookers to head home earlier than they had anticipated.

"Shit, that's the Rabbi that confronted him after the Labor Day Bike Run, show." Moe read on.

Eckstein who is the leader of the hardcore Klezemer band, Gomer Shabbos and the Hook Nosed Satans, had his performance interrupted when the Rabbi jumped on stage and attacked Eckstein. In the scuffle Both Eckstein and Rabbi Feldman assaulted Officer Seamus O'Neil who was trying to contain the violence. Both were charged with assault on a police officer. Feldman was charged with inciting a riot. Both were released on their personal recognizance.

The Hook Nosed Satans had just performed the tune "Satanic Seitan" a song Eckstein describes as "a diatribe revealing the evils of vegetarianism … it is a satire like most of my songs."

Eckstein sighed and wondered aloud,

"Why do people have to take themselves so seriously? It was just a joke."

The ruckus occurred in the second set. As drummer Joel Birnbaum kept the beat, Hook Nosed Satans guitarist Seth Brockmeyer and fiddler, Jerry Green brought onto the stage a young woman dressed in hippie garb whom Shabbos described as "a vegetarian I caught washing a lump of wheat gluten on a rock down by the river."

The Satans held down the "vegetarian," played by renowned San Francisco poster artist, Miranda Klein, as Shabbos dressed in all black with dark glasses and white face make up wildly whipped Klein with a cat-o-nine tails he had dramatically fashioned, onstage, from strips of raw bacon. The crowd responded wildly.

The diorama ended with Klein bowing to Shabbos swearing her allegiance to him and consecrating her vow by taking a big bite out of a "Fresser" or overstuffed, Kosher Corned Beef Sandwich.

It was at this point in the show, the Rabbi jumped on stage reportedly shouting in Hebrew and attacked Shabbos.

"Mumar le hak'is" the term my father shouted at Eckstein is a Hebrew term for a defiant lawbreaker or heretic," Explained Feldman's son, Josh.

"We believe that Gomer Eckstein has turned his back on the Jewish Tradition and is using the very essence of his band, The Hook Nosed Satans, an ethnic slur and abomination against the Jewish community, in and of itself, to ridicule and undermine the community.. Even his stage persona, Gomer Shabbos, is a mockery of Shomer Shabbos our Sabbath." Josh Feldman continued.

Eckstein, a Muskrat Flats resident and son of famed Beat Writer Moe Eckstein, made national news last Fall as his Ebay account was shut down after he offered two items for auction - a hypodermic needle purportedly used by Sex Pistol's bassist, Sid Vicious. And, a microphone, Eckstein had obtained from former Murder Junkie, Chicken John, which he claimed was inserted into long deceased punk rock bad boy, GG Allin's, rectum.

Messages left at Rabbi Feldman's residence were not immediately returned.

"What I do is Art. Everyone may not like it, but I have the right to do what I want on stage. I would consider what I do as Frank Zappa meets Rob Zombie at a Fiddler on the Roof retrospective."

"Asking me to change the content or direction of this project would be like going up to Claude Monet and saying, "I really like this painting, but can I have one like it with a little more blue and green so it will match my living room?" ... Some people may not see what I do as art, but I've got a lot open minded fans out there, decent people, Obama voters, who want to see me keep doing whatever it is that I do." Eckstein said outside of the Dana Police headquarters.

A pretrial conference is scheduled for December 6th for both cases.

Sid raised his eyebrows at Moe. Moe clicked his tongue against his teeth and chuckled.

"Oh, Sonny Boy, what have you gotten yourself into this time?" He asked no one.

"I tell him to pick his battles, but it looks like the Rabbi has picked the battle this time."

"We'll have to see how this one plays out." Sid said.

Moe sighed. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his t-shirt. He placed them back on his nose and looked at Sid.

"I love that kid, my friend. He is a piece of work, but he is my piece of work." Sid smiled and looked up.

"Speaking of the Satan …" Moe turned around and Gomer was approaching him with his arm wrapped around the waist of a gorgeous young lady. She was clutching a copy of Moe's first book. Green Jello and Rust Stained Toilet Tanks.

"Dad, Sid, I want you to meet Miranda." She looked at Gomer and then smiled expectantly to Moe.

"Miranda? Word on the streets is that you like corned beef sandwiches."

Sid, Gomer and Miranda laughed as Sid swatted Gomer playfully on the shoulder with the newspaper. Moe looked at her, she looked at Gomer. Gomer looked somewhat chagrined, as he wanted to tell his Dad what had happened first hand.

Moe broke into a big smile and hugged his Sonny Boy. He then hugged Miranda. "It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady. I'm glad you didn't get arrested after your first gig with this hoodlum. Maybe you can keep him out of trouble?" She handed the book to him and said,

"Mr. Eckstein I'm a big fan of yours."

"Please call me, Moe."

He took the book out of her hand and admired it, it was a first edition. He took a sharpie out of his pocket. He wrote inside the cover,

"To Miranda, It is a pleasure to meet you. Remember, don't ever try to flush the green Jello."

Sid came over with two cups of coffee and some muffins in a card board j-tray and asked,

"So, Miranda, do you like blueberry muffins, these are the best."

"I know, I've been reading about them for months, I've been waiting to try them." Moe looked at Gomer as she said this, Gomer raised his eyebrows and smiled.

They all sat down at the wooden table under the watchful eye of Sheriff Hawthorne. Moe began to read the newspaper article to Gomer. Sid winked at Iva, his wife, across the room, who was smiling at Gomer. Jerry and Sveltie along with Jeff Nelson began to wander over to the table

Gomer was overjoyed. It would take a pretty big reason to get him out of his seat never mind back on the road.

This was where he longed to be, with his father, a beautiful woman by his side, surrounded by dear friends in the familiar warmth of the Odd Fellows Hall at the corners of Petersen and McKernan Streets.

Much like Gomer, Just For Today, I can't think of one damned reason to be …

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Giving Thanks and Praises

2008-11-24T21:16:00.006-05:00

About Ten years ago, when I will still happily married, happily stoned and happily running my own business into the ground, I went to the State Fair. It was a mid week night, perhaps a Thursday.

My wife and I got a baby sitter for our wee little one, and headed out for the evening. Things did not look promising as there were dark storm clouds looming in the horizon and were quickly headed our way. By the time we hit the Fair, it was pouring rain. That cold, unrelenting September rain that can do nothing but reinforce that summer is indeed over, and it is time to start gathering your fruits and berries for the long winter.

We could have postponed our outing to another day, It was actually in the high 70s and sunny the next day, but we had a reason for being there, playing for free at the outdoor stage were the Fabulous Thunderbirds.

The band was hot, Duke Robillard was great. There were about 300 people there and they played their asses off. About three quarters of the way through the set, We had had enough of the foul weather and we decided to leave, much like many of the other concert goers had decided to do as well

As we approached the entrance there was a guy on the bleachers, all liquored up, heckling the retreating crowds.

"You guys are crazy, don't you know what you are missing?!" He would shout as if someone were going to grab him by the arm and make him miss the rest of the set. There was fear and incredulity in his voice. How could these assholes actually leave?, was the incredulous message he was trying to hammer home. As far as the Fear, I can Identify.

I know what it means to have 300, 50, 15 people in the audience as I watch a talented group of musicians with all of the promise in the world, drift into a cloud ... a cloud which will surely obscure their live performances, their body of work hurtling them into anonymity as quickly as Hunter S. Thompson's ashes were launched into the stratosphere packed into an elaborate fireworks display.

All of the sudden you may find yourself experiencing flashes of recognition, a fond and distant memory which will take over your thoughts and cause you to ask,

"What ever did happen to those guys?... They were good"

I can identify with that guy at the Fab T-birds show. I am incredulous that people are not flocking to see bands like the Drunk Stuntmen. When they played at Black Eyed Sally's in the summer time, it was a nightmare. There were about 15 people in the audience, five of which were there specifically to see the band. There was a sloppy drunk from Canada, who almost started a fire by knocking over a linen covered table along with its burning votive candles. He ended the night barefoot and lying on his back on the vacant dance floor. The bar back was hammered and the contact person was a raving anti-social freak.

That is a lot of shit to put up with for a meal, for which they wanted to charge the band due to the sparse attendance. The club upstairs was so packed the patrons were coming downstairs to use the bathrooms.

I can identify with that guy at the Fab T-birds show as he desperately tried to cling on to a feeling - a good feeling which he obviously wanted to share. Unfortunately he was doing a poor job of conveying the message as his enthusiasm was clouded by the fact that he was so drunk.

In the rooms of a 12-step fellowship it is suggested that you identify, not compare. As a dear friend, who is sober, but does not participate in a 12-step fellowship pointed out,

"Sometimes you can compare and Save."

He knows a little bit about what happens in those rooms, the rooms where the Anonymous sequester themselves for many hours during the week. He possesses wisdom and a healthy outlook which I admire. In a lot of ways he has more recovery than some folks I know with over a decade of living life without drugs or alcohol.

He knows about how we spend hours in those rooms, hours which could be spent with our families, working on a soul fulfilling project or hobby, or even at a job, hours which could be deliciously spent in the arms of a new found love. I am learning to live and enjoy life with the greatest of luxuries all ... hours of nothing to do but sit quietly and meditate.

And listen.

I don't have to say, "I'm sorry, what?" When I am listening.

I have listened to my disease in the past. Listening to me say it is okay to get high, that I deserve it. I can get away with it. If I am cool, no one will ever know. I know that voice is bullshit. I am an addict and have proven this point to myself, time and time again.

I have listened to my friends confirm these erroneous notions and let me know how they justify their using of drugs and alcohol.

Identify don't compare means, listening to another and thinking that your disease is just that much less insidious than the diesease of another.

I am thankful that I have people like you who look forward to what I am going to write next. I am thankful that Muskrat Flats is a thriving community, albeit a fictitious one, but one that is vibrant enough to facilitate the creative process.

I am thankful for Music. Thankful for both the ability to play and the so many great musicians out there I enjoy seeing and hearing live.

I am thankful that my glassblowing skills are improving, as another glass artist in my karass pointed out, becoming "more refined." Thanks to all of you who have supported my endeavors in this department, contributing to my studio at the Indian Orchard Mills becoming a living and breathing destination.

I am thankful that on a Monday before a Friday payday, I have $40 dollars in my checking account. My bills are paid, I've got gas at both the studio and in my car and my child support is paid.

I am thankful for my daughter, Rayna. She is a bright shining beacon in my life. I am thankful that I am available to her these days, spiritually, physically and financially. She is growing up a talented, bright, and empathic young lady with a great sense of humor whose possibilites for a rich and rewarding adulthood are limitless.

I am thankful that I did not wake up dopesick. That I did not have to jeopardize my life and freedom, just one more time, for a $6 dollar bag of death.

I am thankful that today, I can still remember the last time I got high and pray that I never forget.

Wishing you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Today I'm going slow it down a little bit and listen to that voice in my head, guiding me to a better place, a place where I don't have to speed things up so I can be ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"Tonight I would be thankful, Lord, for any dream at all ..."

2008-11-07T14:32:00.007-05:00

Gomer ascended the steps out of the Embarcadero BART Station onto Market St. He peered down to the waterfront and saw the clock tower. He hoisted his sack onto his good shoulder, the other one was still a little sore from when he hit the ground when the rope unraveled during the reenactment of Sheriff Hawthorne's staged hanging, at the fall festival. At least the sun burned maple didn't drop a branch on him in the process. The rope simply let go and he was sent tumbling.

He looked around and took a deep breath. He loved San Francisco. He had a few days to kill so he decided to stay in town, after all, life shouldn't just be centered around work. He eyeballed someone across the street who caught his eye. How weird, It was the kid who was frantically dancing in front of him at the show last night. The Hook Nosed Satans played on a double bill in a warehouse in Oakland, the previous night. There were about 2,000 people there. And from the sounds of it many were there to see him. The party was hosted by a bunch of Burning Man folks who had some of their large contraptions on hand for additional entertainment.

The kid was wearing the same clothes as he had been the night before. Gomer doubted he had slept at all, considering how on the edge the kid seemed during the show. Gomer kept an eye on the kid from the side of the stage during the intermission between the opening band and the Satans and decided he was harmless. He sure as shit was into the music. Still, Gomer hoped he was not to be recognized now that it was daylight and he was in his civvies.

He looked drastically different from the guy who would stand on stage in all black with a long black cloak, combat boots and a porkie pie hat. His stage persona, Gomer Shabbos, looked as hard and ethnic as the music he presented. His long, dark, wavy hair was often unrestrained and he wore dark, half moon spectacles as he stepped and gyrated his way through the set often waving his clarinet around as if it were a baton, as he was directing the band. The Hook Nosed Satans kept the groove, thumping along beside him as he growled out some of the crowd's favorite tunes. Now, as he traversed the foggy streets of San Francisco, he was simply Gomer.

He did some shopping at the farmer's market, and headed back to the Embarcadero station to hop on the Muni. As he was walking along Market street, he envisioned fleeting glimpses of what the Barbary coast looked like back in the day when Sheriff Hawthorne made his way out west to wine and dine his idol, Mark Twain.

Shortly after he hopped the train, he was on Mission St. He was humming the Jerry Garcia song, Mission in the Rain as he strolled in a light down pour, taking it all in. To his left was a brick wall which was colorfully adorned with a Mexican mural.

He found the spot he was looking for, a coffee shop he and his father had been to many times before. He stepped out of the cool foggy drizzle and into the heady warmth of the shop. He looked at the pastry case as he ordered his brew, a dark roast which was so strong and rich which no amount of cream was capable of lightening up. As he poured over the pastries he heard his father saying in his head,

"The look good, but they are nothing like Iva's Blueberry Muffins."

Gomer missed his dad, he hoped he was doing well. Gomer found a seat in the crowded shop. He was powering up his his laptop as an unmistakable sitar riff, courtesy of George Harrison filled his ears. He heard the opening lyric for the song. "Each day rolls on by ..." He looked up as he waited for the computer to fire up, and waited and waited while contemplating what if he put a klezemer twist on the song. It would be a good cover he thought. a good song for the middle of the second set, one where they could stretch out a bit.

He sipped his coffee. Whew! Rocket fuel, not like they make the coffee at the Oddfellow's, that's for sure. He gazed over the rim of his cup, shifting in his seat as a cute blonde, perhaps a few years older than he, made michievous eye contact and smiled in his direction. He nodded and smiled back. There was progress on the screen.

He opened up his word processing program and began to read something he had been working on. It was a semi auto biographical account of the circumstances leading up to his arrest and eventual surrender to the lifestyle of recovery.

"We were in the South end of Dana, it was about three o'clock in the afternoon. My nose was starting to run, my stomach ached and I was having difficulty keeping my eyes open. The dope sickness was getting worse. I began to drift away when I was startled by my companion, a Puerto Rican chick named Iris. She shouted loudly in Spanish into the phone and then switched to English,

"Hold on, hold on .... JOSE! Hold on." She nudged me and motioned for me to take what was in her hand.

"You're falling alseep, you need a hit." She handed me a glass tube opaquely clouded with brownish funky resin, her thumb over one end concealing the precious cargo. I slightly stumbled. She pulled back.

"Don't drop this brick, motherfucker!" She said as she motioned once more for me to take the pipe. I took a deep hit and held it in.

I felt the crack searing through my brain. it sounded like a fleet of helicopters were heading in my direction. I began to float a little bit. I exhaled and felt the rush overcome me.

Iris went back to her conversation. I began to feel a little nauseated. The copter blades kept whirring, then began to subside, I wasn't going to puke, not this time. I was startled again as Iris held the phone in front of her and barked.

"Jose, JOSE ... Escuchame! I'M SICK, MOTHERFUCKER! I NEED TO GET OFF E! She then simmered her tone down pleading.

"Jose, por favor. What? Five minutes, bless you." She hung up.

"Fucking Dominican fuck ... the niggah sez he wants to go to the gym first. Give me the stem ..." I didn't realize I was still gripping it in my hand. Her phone rang again. She looked at the screen, rolled her eyes and flipped it open, muttering,

"I am not, motherfucking well ...WHAT?!" She listened.

"Where you is?" She waited for a response. She began shaking her head.

"NO, no ... we were there twenty minutes ago. Where were you? ... Huh? I told you to meet us outside the house." She listened again, shaking her head.

"Smoking a brick ... save you a hit? Shit. If you was where you s'posed to be at you be smokin' a brick, too." She listened.

"Yeah, I've got more ... what you mean you don't have any money, well, go get some." I looked over at Iris and she was handing me the pipe back. She pointed to the phone and whirled her finger around her ear doing the international crazy symbol.

"What do you mean what are you gonna do? Go out and suck a dick, get $40 dollars." there was more silence.

"You don't have to do anything just go stand outside on the street, someone will pick you up. We'll be there in 25 minutes." As she hung up the phone she was unrolling her window and guy in a sweat suit rolled up to the car, she hopped out and was back in seconds.

"Let's get go ... Give me your needle, we need to get off E ..."

Gomer heard someone clear their throat. He looked up, it was the woman who had smiled at him a few minutes ago. She was holding a poster which advertised the show last night.

"You're Gomer, right?"

"Yes." He flipped the laptop down, slightly embarrassed by what he was just reading.

She handed Gomer the poster with a sharpie.

"You're from Muskrat Flats, huh?"

"Yeah, have you ever been there?"

"No, but I'd like to. You guys totally rocked last night."

"Wow, this is one of the posters from the show last night? I've never seen it!"

"I know, I made it, I'm an artist."

"Very nice, can we use this, uh ..."

"Miranda, my name is Miranda. Of Course you can Gomer, I'd be honored."

He signed the poster.

"I've got to go, maybe we will meet again when I come to the Flats?"

"Yes, that would be great, my friends run the Farm museum, we can show you around."

"Yeah, I'll email you ... I love blueberry muffins. I want to try the ones you are always writing about."

She smiled and walked away, looking over her shoulder for one last glance as she did so. Gomer simply sat there stunned, even speechless.

He was amazed at the experience he just had. He thanked his higher power and he thanked Jerry. Why else other than his affection for that song would he be in the Mission, in the Rain?

He let out a deep sigh of satisfaction and smiled. San Francisco, great music, beautiful women, love at first sight. Can there ever be a better reason for ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats?

"Ooh that Smell." Part 2

2008-10-20T08:48:00.018-04:00

Sid Bartleby and Moe Eckstein were waiting anxiously. Sid was standing and Moe was in a wheelchair. He was a little on the weak side but his spirits were soaring. He was able to get up and move around without too much pain, but occasionally he would get a jolt. His doctors said the treatment was working but he should keep the wheelchair in case he felt too weak to move around. Those days were becoming increasingly few.

Sid looked down at his smiling friend. He caught an unmistakable whiff of a freshly baked blueberry muffin as someone walked by balancing one of those folding cardboard carry boxes he only knew as "J trays", full of them. J trays, at least that is what the paper goods salesman wrote down whenever he ordered them.

Moe caught a whiff of the muffins as well, reminding him that he was actually hungry, and had one of his own balancing on his lap. He made eye contact with Iva Bartleby at the Odd Fellows table who was once again selling these legendary morsels.

Iva was wearing a frontier style outfit which was handed down from when her husband's Great Grandmother, Edna opened the Muskrat Flats General store, a business which is still family owned, thriving, and of course celebrating its anniversary during the Fall Festival.

Moe inhaled the rich aroma of the muffins but was caught short as he briefly detected an unpleasant smell in the air. It smelled almost like rotting fish. He looked around wondering what the hell it was. He watched as the crowd began to gather outside the Saloon.

Sveltlana Smith and her husband Jeremiah were situated inside the old Double Life Saloon. Jerry was dressed in his authentic western wear, cowboy boots, chaps, faded denims, a leather vest and of course, his Colt revolver strapped to his side. He was checking out the front window of the saloon which, now functioned as the cafe and dining area for visitors of the Farm Museum and Agricultural Archive. He looked over at his wife who was dressed in a corseted Victorian style dress which proudly displayed her enticing breasts. She walked outside briefly to make sure the foam rubber mat on the ground outside the window was deftly concealed by some hay bales. As she exited the saloon Jeff heard tawdry hoots, and whistles of appreciation from the growing crowd. She waved to the crowd and went back inside.

"Looks good,"

Jeff said as he looked over at his seductively attired wife. A special woman she was. She was bending over repositioning one of the hay bales inside the building, giving it a final push. Looking up, she caught her husband lustfully eyeballing her cleavage.

"You know Jeff, you should consider yourself lucky, did you hear that crowd when I went outside?"

"Oh, trust me, I heard the crowd, I know how lucky I am." He put his arms around her waist pulling her in for a hug, gazing into her eyes. As their pelvic regions met she could feel some movement down there. Coyly he prompted,

"Why don't you tell me how lucky I am?" She wiggled her hips a little and squeezed in closer.

"I don't know many women in the Flats who have the willingness to dress up as Sheriff Hawthorne's Favorite prostitute for the Fall Festival ... I think you are enjoying this role playing just a little too much, cowboy. Better put that gun away." She winked.

"Well, Celeste, it is a seller's market these days, you'll will have to charge me accordingly later on." Jeff felt a little rush as he flashed forward to the evening when he began to untie that corset, slowly and playfully unwrapping his sexy wife like a Christmas present. She giggled as he rubbed into her.

"Jeff, someone will see." and without skipping a beat they heard,

"Hey you two, get a room before I turn the garden hose on the both of you." Gomer Eckstein strolled up wearing an all white suit and broad rimmed hat. His walrus mustache was neatly trimmed. He took off his hat and bowed.

"Hello, Sveltie. How's my favorite girl today?"

"You'll have to take a number. So far, this guy has been my only customer all day, he just keeps stuffing twenties up my dress every hour," she said as she lifted her skirt giving Gomer, her former high school sweetheart, a nice eyeful of her thigh surrounded with a red satin and lace garter which now held five 20 dollar bills.

Gomer blushed. Jerry laughed and got on the walkie talkie.

"Is everything all set outside the Sheriff's office?" He listened to a garbled response, which he aptly deciphered as a positive one. Jeff Nelson and his new sponsee Jim Benoit came in.

Jerry looked at them and nodded. He turned to Gomer and asked,

"Are you ready? Gomer cracked his knuckles and nodded.

*******************************************************

The Fall Festival was a great success. Paulie and Donnie, the two dishwashers from the Odd Fellows hall had their hands full as they headed up the crew directing traffic in the overflowing parking lots. The blueberry muffins and cider doughnuts were selling like they were going out of style. The weather was crisp. It was a lovely cool day in the Flats. The trees offered a wondrous burst of color as their leaves shone radiantly in the afternoon sun.

The tourists, or leaf peepers as some called them, milled around the Farm Museum taking in the various demonstrations including one at the cooperage, the vineyard, and the tobacco barn. The Bartelby boy, did a fine job in the smithy shop as he demonstrated how to shoe a horse. People were having a wonderful time, They were spending money, which made the nervous vendors very happy. It seemed like an idyllic time ... all except for that occasional stench that would waft through the air.

"What is that?" a visitor from Prescott asked his wife as they strolled near the vineyards.

"I don't know but it is gross. Hey let's hurry up, it's time for the hanging." They joined the rest of the crowd, and headed over to Main St. They arrived just in time, as Gomer Eckstein came flying through the fake window of the Double Life Saloon. He landed squarely in the middle of the foam rubber mat which was obscured by the hay bales.

Jerry and Jeff scrambled out of the Saloon followed by Sveltie.

"Get him!" Jerry shouted. Sveltie Screamed

"No, He didn't do it, you have to believe me, I was there! He didn't DO IT?" Jeff Shouted.

"So, think we weren't going to find out about the Deal you made with the Silverstein Brothers?"

"Now hold on, It's not like that."

Jeff and Jerry grabbed Gomer who was vainly trying to dust off his white suit.

"Now, come on boys lets' go to my office we can talk about this."

Jeff shouted to one of the many who followed them out of the saloon,

"Grab that rope." The crowd hustled Gomer over to the maple tree outside Hawthorne"s office where he was pinned on the ground. Jeff slipped the fake noose around Gomer's neck, reaching under his coat to attach the real end of the rope to the harness he wore. Gomer whispered

"This better work, buddy!"

"Of cousre it will work, after all I don't want to lose my favorite sponsee." He tugged the rope violently. Gomer lifted off the ground a little bit as Jerry towered over him. He drew his army Colt pointed it at Gomer and demanded.

"On your feet Hawthorne!"

"Come on, now. I'm telling you it is not what you think." Jerry ignored his plea and turned to the crowd.

"Sheriff Coleman Hawthrone the Third. You are charged with unspeakable crimes. Embezzelment of town funds." The crowd Roared

"We can always get our money back but what you did ... making a deal with the Silversteins. Don't you understand that what they are trying to do will rip this town to shreds. We have a community here, we are not just a silver town. We are different. And it saddens me to think that all of the love we feel for this town and this community comes from the many hours we spent together as you shared your vision for what this town has become and what it it will continue to be in the future. It saddens me that you had to resort to these acts of treachery. What do you have to say for yourself?" Gomer looked out the crowd. He saw Sid and his father laughing their asses off. He was about to deliver his line when he caught a whiff of something. Whew!

"What do I have to say for myself? I had a bad day. I owed someone some money and had to make some real quick." He started laughing and winked at Sveltie.

"Okay that's it! On the the horse!" Gomer lifted himself up into the saddle of the horse which was situated under the large branch of the maple tree. Jerry shimmied up a ladder and tied the rope around the branch.

Gomer sat on the horse looking down at Sveltie who was pretending to cry and wail. He got a smile out of her as he winked again. He heard Jeff slap the horse's ass. The horse took off. Gomer dropped. He swung back and forth from the branch a few times, the harness was working, thank God. The crowd cheered and applauded at the fine performance.

Then, as always in Muskrat Flats, the unexpected happened. The rope unraveled and Gomer tumbled to the ground. Fortunately, Gomer's paratrooper training kicked in as he instinctively tucked and rolled as he hit the ground. The only problem was where he rolled to. It was then that Gomer discovered where that awful stench everyone had been smelling all day long had been coming from as he had just smeared his face in it.

There was a layer of slime on his face, there were flies and bugs everywhere. Gomer gagged a little as the smell of rotting flesh mixed with a pungent aroma which reminded him of a very ripe brie cheese filled his nostrils. He was on the ground eye to eye with these ...

"Good God, what the fuck!?"

Sveltie and Jerry Leaned forward. Sid and Moe came running forward. As usual there was a brief gasp from the crowd. But people began to laugh.

Sid bent over to get a closer look. Then he heard someone yell.

"There's more of the them over here!" People began to look around and noticed these bizarre fungus growing out of flower beds and areas that had been layered with mulch. The farm museum was infested with them. Moe asked,

"What do you think Sid?"

The crowd was zeroing in on the mushrooms.

"Uhh, I'm okay, in case anyone was wondering."

"Ah, Sonny!" Moe said turned to his son and offered him a hand. Moe knew he was alright. Gomer got up off the ground and Sveltie offered him a tissue to wipe the funk off of his face.

Sid looked down at the white stalk with the bulbous brown head and the queer looking white ring on top.It was slimy and crawling with insects. There were some reddish looking ones in the flower bed across the way. Disturbingly enough, they looked like uncircumcised penises.

"Stinkhorns"

"What?"

"They call them stinkhorns. I have seen any of these in decades. They also call 'em dog's dicks.

"I guess the Mohelim didn't get to these yet, eh Dad? Better call the temple."

Moe laughed but whacked his son on the arm regardless.

"Are you alright sonny?"

"Eh, I'm fine just like hitting the ground in a parachute."

Sveltie was hugging Jerry.

"Those are the oddest looking things." She said. Sid looked over at his life long friend, Moe, and said,

"The way you leaped out of that chair, you look like you are ready to beat me in the 100 yard dash again."

"Yeah, Dad, you moved pretty quickly."

"I'm a little weak from the meds but the doctors say I'm getting better." He hugged Gomer who still had the noose around his neck.

"I love you Sonny, boy ... Hey, look I got a picture before the rope came undone. Gomer put his arm around his father's shoulder. Sid leaned in on the other side and they all peered at the photograph of him swinging from the mighty Maple tree.

Gomer just looked at his Dad and gave thanks that he was here just one more day. He looked around and saw all of his friends and loved ones. Jeff, his sponsor was coming in for a hug.

"You alright, Buddy?" Gomer was a little emotional and sniffed back a tear. He never thought that he could ever have such a wonderful life without the use of drugs He was grateful for waking up, He was grateful that even though the re-enactment went awry that he got out unscathed and more importantly he didn't accidently get hanged. He was thankful for the Odd Fellows and Jerry and Sveltie, all of the people who didn't turn their backs on him even though he turned his back on them when he was caught up in the grips of his addiction.

"You know Jeff, Today I beleive that I never have to get high again, I really beleive that."

"I know, my brother. Does that mean you are going to get rid of that joint in your ash tray?"

Gomer didn't answer.

As the day wound down, people got back into their cars and emptied the cluttered parking lot. Paul and Donnie carefully wheeled the donut machine down McKernan St., back to the Odd Fellows Hall, where the members busied themselves with clean up and organization.

Soon Muskrat Flats was once again quiet and people settled in for the eve. Jerry finally was where he longed to be. Slowly untying his sultry wife's costume. Gomer and Sid drove Moe back to his house, where he read from the manuscript he had been working on in the nursing home, as his guests listened intently.

Yes, life is good in Muskrat Flats these days. But until the stinkhorns disappear the and the stench of organic decaying funkiness continues to permeate the air, it is probably the best reason to get it in gear and start ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats

"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows."

2008-10-15T05:53:00.007-04:00

Warning - This contains Explicit racial/ethnic content ... you Honky!

Hello Folks - You may be interested to note that this is being written from the Hartford Civic Center, er excuse me it is now the XL Center. It is in between the second and third periods of the season opener between the Hartford Wolfpack and our hometown Favorites the Springfield Falcons. The score is tied 3-3. Why I am here with my computer is irrelevant, but I am in a comfortable spot, the laptop is plugged in and I have a reasonable work space.

Between periods, I decided to take a walk around the perimeter of the arena. Something I had done many times before. Not necessarily at Hockey games, hockey games are a fun thing. Right now Christopher Walken is on the jumbotron asking for more cowbell . Ah yes, music sweet music.

As I strolled through the hallways of the former Civic Center, I began to reminisce. I was taken back 24 years … to 10-14-1984. I was strolling through these same hallways during the set break during a Grateful Dead concert. What a stark difference the hockey crowd is from that electrified crowd clogging the hallways so many years ago. It is funny how things change. In 1972, in Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, Hunter Thompson suggested to Democratic candidate George McGovern, and I'm paraphrasing here ... "If you want to win the election, have a picture of yourself taken sitting on a beach, drinking a beer, wearing a Grateful Dead shirt." Monday night, The Dead played a fundraiser for Presidential candidate Barack Obama.

On the way to Hartford I was driving through one of the busier intersections in Springfield. I saw something I had never seen before. Actually, the scene I have encountered I have seen many times in the past but the circumstances and the demographic were such a stark contrast, such a deviation from the norm, that I had to sit up and take notice.

I have to give a little back story before I share what awful comment popped out of my mouth when I first processed what I was witnessing. I can be a real sarcastic bastard sometimes. My best friends love me despite this character flaw. Usually a get groans of disappointment and some lighthearted admonishment. More often than not I get laughter. Just the other night , my friend Geoff responded to one of my wisecracks,

“You should be with Bill Maher.”

“Really, I would love to be on Bill Maher’s show, that would be great.”

“I didn’t mean that you should be on his show, you should be his personal court jester, he’d love you.”

I was born in 1964, too late to know where I was when JFK was murdered and too young to confidently say that I remembered RFK assassination. I do remember where I was when Harry Truman died, oddly enough. The point I’m trying to make is that I grew up in a world where I encountered racism, every day both in my neighborhood in the suburbs as well as at the Catholic grammar school I attended.

We called each other, Guineas, Kikes, Micks and Polacks. Everybody seemed to enjoy a good ethnic joke. The Chinese and Jews were cheap, Polacks were dumb, the Irish were drunks, Greeks owned pizza shops and black people smelled, so blind people could hate them too. I’m sorry it is the way it was, political correctness was a foreign concept back then.

Of course I don’t condone racism, I'm simply repeating what a bunch of ignorant 10 year-olds launched at each other 35 years ago.

As I grew older I realized that the world is an enormously more complex place than we thought it to be when we were running up and down the streets of my neighborhood on our Schwinn bicycles with our banana seats. I changed my attitude as I got older and saw what was really going on with civil rights. My feelings were mixed when I heard Uncle Morose (he was a funeral director) pointedly referring to a group of black men as “jungle bunnies.” My brother and I kind of snickered at the time, but later, my brother took the time to tell me how wrong our Uncle was in his thinking.

I am a pretty tolerant guy. I don’t have a problem with same sex marriage, interracial dating, mating or what have you. Love is love. So please forgive me when you read what came out of my mouth that afternoon. It is now three days later … The Falcons won 4-3. Nice comeback, eh?

I am going to vote for Barack Obama. I think he is the best qualified candidate for the job. He looks and sounds like a CEO. He is calm and smooth under pressure and obviously highly intelligent. I don’t buy the crap the McCain camp is trying to ream down our throats about Bill Ayers. Obama was 8 years old when the Weathermen were doing their thing. I guess McCain forgot about his own stint on the G. Gordon Liddy show. Remember him? The guy who masterminded the Watergate Break in? the Guy who suggested to his audience that if an ATF agent comes at you with the intention of taking away your firearms to violently resist and go for a “head shot, because he will be wearing a bullet proof vest.” This is the same guy who named targets at a shooting range Bill and Hillary. Nice company you are keeping there, Senator and you have the nerve to praise this potential terrorist and right wing loose screw?

McCain also has been quiet about Obama’s association with the Rev. Jeremiah Wright. An easy target if you ask me, and certainly a better one that Bill Ayers. If McCain took this route, to criticize Senator Obama with this association, It may be brought into the light that his running mate, Sarah Palin, used to attend a church where parishioners were known to speak in tongues. Rev. Wright may have said some inflammatory things, but at least you could understand what he was saying.

So here is the scenario I have been working toward. I was driving through Indian Orchard on the way to the Mills. There is a busy intersection near a bridge where a group of African American and Puerto Rican youths had fashioned signs in support of Barack Obama. Some looked official, some looked like the ones you plant in your front yard that had a stick attached to them with duct tape others, held by the girls, were handmade. It doesn’t get any more grass roots than this. They were wearing their baggy clothes, and their baseball hats sideways accented by multi-colored doo rags. The boys had their pants hanging down around their knees, as is the style of the day. And I couldn’t help it. The first words that came out of my mouth were,

“Good God, there’s a reason not to vote for Obama.”

What an asshole! I can hear the banjos playing Dixie in my head.

When I immediately thought about the situation, I asked for forgiveness from the guy upstairs, who with my luck is undoubtedly very dark skinned. I am glad no one heard me, which seems like a moot point since I just narked myself out to the whole world.

I began to think.

What an amazing time we live in. The very fact that these kids, most of whom are too young to vote, took it upon themselves to go out and let their voices be heard ended up leaving me feeling chagrined. Then I felt hope. I felt hope that my daughter was growing up so far away from a time when we would have turned fire hoses on these kids. I felt hope that these kids felt that it is not only their right, but their duty to go out and stand for a person in whom they believe. I feel hope that Americans my age from similar backgrounds can accept and embrace the ever changing landscape.

Back in the day people from all over the world, my Grandfather included, passed through Ellis Island with the hopes that they too could live the American Dream. These kids deserve that dream as well as do their children. We all deserve it.

BTW - Gomer says hi!

You can find me anxiously awaiting my next trip to the voting booth as I am …

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"I see your silver shining town and I know I can't go there..."

2008-10-03T10:49:00.018-04:00

I sat down with a friend to watch the Vice Presidential debate Thursday night. Yah, fer sure, you betcha I did, doggone it.

Yikes, may the God of my understanding Save us.

I had expectations for the debate. I had expected that Sarah Palin would be slick, polished and full of talking points, speaking in generalized themes. I was correct. I was not prepared for the "aw shucks" down home main street America folksy schtick which she was presenting. It was a new-killer performance, I tell you what. I can bet that most of the non-thinking morons who believe everything they see or hear from the Fox network want to not only drink a beer with Sarah Palin but finish off that six pack and engage her in a wet and steamy game of "Drill, baby,drill!"

In my opinion, she didn't really answer any questions posed to her. When I heard Gwen Ifill was to be the moderator, I expected the Governor to be stepping in front of the 70 MPH Fastball machine at the local batting cage. What Governor Palin faced was the 30 MPH softball machine. Ifill was completely lax in holding the Governor to the subject matter, allowing her to deliver line after line of impertinent rehearsed material. I don't believe she uttered one original thought throughout the debate. To think, the right wing pundits were crying foul when they learned of Ifill's role as the moderator of the debate.

Now I am sure they are rejoicing in Governor Palin's shameless invocation of memories of Ronald Regan with statements such as, "there he goes, again." Referring to the "shining city at the top of the hill." and extensively quoting Reagan in her closing remarks. I want to hear what SHE has to say. I've heard what Ronald Reagan had to say, and it was tripe back then.

Senator O'Biden (did anyone else catch that gaffe?) demonstrated why he is the best candidate for the job. He avoided attacking Governor Palin rather attacking John McCain's policies, his voting track record regarding finance reform, and portraying him as anything but the "maverick" he claims to be.

Senator Biden was succinct, displayed a clear command of facts, knowledge of foreign affairs and demonstrated why he is the better candidate to fill the shoes of V.P. Enough of that.

Before the debate my friend said,

"I still haven't read your latest blog. Are you going to keep doing the fiction stuff, cause I miss hearing about what is going on in your life."

What's going on my life? You want to hear about what's going on in my life? And this is the same guy who complains that I "can't keep it to less than 500 words."

You have read about my exploits at the 7-11 occasionally here and there. Well there have been a string of robberies at the 7-11 and it seems that they were all possibly done by the same person/people. The last two definitely were, same masks, same gun, same modus operandi. These morons were caught red handed.

I have been questioned recently by more than a few people regarding Muskrat Flats. Is it real? where is it? How was your trip? Is Gomer Eckstein a real person?

Muskrat Flats is a location mentioned in the Grateful Dead song Pride of Cucamonga.

It is a fictitious location in an un-named State somewhere in the US. We know that it has unique geographical features such as season changes, a River, a Wharf, all located on a peninsula in a valley, which also happens to have flat lands. Go figure. This story wrote itself for a while before it began to develop a character of its own. We know that is borders Cities and towns and neighborhoods such as West Side, Baptist Lake, Enfield, Prescott and Dana. The last three towns suggest it may be somewhere in Western Mass where the Swift and Ware Rivers meet.

Muskrat Flats is my little foray into a Walter Mitty like world. Escapist delusions of grandeur, perhaps, or more like an idyllic Lake Wobegon type of place with a little harder edge. Somehow I can't imagine Garrison Keillor getting on stage and starting out his monologue by stating,

"Reverend Inquvist, the pastor at the Lutheran church, here in town, went down the the methadone clinic the other day ..."

It just doesn't sound right, but it sure fits a situation which could occur in a place like Muskrat Flats.

So, yes it is mostly fiction with bits of reality thrown in. What can I say? It just happened. When I write I am just as amazed as anyone as to what the end result will be. I generally have an Idea of where I want to go with the story, but most of the best stuff just rolls out. People, places and things, (heh, get it?) may seem familiar to you, but they are people you meet every day, there are circumstances that one and ten people you know are probably dealing with as you read this. I'm just a little better at making my words, ideas and fantasies come to life, than the average bear.

Well, I think I have exceeded my 500 word limit again. I will keep up with a reporting on things going on in my life and my recovery.

For now, the residents of Muskrat Flats are gearing up for the Fall Festival at the Farm and Agriculture Museum. Jeremiah and his wife Jenny are bringing their work home in anticipation of next weekend's events. He is going over the demo schedule and she is bending black pvc tubing and making hula hoops.

Sid Bartleby's kid has only gotten kicked by one horse as he practices putting their shoes on.

Gomer is furiously working on writing his second step, in the meantime he is trying to reinforce the crumbling harness he is supposed to wear in the re-enactment of Sheriff Hawthorne's "hanging" with one of his more up to date and presumably safer parachute harnesses.

These characters have a pulse they are breathing and to me, and to some of you they seem so real that you question their existence. I want to find out what happens to them next, don't you?

Until then, you will once again find me ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

"Ooooh, That Smell , Can't you smell that smell?"

2008-09-29T08:25:00.017-04:00

A warm front swept through Muskrat Flats over the weekend. This was preceded by some heavy periods of rain. The sewer culvert on the corner of Petersen and McKernan Streets was clogged with the earliest of the fallen leaves among other debris. The leaves probably were more swept away from their branches rather than falling to the ground as nature had intended. Sometimes nature decides it needs to speed things up a bit. But things, such as speeding up of the process, should not happen in such a glorious season as Fall, not in Muskrat Flats. Not when preparations need to be completed before the start of the Fall Festival.

The result of the culvert clogging was a 12 inch deep puddle which flooded the parking lot of the Odd Fellows Hall and Petersen St. The edge of the puddle ended up lapping against the doorway to the basement every time a vehicle would cautiously traverse the flooded street sending waves which rippled in either direction.

The members were outside enthusiastically clearing the culvert of the of the leaves, sticks and debris. This was nothing compared to the cleanup they endured at the beginning of the month. Two of the younger members worked on the storm drain with shovels and rakes while a crowd of members stood around and watched them work. The water was not going anywhere.

To the outside observer this scene would have looked like any other roadside construction detail you would see anywhere. This was accentuated by the dress of the bunch. The Odd Fellows were a prepared bunch of gentlemen, who always seemed to have a set of knee high rubber galoshes and yellow or day-glow orange foul weather gear handy.

Sid Bartleby stood by a welcome face in the bunch with his elbow locked together with that of his dear friend, Moe Eckstein.

Moe had been feeling better and healthier these days and ventured out of his assisted living facility to once again partake of the morning ritual involving Iva Bartleby's award winning blueberry Muffins, a recipe handed down by her husband's great Grandmother Edna, the woman who opened Bartleby's Mercantile, the General Store currently run by her and her husband Sid, and their daughter.

The last time Moe ventured out, all he could do was inhale the aroma of the coffee and muffins. He had no appetite and was nauseated. He had the antidote to this situation in his pocket. Even though he was wracked with the pain and suffering associated with chemotherapy, Moe was not about to put his "Sonny boy" Gomer in harm's way by lighting a joint in his presence. He admired what his son was doing with his new lifestyle, he wasn't about to tempt fate. They even had a lighthearted discussion about it recently.

"How are you feeling, Dad?"

"Ahhh," He grunted. "I'm nauseated and I can't eat."

"Well, there's an easy solution to that problem." Gomer motioned to the joint in his ashtray.

"What about you, Sonny?"

"You can have it, it won't bother me, I'll smoke the rest of it tomorrow." Moe laughed a cautious snicker as to not rattle his insides too much.

"Sure, you will, Sonny, sure you will. Thank you but, I'll pass." He hesitated ...

"You know that is not what I meant, right? That you don't NEED that or anything else?"

Gomer nodded and smiled.

"I love you, Sonny, I'm so proud of the man you have become."

Gomer stood across from the culvert. Among the crowd was Coley Blackstone, holding his dog Chubby. Coley, who had just been released from the psych ward, was on some meds, and was actually taking them. He felt better and it was an amazing feat that he was as involved socially as he was at the present moment. It helped him that the townspeople were so curious about his situation and welcomed him so warmly. Even when he was "homeless", the Flatlanders were more accepting of him than he may have been accepted elsewhere. Coley did double take to see if anyone was looking as he submitted to his obsessive-compulsive tendencies, quickly bending down and snatching a floating cigarette butt out of the water. He looked around again and slipped it into a small ziplock plastic bag he had in his pocket, balancing his little mutt in the crook of his arm as he did so.

Gomer looked away from Coley and watched his father and Sid, locked arm in arm. He remembered his father's credo, "Life is what it is, live it!" He smiled to himself, grateful for another day clean and grateful that his father could be out and about to enjoy this day.

Jeff Nelson, gave new meaning to his business name, Wake of the Flood Plumbing, as he careened his truck through the puddle and into the parking lot just a little faster than he probably should have. The waves crashed through the crowd, actually causing the water level to go higher than the rim of some of the members knee high rubbers. Gomer almost lost his balance. There was the typical shouting and fist shaking as Jeff exited his truck with a big mischievous smile.

"You better have that snake with you, Asshole!" One of the members shouted as his newly drenched sock squeaked and squished inside his boot.

He opened a back panel of his truck. Gomer ran over to grab the industrial strength snake and began to shove it into the storm drain. Jeff flipped the switch and began to manipulate the turning flexible 3/4 in. spring. A few tugs and forward thrusts later, he felt something give. A little geyser of water erupted from a manhole cover down grade as the cover lifted up and slammed down a couple of times. This stopped as quickly as it had appeared as the puddle noisily left the corner of Petersen and McKernan streets for an unseen destination. All but a few of the members retreated into the banquet hall.

Gomer and Jeff sat down at a table. They huddled in close.

"How are you today, Jeff?"

"I'm doing okay, my brother." He hesitated. Gomer asked,

"What ... what's that? Everything okay."

"I gotta admit, I've been praying all the way here. I am struggling this morning, I kept entertaining the thought of driving over to the South End in Dana, to see if anyone is out."

"Wow, how many years do you have?"

"I've got the same thing as you have, my brother, I've got today. That is all any of us has ... I woke up, I was feeling okay. I was a little distraught. It is so hot and humid and I have a job in a basement later on today. It is going to be murder." Gomer nodded in agreement. Then it dawned on him where this was going, having ridden in his sponsor's truck numerous times before. Gomer said,

"Hot and humid ... the truck?"

"Yes, the fucking truck!"

"Aw, dude, when are you going to deal with that? You need to get that rug power washed."

"It usually doesn't bother me, but today it hit me like a ton of bricks."

About four months ago, at the end of April, Jeff was doing a 12th Step call. He was picking up the son of a client of his who had developed a bad habit. Something he should not have done alone, but it was 3 in the morning and he figured that he would just pick the kid up and drop him off at a detox.

The kid was drunk when Jeff showed up. On the way there, he kept thanking Jeff for helping him out. He was spouting all of the usual stuff. He was fucked up and that he needed to get clean and he was going to go to meetings ... all the while, he was fidgeting and going through his pockets. The kid began opening something, Jeff looked over and was horrified that it was a plastic corner bag. He was pulling into the municipal hospital and neglected to see a speed bump as he was focusing on what was in the hand of his passenger. As he went over the bump, the kid dropped the bag on the carpet of his new truck.

"Fuck, Man!"

"What the fuck did you bring into my truck?"

"That was a half gram of dope, man, FUCK!"

Jeff, sighed, silently said the Serenity Prayer. He got the kid to the front entrance. Exited the truck and walked around to the passenger side. He handed the kid a small fox tail brush and simply said,

"Clean it up."

The kid agonized over the fact that he had to sweep his dope out into the parking lot. He handed Jeff the brush back, and thanked him, he also apologized and began walking the road of recovery as he loped into the intake area of the facility.

Jeff didn't think anything else of the matter until about a week and a half later. It was one of those warm muggy spring days. He walked out to his truck and opened the door. He slid in to the driver's seat to be greeted by the unmistakable smell of heroin.

"FUCK, Fucking FUCK! What the FUCK?! He raged. He rolled down his window leaned his head out and went to pick up Gomer, who inhaled the aroma and looked at his sponsor with wide eyed disbelief as he got into the vehicle.

Underneath the picture of Coleman Hawthorne III hanging from the large oak tree outside his office, Jeff and Gomer continued their breakfast. Gomer said.

"Yeah, I remember that morning you picked me up, It smelled like a poppy field in Afghanistan inside your truck. I remember thinking, Okay, Jeff, I guess you're having a good morning."

"I'm glad you believed how it happened."

"Of course I did, who can make up shit like that?"

They both had a good chuckle about it as their subsequent and wholly unprincipled conversation deteriorated into cracking each other up about some of the newcomer women in the program who were "white key tag worthy", meaning a young lass they would likely relapse with if they encountered them on the wrong day at the wrong time, leading them to Surrender once again and start counting from day one as they continued their trek down the road.

They sipped their coffees. Gomer looked up and saw Sid and his father walking over to the table. Gomer sighed and shook his head as he saw what Sid was carrying. It was the cracked and faded leather and hemp harness which Sheriff Coleman Hawthrone the III, wore under his over sized white suit, preventing his neck from being snapped when he was "hung" on that beautiful Autum day in 1879.

"You can't seriously expect me to wear that crumbling relic during the Fall Festival?" As he eyeballed the rusted and flimsy fasteners on the harness. Gomer's father slapped his shoulder and said,

Ah, Comon, Sonny boy, What's the worst thing that can happen?" Moe smiled and looked over at Sid as he said this. Gomer looked at a parking lot puddle full of familiar faces who were silent for a few seconds before they all burst out in laughter.

"Yeah, Dad, what IS the worst that can happen?" Gomer said as he placed his hand on his neck and began to massage himself.

As the leaves are beginning to turn and throngs of tourists are about descend upon us, NOW would be a good time to start ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

Thanks for Reading,

Pablo

"Go play your hand you big-talkin' man, Make a big fool of yourself."

2008-09-23T19:23:00.007-04:00

It was a very dry and dusty day in Muskrat Flats, somewhat of an Indian Summer. An Indian summer with its short but warm days brought forth a round of good memories for Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne as he peered out the window of his office. The oak and maple trees were beginning to show hues of bronze, yellow and red, dotting the landscape like those paintings he had seen in Paris a few years ago. Impressionism, they called it.

Sheriff Hawthorne took a big pull off of his cigar and swirled his tumbler of whiskey wishing he would have the opportunity to see those paintings again. But how to get to Paris? How indeed. He was needed here. He certainly had the means to do so, he just needed the time.

He sometimes fantasized that when he finally did get to Paris, he could convince some of those painters to come and add to the growing bohemian flavor of the community here in the Flats.

Perhaps it was a co-incidence, perhaps it was the location, but there was something about Muskrat Flats which attracted a certain type of person. Thinkers, writers, artists, and entrepreneurs seemed to all fall together quite by chance.

On any given day a lone wolf would wander into Muskrat Flats. Someone who would feel like an outsider anywhere else in the world ... they would wander into town and find themselves at home and looking for a place to live, to write, to hang out their shingle and most of all enjoy the spirit of community. Call it a co-incidence but things were happening in town the way Hawthorne thought that they should. Yes they were.

Sheriff Hawthorne looked over to the right, and peered down Petersen St., where the new Odd Fellows Hall was being constructed. Yes the summer of 1879 it had been a good summer, indeed. He was roused from his thoughts as the door to his office opened.

Edna Bartleby walked in, she was wearing a well worn apron and a house dress of somber earth tones. He could see that she had been crying. He rose from his chair and put out the cigar. He tipped his hat.

"Edna, what is wrong, how can I help you?" She was cradling a folded document.

"Can ... can they do this?" He looked at the document. It was from the Silverstein Brothers, the owner of the silver mine which had given birth to the little oasis Hawthorne and so many others called home many years ago.

Hawthorne rolled his unlit cigar around in his mouth. Tsking to himself as he read. He sighed.

"Tell you what Edna, ignore this letter. You are about the tenth person from your neck of the woods who has gotten one of these. I'll talk to the Silversteins and see what we can figure out."

She headed to the door. He reread the letter he had seen already addressed to ten different former employees of the mine. It was a scam of the worst kind, a legal one. The Silverstein Brothers had a mercantile where most of their employees shopped. The did so because in the leaner times they could get product from the mercantile on credit from their future earnings. It was not clearly explained that these purchases had an interest amount factored into the transaction which amounted to about 15%. So, there were workers who's whole check was going right back to the company with a balance still owed.

The Silversteins were coming to the end of the road with the mine. Their yield was half of what it had been in its heyday. There was a recent mine collapse about 18 months ago where five miners were lost. Much to their dismay, the Silversteins were encouraged to pay off a settlement to the deceased worker's families, a situation which surely would not have happened if Hawthorne did not get involved. This left a bitter taste in their mouths and an even more bitter resentment toward the Sheriff.

Now, what the Silversteins were doing was firing workers who had a tab they could not afford to pay back with the intention of taking their land and homesteads as a means to settle their debt, at least that is what they wanted to do.

"Can they do this?" Edna asked. "Can they really do this?"

"Technically they can, but they manipulated the system to their advantage. That is not how we do things in the Flats now, is it?" She smiled at the Sheriff who just winked at her.

"No, Sheriff, It certainly is not." She held her head high as she walked out into the warm dusty street. The Sheriff took a swig of his whiskey strapped on his side arm and ventured out into the street.

Sheriff Hawthorne walked down the street tipping his hat and smiling to those who greeted him. He entered the mercantile and walked up the stairs to Abraham Silvertein's office. He really ran the show, his spineless bother Jerome was more of a figurehead in the company. He did all of his older brother's dirty work.

Sheriff Hawthorne reached into his pocket pulling out the 10 documents he had pertaining to this matter. With the letters in his hand he walked into the office unannounced.

Abraham was sitting in the chair of his opulently adorned office with Celeste, one of Hawthorne's favorite girls on her knees in front of him with her beautiful blonde head bobbing up and down. He slammed the door behind him.

"Can I interrupt?" Celeste was used to making quick getaways. She was up and pulling her breasts back inside her dress. She gave him a smirk as she passed by. He winked and whispered,

"sorry sweetie." She hissed back

"You OWE me one, TODAY!"

"Hawthorne, vaht's the meaning of this, They don't knock in zee barn you grew up in?"

"On Beacon Hill we had butlers, to knock and answer when knocked. It was rather stuffy and I feel that I have missed out on some of the social folkways, I should have learned as a child. A point I just, so rudely have proven to you. So, If you will forgive my faux pas." He continued.

"My detachment from a segment of society whom I had so admired, much to the chagrin of my family, is why I chose to move out here. This wonderful community, of hardworking folks, artists and musicians, inventors, this little oasis I named Muskrat Flats."

Abraham was fastening his pants.

"Jah, I'm sure you haf a point..."

"I dropped by because I figured you would be hard at work on your next investment, your next scurrilous scheme which I would like to discuss with you." he said as he waved the documents in his hand and threw them on his desk. Silverstein picked up the papers and leafed through them.

"Jah, so vaht. These schwein-hund owe us a lot of money. Ve vill get vaht ve are owed. I don't vant to be responsible ..." Hawthorne cut him off mocking him.

"Jah, I don't vant to be responsible." He slipped back into his own voice. "Being responsible seems to be something you are incapable of. Being responsible means that you do the right thing. Being responsible means not following through with an obvious scam like this."

"Now, you just vait a minute."

"No, I have waited long enough. I would need time to look through the legal books and to find a precedent which proves what you are doing is wrong legally. To tell you the truth I don't think it is illegal. I would take it to the supreme court if I had to, to protect these "dogs" as you call them. I call them my neighbors."

Silverstein was glaring at him.

"I know the mine is failing, but I also know that by the time you close down its operations, you are NOT going to have stolen the land from the workers and families who made you rich in the first place. "

"You know sheriff, Fuck You! Look at your self, you got rich building this town, too!" He spat on the floor.

"Yes I did, I got rich beyond my wildest dreams, but in case you haven't noticed. I spread it around. When I do well everyone does well. You just covet what other people have and are willing to put them on the street to get it." He glared at Silverstein. I've got a proposition for you"

He outlined the proposition to Silverstein. He offered to buy the mine, and settle the debts owed to the mercantile. The offer was soundly rejected.

"I think my vay is better."

"I'm not going to let this happen. That I guarantee, as long as I am Sheriff."

"Vell, ve'll see vaht happens then, Jah? Vaht if the great Sheriff Hawthorne is not there to protect the vorkers, hah? Vaht if ve elect another Sheriff, Jah?" He began laughing an insane maniacal laugh.

"Okay, Abe, that's going to happen ..."

"Okay, vaht if you just. How you say ... Disappear, vaht then."

"Look Abe, I don't like you, maybe it is your accent, maybe it is because you were with Celeste. Maybe it is because you are the grimy little shit that I scraped off of the bottom of my boot on one of your shelves down stairs. I don't like being threatened. And You ... are ... NOT ... going to win. My offer stands I suggest you take it."

"Tell Bartelby he is out by Friday." He slapped the stack of documents back in Hawthorne's hand.

That was the last conversation that Hawthorne had with Silverstein. Hawthorne had something to prove. Unfortunately, he was not going to be there to see it. He was sure that Silverstein was going to kill him and he had to beat him at his own game.

The next afternoon he had a meeting with all of the future members of the Odd Fellows. He outlined his plan, he explained why it had to be that way. He told Edna Bartleby what her role in the plan was. She was to open a mercantile. She was not to undercut the prices across town. Former Union Officers who were friends of Hawthorne were coming into Muskrat Flats to help keep the peace.

The next afternoon, Silverstein was walking down the street scheming. There was a loud crash. The Sheriff Came flying through the window of the saloon. He was followed by his two best friends who were calling him a swindler. He dusted off his white suit and tried to calm them down. but they were determined. A crowd gathered. One person shouted out what the Sheriff's crimes were, he was taking kickbacks and going to allow the repossessions to happen. Everyone was drunk and disorderly. Before Silverstein could catch his breath there was a noose around Hawthorne's neck and he was on the back of a horse. Within seconds someone slapped the horse in the ass and Hawthorne was swinging from one of those colorful oak branches he was admiring a few short days ago.

His legs kicked for a minute and then his body went limp. Silverstein puffed his chest out at what he saw. He was a happy man.

The next day, one by one everyone who worked for the mine went to the mercantile to pay off their debts. Within days, Edna Bartelby had a fully stocked store and was doing a great business. Workers stopped showing up at the mine because they got jobs with the Coleman Hawthorne Foundation. It seems that after the sheriff was hung in a drunken rage, his will was discovered. He paid off all of the debts of everyone in town and purchased their land on which they could live indefinitely until it was willed either to a next generation or a land conservation trust. That is how the Farm Museum, the Railroad station and everything else that is so unique about Muskrat Flats came to be.

The Silversteins had no choice but to close up shop and they moved out of town. They had too much to lose, they knew when they were beaten.

Nobody shopped at the mercantile because they were predators. Edna Bartleby was a sweet heart and people wanted to see her succeed. The community thrived it became a destination for the generations, just as it is today. Sheriff Hawthorne's little experiment worked, even though only a handful of key people in town knew it was an experiment. It worked because the community had faith.

About 10 months later, an election was held for the office of Sheriff. Coleman Hawthorne the III was re-elected posthumously as Sheriff of Muskrat Flats.

At the swearing in ceremony scheduled a year to the day of Hawthorne's hanging, Deputy Waldo Robertson was going to accept the position as the Sheriff. He had prepared a speech which he would have slurred because he had gotten drunk, again. The ceremony was scheduled for 12:05 PM, right after the Noon train rolled into town dropping off three scruffy passengers.

Ned Bartelby was on the platform making a speech. He finally concluded.

"It is my great honor and privilege to name Coleman Hawthorne the III as your next Sheriff. Accepting on his behalf Deputy Waldo Robertson. Roberstson began to stumble across the stage.

A loud booming voice shouted,

"What's This? There stood Coleman Hawthorne in his signature white suit with his arms outstretched watching Robertson waddle across the stage. With a big smile on his face. He beamed at the crowd.

"I Win!" Robertson focused in on Hawthorne and pissed his pants. As Coleman Hawthorne swaggered across the platform to the podium. He was followed by two men.

Ladies and Gentlemen this is Jean Luc, and Esteban, they are two artists from Paris who want to live here with us in Muskrat Flats. What do you think of that?"

The crowd was aghast. Some of the crowd gasped, those in the know were hysterical with laughter. He looked over to Celeste who was crying and winked. The crowd started cheering and jumping up and down.

"Bon Jour, mon amis! Yep it's me. Sorry about the way I left the Flats a year ago. But I really needed a vacation and you all had a job to do ... saving your town and protecting your way of life. I could not be here to help you, and trust me, I really didn't want to leave you hanging."

That comment garnered groans and boos from the crowd as well as smattering of raucous laughter.

"But seriously, It is my pleasure to accept the position, for the second time in my two lives as the Sheriff of Muskrat Flats. And if anyone needs to dicuss this with me you now where to find me, either in my office or the basement of the Odd Fellows Hall. Speaking of ...On to more important things ...what's that, Edna? Do I smell coffee and blueberry muffins?"

Things were back to normal in Muskrat Flats, nobody blinked. Everyone kind of knew that Hawthorne was coming back, After all, who would really want to hang him, he had always been there to protect them and help them along. They finally did it on their own and they were proud of it.

Hopefully Abe and Jerome never looked back as they were ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats.

"Everyone is equal in my eye."

2008-09-22T22:53:00.011-04:00

It was just another week in Muskrat Flats. It was a little busier than usual for early fall, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Is there anything about Muskrat Flats that is ordinary?

The basement of the Odd Fellows Hall was once again warm with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and blueberry muffins. The rustic paneled walls were adorned with various pictures of long deceased members next to an enumerated Honor Roll of other previous members as the morning regulars went about their business.

Two of the older regulars were agreeing that Sarah Palin is pretty hot, although they were not going to vote for McCain. They were situated under an oil painted portrait of Coleman Hawthorne the III, the granddaddy of all of the Odd Fellows in Muskrat Flats. As we recently found out he is also the great grand daddy to the Flats most recent celebrity, who’s lineage was finally made public, the seemingly homeless hermit, Coley Blackstone.

Although Coley’s odd demeanor and newly revealed financial status had been the topic of conversation in the Flats, most folks just shrugged it off as him truly being a chip off of his Great Grandfather’s block. After all, Coleman Hawthorne was not only the sheriff and founder of Muskrat Flats. He was a notorious prankster, as we have already found out, and guess what, more will be revealed.

Near the portrait hung a sepia toned picture of Coleman Hawthorne’s most elaborate and well publicized pranks. The picture hung in a place of honor, above the mantel of the large fireplace.

The aroma of the coffee and muffins was accented by the smoky perfume of the season’s first fire which rolled along in the carbon blackened stone and brick grotto. The fur of the stuffed muskrat on the mantle piece as well as the fur of a jack-a-lope which was frozen as if it were poised to attack, was rippling from the radiating warmth of the rustic fireplace.

Jerry and Jenny Smith leaned in close to each other as they huddled with Gomer Eckstein. Jeff watched his lovely bride, still and always worthy of his pet name for her, Sveltlana, as she held Gomer’s hand, offering comfort and kind words as he told them of his feelings about his dying father.

Gomer had just come back from a wedding he had played in Eden Prairie. He was feeling a little overwhelmed. He had a string of gigs which would take him out of town the next four weekends. He felt like he should cancel them so he could be with his father, who insisted that he fulfill his obligations.

“He told me, "Sonny, life is life, it will go on whether or not you or I are here, live it, Man. I am. I am enjoying every day, especially when I see you, but you can’t live your live in fear that you will not be here when I die.” He choked back a tear and looked at Jerry and Sveltie. She squeezed his hand.

“He is right, It is just so hard to accept. I have been praying. And I am definitely going to smoke that joint tomorrow.”

“When you do, you better call us, Gomer.” Jerry smiled broadly and clapped his buddy on the shoulder. “Just remember that he loves YOU more than anything. How lucky are you that you have such a good relationship with him? Besides something tells me he is not going anywhere until the memoir is completed.” Sveltie smiled, Gomer laughed.

“What about you guys? How’s everything at the farm museum? I’m still headlining the Fall Festival right?” Jerry said,

“Of course you are, you didn’t get the contract?” Gomer started fishing through a stack of unopened envelopes in his coat pocket and found the one addressed to him in Sveltie’s handwriting. Jerry continued,

"Well everything is in place for the fall festival at the museum. The corn maze has been manicured. Everyone is getting their workshops spiffy. All of the tobacco has been harvested and is drying in the barns. The livestock is looking healthy. This festival is going to be all about demonstrations.”

“Really?!” Gomer queried.

“Absolutely, my friend, we are going to have milking demos, and butter making. Draft horse plowing demos. We are going to have cigar rolling demos, Sid Bartleby’s kid, Kurt had been apprenticing with Benwah in the Blacksmith shop. He is going to be doing horse shoeing demos.” Gomer thought to himself, "had been?"

And what about the vineyards, Sveltie?” Her husband prompted.

“Oh Yeah, most of the grapes have been harvested. And pressed. We had a good harvest. The wine production should be good despite the storm a couple of weeks ago. We are going to have some wine making workshops and demonstrations and tastings.”

Gomer sighed.

“Aww, Gomer I’m sorry, I forget sometimes.”

Jeff Nelson of Wake of the Flood plumbing actually had time for coffee that morning after three weeks worth of non-stop work following the microburst. He overheard what Sveltie had said and interjected,

“As long as HE doesn’t forget!” Jeff plopped himself down at the table with his coffee and muffins.

“Who asked you, motherfucker?”

“Well, as your sponsor, it is suggested that you not forget how much you liked to drink wine before you would bang a speedball and drive down the interstate in the wrong direction.”

Gomer started laughing. Jerry and Sveltie just looked at each other with dubious expressions on their faces and shaking their heads.

“Oh, yeah, those were pretty rough times weren’t they?”

“I heard you mention, Benwah.” Jeff Said in a low voice. “He came around last Saturday to the beginners meeting in Enfield and the next night for the step meeting in Prescott.”

Gomer was awed.

“No shit? Really!? That is very interesting.”

“Yeah I guess the Silver Days debacle was the icing on the cake for him. After his dance with the train and breaking his nose and wrist falling on the pipes, he got drunk for a week straight. One morning he woke up naked in his back yard. That morning he had a liter of vodka for breakfast and went to a detox, then a 30 day program." He looked around and continued,

"I know I'm breaking anonymity, but he needs all the help he can get right now.” Jeff continued in a low voice. He looked over to Jerry, essentially Benwah's boss who then offered,

"Benwah has our support at the Museum, he is on temporary leave and is welcome back when he is ready. We love him over there. We're glad he is getting help, we were worried."

“Good for him, I’ll call him. What’s up with you my brother?” Gomer asked Jeff.

“I was checking out the meter on my blog this morning. I got a hit from a guy in Philadelphia. The words he typed into his search engine were “How do you inject dilaudid into your vein?”

“Oh, my God, dude!” Gomer retorted Jeff and Sveltie both gasped.

“I know … whoever it was ... it directed him to my blog “What not to do with your oral medication". I hope it helped save his life …” Jeff trailed off. They all got silent for a few moments.

Jerry cleared his throat and spoke.

“Sooo, back to the Harvest Festival … How are your neck and back these days, Gomer?”

Gomer had a dazed expression for a moment. He kind of looked at Jeff who was smiling and animatedly gestured with his eyes to the picture of Coleman Hawthorne which hung above the fireplace. What Jerry was really asking of him finally bubbled to the surface in his brain.

“Oh, no … common, Jerry, not this year. No, NO WAY!” There was laughter from the peanut gallery as the morning regulars figured out that Jeff had finally asked Gomer ...THE question.

Sid Bartelby shouted,

“Comon Gomer, do it, I’m getting too old for this shit.” Someone else piped up,

“Yeah, it’s your turn this year, Gomer!”

There was spontaneous clapping which eased into applause. Gomer looked at the picture of Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne in his best Mark Twain suit, hanging on the mantelpiece. The sheriff was surrounded by a very sizable crowd who looked like they were dressed in their Sunday best. The women were holding fringed umbrellas to protect themselves from the afternoon sun and a few men were passing a bottle with with one hand and pumping their fists in the air with the other. There he was, Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne, the mastermind behind incorporation of the Town of Muskrat Flats, with a noose around his neck, hanging from a tree.

Gomer just shook his head and reminded himself, that the never ending stream of situations like these, are why he lives in Muskrat Flats.

He smiled a wide devious grin, all of his worries and fears about his father were temporarily abated. He looked around the room. It seemed like he was standing in a bubble of absolute love and joy as he was surrounded by his most loved friends and colleagues and every one of them had a wickedly warped sense of humor ...just like him.

It was very typical of of Flatlanders to co opt the old Prankster credo, "Let's let our Freak Flags fly and scare the straights." He thought for another second,

"What would his father do?"

That settled it. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers as he said with a beaming smile,

“OK, I’ll do it!”

Coffees were refilled, Iva Bartelby's blueberry muffins were wrapped in paper napkins destined for the eager mouths of various co-workers, spouses and friends as the regulars busied themselves and made their way out of the Odd Fellows basement into the bright and sunny September morning. They were ready to attend to their business as they diverged onto Petersen St. Some walked hand in hand, others shuffled, some even chose a brisk clip. But we can guarantee that one person, perhaps it wasn't even Gomer chose a different pace as they were ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

"So, Let's get to the point ..."

2008-09-15T09:04:00.009-04:00

The winds had died down as quickly as they began. Litter, felled trees and uprooted vegatation intermingled with what appeared to be construction debris were strew across the landscape, leaving Muskrat Flats a humid chaotic mess. Fortunately there was no loss of life.

The Flatlanders did what the could, what they had always done. They went to the Odd Fellows, got the days news with a few home made blue ribbon winning blueberry muffins and some freshly roasted coffee courtesy of Sid Bartelby's wife, Iva.

After breakfast was done they all ventured out to help with the clean up where they could. Some went to the Farm Museum to help tend to the horses and clean up the small live stock pens. Others went to Hawthorne Ave. to help clear the roads for the imposing orange Asplundh emergency vehicles, whose inhabitants in conjunction with the local utilities were steadily working to shore up and finalize the electrical, cable, and telephone connections. They were in contact with Gomer Eckstien who was keeping the folks in the flats informed of what was happening on the ground with his eye in the sky view from his single engined multi-colored bi-plane.

Other residents tended to their own situations doing their yard clean up and organization. That was a week ago. For the most part things are back to normal in Muskrat Flats ... well as normal as they could ever be.

Gomer Eckstien was dressed a little less casually than he normally would have been. After all it was a special day. His Dad, Moe, turned 75 today. Gomer was going to visit him where he resided, an assisted living community on the grounds of the Municipal Hospital. .

Moe Eckstien ended up in Muskrat Flats in the early sixties. Much like his son he was a writer and musician. Even then Muskrat Flats had already developed the reputation for being a more forward thinking an tolerant community which had a tendency for embracing the odd and fantastic, a tip of the hat and lasting legacy to Muskrat Flats founder, Sheriff Coleman Hawthorne.

Gomer pulled his tri-colored primer swatched F150 into the parking lot. He enjoyed these visits with his father but lately they had become tedious. His father was fading. Up until the last 8 months, Gomer had known his Dad to be as energetic and virile as he was. He was a strong, successful man and an active member of the Odd Fellows. He was a frequently published magazine contributor, often writing political satire and social commentary. He had three books under his belt and was working on a fourth, a memoir, with which his son, Gomer was helping him.

Gomer looked about the grounds. They were pristine with perfectly manicured shrubs and lawns. There were no signs that last weeks microburst, they were no longer calling it a tornado, had affected the grounds at all. Gomer thought to himself and said a short prayer. He quietly gave thanks that conditions in the Flats had not been worse after seeing the devastation happening in Texas as a result of Hurricane Ike. He prayed for the strength and the acceptance he needed to get through the next three hours.

He looked in his rear view mirror only to see the hot air balloon gondola he had neglected to unload as he rushed around in the morning trying to get away from the Jump school in time for his appointment with his Dad. He looked in his ashtray and there it was. It was a plump fat joint of the finest cannabis grown in the solar powered shipping containers located somewhere within Muskrat Flats.

That joint had been sitting there in his ashtray for more than three years. It was the joint he kept telling himself he would smoke tomorrow, but every morning he seemed to change his mind and put off smoking it yet another day. It was a silly and dangerous game he played with himself, but it seemed to work.

It reminded him of some old school Alcoholics who carried a pint of liquor in their glove compartments in the instance that they had to go on a 12th step call to bring an alcoholic to a detox. The bottle was there to help the sick and suffering alcoholic, to staved off the DTs allowing him to comfortably bide his time until he was safely bedded in a medical detox facility, much like the facility they had on these grounds. The very same one Gomer had been through three times to detoxify from his drug of choice.

Although Gomer had been a dyed in the wool heroin addict, a situation which led to the demise of his last band Canker Soars, he had been clean for almost five years. He found that joint on the ground in the parking lot outside a venue where his latest band Gomer Shabbos and the Hook Nosed Satans had just played. It was the ultimate test for him. Had he not been where he was in his recovery, he surely would have smoked it. He even considered smoking it. Not being responsible for his first thought, he pushed this thought aside and used the tools at his disposal to work through the situation. He was, after all responsible for his second thought and his first action.

He thought about what his sponsor Jeff had said.

"It is simple, if you are an addict and you continue to use, things are going to get worse. If they don't get worse, then maybe you are not an addict. But only you can make that decision."

Gomer did make a decision, he knew who he was. He chose to keep the joint as a reminder of how it all started. The drug that had taken him down that long, dusty road and garbage strewn road of addiction.

He checked his teeth in the mirror, grabbed his leather bag and walked in.

"Sonny, you are early, so good to see you!" Gomer smile and kissed his Dad on the forehead.

"Hi Dad, how are they hanging?"

"Feh ... they hang, that's about all they do with all of the medication I'm on." Gomer laughed .

"Hey what are you doing on Friday night?"

"We've got a job, a wedding in Eden Prairie."

"Minnesota? Shit that's outside St. Paul, right? We played there once. Garrison Keillor was in the audience that night, I was hoping he would have us on the show ..." He trailed off and shifted in his chair looked pained an uncomfortable.

"So, what is happening Friday,"

"Hector and Beaver are coming in to visit. There are a couple of other writers in here. We are going to turn the rec room into a Coffee House. Hector is going to play some guitar, Me, Beaver and a few others are going to do some spoken word. someone is going to read some passages from Howl. We are going for the North Beach Beat vibe."

"Wow, Dad! Lemme guess, it was your idea."

"Well, Larry picked up the ball and ran with it. I just picked the name. Larry wanted to call it the "Hep Cat" but we're calling it "The Incontinent Cat." Gomer laughed hysterically.

"So, how are you doing, sonny?"

"Good, dad."

"No, I mean how are you doing? You still got that joint in your car?"

"Oh, yeah that. I doing good, Dad. A day at a time, like they say."

"They say that don't they." He leaned in.

"You know the Blackstone kid, the homeless guy?"

"Yeah, I know Coley."

"Tunrs out he is not homelss after all and he's across the yard in the psych ward. they say he is doing well."

"Yeah, everyone in town is talking about it."

Gomer unpacked his recorder and set up the mic. He turned it on and hit the record button.

"So speaking of North Beach. I ever tell you about the time I saw Lenny Bruce?"

"What?!!" Gomer asked wide eyed.

"I was already living in the Flats. I was heading back out West for a few weeks anyway when Beaver called me. He was working at the Fillmore West at the time and told me that Lenny Bruce was going to be playing in June.

"Beaver had been working for Bill Graham at the time. Every now and then Beaver and I would head out to Palo Alto and hang out in the coffee houses near Stanford. We would see Jerry Garcia there. He was playing a banjo all the time. So there was a lot of overlap between the Beat scene and the growing hippie scene. All of the literary greats were around as well. Kesey, Alan Ginsberg ... Beaver and I saw Alan Ginsberg read from Howl!"

"Wow that is soo cool." Moe just kind of drifted off, obviously processing the memory. He continued.

"So, when Beaver told me Bill Graham was trying to get Lenny Bruce's number from Lawrence Ferlinghetti so he could book him at the Fillmore, I knew I had to be there ... The icing on the cake is that The Mothers, you know, Frank Zappa, were on the bill as well."

"I know who the Mothers are, Dad" Gomer expressed with annoyance.

"It was actually kind of a nightmare for Bill. Lenny was pretty heavily into his own drug use at the time and he was constantly being arrested and harassed by the cops for obscenity. Heh, compared to today's standards? Lenny Bruce was a lightweight. But then, Nobody, and I mean Nobody dared to do what he did. He was a warrior for the first amendment. That's why I write the way I do."

"So, the story goes that Bill went to pick him up at the airport in this old convertible Karmaan Ghia at about 3 in the morning. All Lenny did was complain about how cold it was and what a nut Bill Graham was for driving around with the top down, so early in the morning. It was probably Bill's way of saying "fuck you" for having stood him up at the airport earlier in the day. Bill dropped him off in North Beach and didn't see him again until he was two hours late for the gig."

Moe sighed.

"It was embarrassing, Sonny. So much of what I had heard about Lenny Bruce and recordings I had heard ... it was squashed that night. He was on stage a broken, paranoid, babbling man. He wasn't very funny and was obviously hopped up on something. Bill kept walking around like he used to, repeating over and over and gesturing to the stage, "I'm not responsible for this ...I'm not responsible for this!"

Fortunately, Frank Zappa saved the night, that was intense, I tell you what."

"What about Lenny Bruce? Did you get to meet him?"

"I really didn't want to. Perhaps at one point in my life I did, but not that night. A few weeks later he was found dead with a needle sticking out of his arm." Moe stopped and made eye contact with his son.

"I'm glad I never found you like that Sonny." Moe broke up a bit as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"I don't know what I would do without you, Sonny ... I just don't know." He beckoned for a hug.

Gomer leaned in and put his arms around his father, holding him tightly beginning to weep himself.

"I love you, Dad, I don't know what I am going to do without you."

"I know, Sonny, I know. Just do me a favor ... hold on to that joint." They hugged once again.

The next day down at the Odd Fellows Hall, the regulars gathered to bid Gomer farewell and a good trip. They all sat around listening intently as Gomer related the tale of his father seeing Lenny Bruce. They all enjoyed some finely roasted coffee and some of Iva's blue ribbon winning blueberry muffins with some freshly made butter Sveltie brought along from the Farm museum. It seemed like any other day, but they were there for Gomer. They knew what he may be coming back to.

Disease is a strong thing, whether it be mental or spiritual, those situations, with God's grace, can be corrected. But when they are physical, sometimes there is only so much you can do other than just be there ... be there for support.

Gomer said his farewell's as the rest of the band piled into the van. He looked at his joint which he moved from his truck to the ashtray of the van. As Gomer pointed the van in the direction of Eden Prairie. He thought about his father and said another prayer. He looked at the joint again and said to himself, "I'm all set today. But, I'll puff that fatty tomorrow, I'm sure I will," He put the van in gear and he was ...

Running Hard out of Muskrat Flats.

Drunk Stuntmen September Update.

2008-09-11T15:26:00.003-04:00

Greetings Stuntfans - Sorry it has been so long since we last contacted you all. Your reporter was forced to take an extended leave of absence to attend Silver Days and the Labor Day Holiday Run in Muskrat Flats. I divided my time between volunteering in the in the kitchen at the Oddfellow's Hall and doing some glass working demonstrations. For a kitchen run by a benevolent organization, they are busier most commercial kitchens I have seen.

Feeding all of those hungry bikers, working the Land Trust BBQ as well as keeping up with the meals on wheels dinners was enough to keep anyone hopping. This all changed as the Flatlanders had to stop business for a while in town to help with the post Tornado cleanup.

Corey Blackstone's house, down the Street and around the corner from Hawthorne Park, sustained the most damage as the front porch and most of the contents of the first floor were strewn about the neighborhood.

It was an eye opening experience indeed. Corey had a closely guarded secret exposed by the tragedy leveled upon his homestead by the freakish weather ocurrence. Why a multi-millionaire would sleep in a refrigerator box in the dining room of his deceased mother's house was as queer a concept to grasp as was why would he, a regular anonymous donor to facilitate local civic improvements would care to while away his days picking up trash and cigarette butts from the local parks? Accompanied by his dog, Chubby he did his part to keep the scene clean, when he was not furiously scratching calculations in his black composition notebook.

As the townspeople pulled together to work on the cleanup process, it was a logical choice to gravitate to the Odd Fellows Hall, which already had the reputation as a meeting place for all townspeople, not just the Brethren in the organization. Needless to say a lot of blueberry muffins had to be baked and many eggs were scrambled, before I caught a ride to the Municipal Airport.

Now that I am back to reality in the Happy Valley, the heart beat of the Stunt Nation, it is only appropriate to thank all of you who came to the various shows the Drunk Stuntmen played over the course of the Summer of 2008.

If you want to read some real news about the Drunk Stuntmen click here.

As Always You will find me ...

Running Hard Out of Muskrat Flats