Fearless by default

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

2009-11-09T20:53:00.008-05:00

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

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

She's too funny.

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

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

And so it would be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn't pretty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is why I wrote today.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and sixty ... Everything must go.

2009-10-26T11:52:00.018-04:00

I'm slowly realizing how I'm living my life.

We all do it differently; this is unavoidable. Though many people can't seem to stop trying to be someone else, living life vicariously instead of observing and enjoying its uniqueness.

My family here on the east coast--over the last hundred odd years--collected box upon box of belongings. It's all in the house in Mattapoisett. There are the toys from perhaps three or four generations. From stuffed dolls with real hair, protected by plastic bags whose sole purpose is attempting to contain the stuffing-turned-dust from falling out of myriad holes in its hand-sewn body, to the tin wind-up toys of the forties and fifties, the carriages and old bikes with hard rubber tires and hand painted logos made with pride in the USA, to the Legos and Lincoln Logs, the Tinker Toys, the Batmobiles and Six Million Dollar Men, the Atari 2600's along with the battered joysticks and paddles that took the brunt of the abuse from impatient, ever-strengthening hands controlled by fidgety, ever-shortening attention spans.

There are dinnerware sets. There are old globes and maps. There are hundreds of volumes of tax documents, receipts, bank balances, and communiques. Clothes, furniture, pots, pans, tables, chairs, old doorbells, planters, watering cans, piggy banks, clothes hangers, racks, basins, bags, boxes, hats, pins, pens and pencils dull and sharp as tacks.

And it's all just sitting there exactly in conflict with the way I am living my life.

I don't know if it's a sign of my generation or not. I don't know if it has anything to do with the war we're in or the reason we're in it. I don't know if it's as much to do with the realization that I've wasted so much time standing still and aging instead of running, climbing, jumping, and flying. But I just don't feel like I want whoever comes next in the line of my family to have to deal with it all.

I want to die cleanly.

I don't want whoever's left standing, holding the court documents that entitle them to my stuff--and this means all of my stuff, my mom's and aunt's and uncle's and grandparent's--to have to gaze incomprehensibly at a seemingly insurmountable expanse of tangible objects, feeling the same overwhelming sense of powerlessness that I have felt over the last year.

And so, I'm cleaning house starting with the one I actually live in.

It's been almost a year since I packed my cellar full of the boxes and bags of "usable" items and moved them into here. And there they have sat, picked over a few times, but largely ignored.

The Goodwill just opened a store a couple miles away. They've seen my car pull up more than a few times, tripping the hose that lays outside the loading door signaling a new donor's arrival. I can control this cycle as long as I stay on the other side of that door. Not to mention that I'd rather not see the price they put on my erstwhile possessions.

It feels so good to move it out. It is almost like a brand new emotion is triggered when I see a space in the corner, or a drawer in a bureau that can find a new use. My house is as alive as I am, and has to be taken care of from time to time to ensure its health and well being. The chimney had to get professionally swept last week, just like I have to go to the doctor this week for a physical, to make sure everything is moving along the way it should.

Jodi and I cleaned the whole downstairs yesterday--vacuumed and mopped to a squeaky shine. We moved the couches, picked up the mats and the rugs, rescued the many spiders who had taken shelter in the corners and under the cabinets. I even had a little fit because the sun was going down and I wanted to take a walk outside before we had finished in the kitchen. I sometimes start to break down because I can see it all so clearly in front of me--the things I am doing, the things I have done, and the things I want to do--and I want to put them all in a sack and call dibs.

"You don't really want to take a walk and then have to deal with the rest of this, do you?" she asked.

And, of course, she was right. We finished cleaning the floor, took a walk, came home, and relaxed. We cooked dinner together, made a fire in the hearth, and watched a few hours of TV curled up close on the couch.

But today is a new day, just as tomorrow will be. I have a plan to have the cellar cleaned out of unusable items by the time it gets too cold to do it without a hat and gloves--or, about a month. That will mark a year and a few days since I moved into this amazing place. The cellar was empty then, save for a few stray leftovers from the previous owners. And I'm not going to abuse the privilege of space.

And that is exactly what I feel space is: a privilege.

My life's purpose is to create.

My mind makes my living.

My possessions color my surroundings.

My surroundings color my thoughts.

If my surroundings are cluttered and strewn with redundancies, then so will be my thoughts.

And just like I had to clear out the clutter in my mind from my twenty odd years of self-abuse--scraping, scrubbing, scouring, and shoveling--to get to the point where I could see new corners, empty drawers, and the natural grain of the floors that graciously hold my frame up day after day after day, I can now do the same for the place I call home.

All I can see is all I can see. It doesn't get much simpler than that. Unless, of course, I have a bunch of junk in my way.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and forty eight ... Lucky.

2009-10-12T20:55:00.013-04:00

I always dreamed it would be this way.

Years and years of my over-earnest attempts to find the perfect pull to my push are paying off. The space between my sentences--some discrete and organized; some ill fitting--are finally being taken up with either an unhurried silence or a well groomed retort.

It's all happening all the time when I am with my sweetheart. This collaboration doesn't need an introduction anymore. It doesn't need a prompt. It doesn't need an explanation. It just picks up wherever it left off and moves forward and upward.

And I'm definitely not taking it for granted.

I made a promise months ago to keep my affairs with Jodi as private as popular sentiment allows, which is not what I would allow, mind you, because I--as some of you know--have a tendency to let some sensitive information out from time to time.

But that's not to say that I can't just share my awe.

Jodi and I went for a drive this weekend up to Stowe, Vermont for some leaf-peeping. We somehow found the last hotel room in all of New England through the help of the internet; it was an idea that we had batted around a bit--not too thoroughly, but enough to lay out some intentions--and it all kind of fell into place. We shot some website links of destinations back and forth, and within a few hours we had decided to go for it and book the room and take it from there. We left in the morning and took minimal belongings. It was really just for the night, but I tend to over think things and end up with a car full of camping lanterns and leather jackets if left to my own devices. Thankfully my devices are being checked on occasionally as my rapidly simplifying life drains of superfluous needs.

But anyway, we headed out for the drive which on the map should have taken 3.5 hours but ended up taking 5. We were in no hurry. We had no one to meet. We had only ourselves to contend to, and even if--for whatever farcical reason--we had sat in the god dammed driveway for the whole time I swear we could have found enough to keep us entertained. We're just good like that. We stopped at a rest area and had free coffee and cookies. We listened to the radio a little bit. We got off of the highway halfway up and jumped on a scenic route that wound through thirty or so tiny Vermont towns replete with barns and cows, sheep and chickens, bee hives and maple trees, green grass and hay bales.

The only thing that brought my attention to the fact that I wasn't floating through a dream like I've had a hundred times was the state ordered ignition interlock device which allows me--a man almost two years sober--to drive his car. Other than that I could have been fast asleep on a dreamy journey, side by side with my true love, gliding over a multi-colored canvas of reds, golds, oranges, and five shades of green. Even at that, I would try every once in a while to open my eyes wider, hoping I could take in more. And each time I could feel my lids touching my eyebrows like the last slot of a venetian blind reaching its apex.

Conversation. Silence. The whoosh of air through the back windows. A constant report (by yours truly) of the outside air temperature--at first rapidly dropping, then leveling off, shedding a degree here and a degree there. The swell of the radio--public radio, mostly--and then its regress back to white noise. A scratch on the neck. A brush of a hand. A clasping of fingers until the anathema of traffic demands our digits disengage.

We have made this happen, yet it seems as if we haven't done a thing.

Just as I am sitting here alive writing these words of how amazed I am this has finally happened it seems as if I have always been in love.

The road wound and swooped. The pressure played with our ears like a plunger in a fussy sink. We got out and took photos at the slightest delightful chance.

We stopped at a tiny town because we were hungry and because there was parking. We saw a sign that said "Wood Fired Pizza" on the edge of a public park. It was a mobile wood fired oven. We each had a slice of pesto pizza that was amazingly good. We walked around a tiny bit and almost went into a rummage sale but didn't. We tried taking our own picture with my phone but a passing woman with two dogs asked if we wanted her to take it and, of course, we said okay.

The day went on like this--like a dream--as we let gravity tamp us down like so many coffee grounds in an espresso maker--the pressurized water of life running itself down us and through us, depositing us in two neatly placed cups on either end of a double spout.

And I found myself embracing this woman every chance I could tactfully get. I would know instantly if I was overdoing it, but it was never an issue. I don't know if she doesn't care about what other people think as much as I do, or if we are just so expert on our ability to weave in and out of the one person we become when we aren't apart that nobody gives us a second glance.

And the road wore on. We ascended in a northerly fashion up, up, up, past the churches and cow fields, the breakfast joints and haute cusineries. We slipped through the middle of what used to be mountains like a marble through a pair of massive granite bookends. And the signs kept us abreast of our progress. But, truth be told, I didn't really want to stop driving. I didn't want to have to end our temporary confinement. I didn't want to have to talk to another living soul and buy a ticket and go into the craft fair which was our ulterior reason for driving over 300 miles.

Because I could sit perfectly still in silence with this one person for hours upon end, smiling. It would be enough.

We did eventually make it to the craft fair for the last hour. It was nice, but I found it a bit uninspired. Nonetheless, we ended up buying some chocolate, some hot sauce, and some kettle corn. We found the hotel after a few misses. And then, a nice place to have dinner. We stayed up and watched some bad television. We went to bed sufficiently tired and satisfied and slept until the Japanese family loudly taking pictures outside our window woke us up.

As Jodi took some photos on the balcony it started to briefly snow. Mother Nature seemed excited as we were to be there.

Earlier in the day I had driven a few miles back to get gas and we had ended up at a cider mill where we got some donuts and some hot cider. We enjoyed these again for breakfast with the free coffee the hotel provided. We checked out and then I managed to extract a ten percent discount from the AAA membership I have. I'm sure my mom and aunt were smiling. We almost got on the alpine slide, but it was shut down so the ice could be cleaned off the track. Instead we took a slightly more sensible scenic gondola ride to the top of the highest peak in Vermont and had an unforgettable lunch (which is where the picture at the top of this entry was taken). The ten minute ride to the top was a mixture of excited picture-taking and animated embraces.

After that we stopped at Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream Factory and overheard some bitter exchanges: "... you were right, I was wrong ... does that make you happy?" And I thought to myself that the answer to that question is so unimportant, especially because it even had to be asked.

The Red Sox lost that day at 2:30, ending the season for 2009.

The drive home went by like an unmarked Crown Victoria. We had a serious project to attend to: we had to make an apple pie!

We cut out some serious traffic thanks to Jodi's trusty iPhone and slipped back into Massachusetts, our home. I had guessed we would make it to the grocery store at 7:10; Jodi had predicted 7:00. She was right, I was wrong, we were both happy.

We fired up the oven and donned our chef hats. I made a phone call to Paul to sort out an ingredient issue and he was, as always, willing and eager to help.

The Patriots lost in overtime at 7:30.

At 8:45--after preparing, together, our first homemade crust and filling it with local apples tossed with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and butter--a pie was unleashed on the world.

It wasn't the prettiest pie in the world. And, in fact, it only got worse looking as I tore into it with my knife. But it was the final act in a fantastic performance of a beloved production. It was served--still very much warm--with ice cream to our Sunday night TV friends Ken, Sarah, Sheena, and Omar. The apples had a slight firmness on the outside but were all soft and serious towards the center. Ken tried to hold out. He wanted to say no and, in fact, he did at first. But as I came back into the kitchen and witnessed Jodi serving him a modest slice he explained that "I couldn't resist ... it's just too good!"

We enjoyed our Sunday night television together and then parted ways. Jodi, though, stayed right here with me and we spent some more time together just amazed that we could be so thoroughly content.

This time we spent--this time after a full day and a half of being together, traveling up to what was not far from the border of Canada, making a pie, and spending time with our friends--this small parcel of time seemed like a whole other night in and of itself. It felt like we had just met for the evening. It felt fresh. It felt different. It felt like the two of us had opened up a new LP and put it on the platter and dropped the needle, expectantly waiting for the opening notes of track one.

I don't think that Jodi ever noticed my grimace when I pinched myself right then. I don't think she ever does, and I do it quite often. I do it because I kind of do want to wake up if this is all a dream. Because I want to write it down. I want to always remember it. I want to tell the world what I saw in my head--how I lived, for a brief moment in time, a life that I can only imagine is what the most detailed definition of love is.

Because I always dreamed it would be this way.

Thank you, Jodi Lynne Nicholas.

I love you so very much,

~Alex

And, as always, to you who spent the time to process my seemingly never ending story of amazing life-discovery:

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and thirty one ... Such is life.

2009-09-25T09:03:00.009-04:00

Why rush it?

Is there any reason besides not knowing?

The question I'm deflecting is a common one: what am I doing here?

I don't have too much gut wrenching prose to lay out on this page. I'm kind of in too good a mood to write about sobriety. It's safe to say that I'm still at it almost 21 months now and life is absolutely fabulous.

But I have all kinds of things that contribute to that last sentence. One of them is that I learned to just care a little less. Now this isn't to say that I have turned into a callous, pompous, prick. That's for you to tell me.

No, what I'm saying is that one of the things that I see many people struggling with in life is that they are so totally wrapped up worrying about the things they think they should be doing that it's taking away valuable time that could be spent appreciating where they are.

When we are young--like between the age when we can start remembering life events, until about 10 or so--our existence is a lot like a boxing ring. We have our corners where we get nourishment and encouragement, and we have a lot of space in between. And it is on this magical ring that we dance excitedly around, safely flailing ourselves at our daily obstacles. The edges, corners, and floors are all padded. There are ropes to hold us in if we get tossed to one side or another. And we have referees to tell us when it's time to stop and rest a while.

Bedtime, hypodermic needles, the mean kid across the street, AA battery deprivation, coloring inside the lines, eating paste, winter jacket aversion, hair cuts, spinach, vitamins, Aunt Stacia's house, clean clothes, etc. All these things (at least in my life) were a source for battle. I thought I knew what was best; my mother had a different opinion. And so, I learned to cherish my fun times with great zeal. It was a dramatic undertaking, this playtime. It felt like it almost wasn't going to come around again. Because even as a child we think that what goes on in that ring is the only thing that is going to ever happen to us. It's the main event. It has all the trappings of a Don King production in our minds, and when we lose (oh, and how we lose) to our fiery foe (the evil, loving parent) it makes all the papers in our microscopic world. The decision is heard from the basement to the attic and on all floors in between. Rats!

But the thing that I think I appreciated about my anxiety over the little battles back then, compared to now, is that I had much clearer sight lines despite my stature. I could see what mattered better because I hadn't crowded my ring, so to speak. I could look at my foe and say, "I only have one thing to worry about, and when this is all over it's either going to be in the past or it's going to be in the present, but I'm unable to complicate things by concerning myself with the future because I don't have so much experience with it."

I was simpler. I was clutter-free. I had higher expectations for winning because I hadn't lost as much as I have to this point presently.

On stage at the theaters we play at there are many microphones. Some are on stands to be used for soloists to sing into while standing in front. There are a few hand held mics that travel around the stage and are either placed on a table in front of a performer to pick up their voice above. Some singers get to pick up these mics and hold them and sing into it to the audience.

And then there are the overheads.

These are the mics that are--as the name would suggest--overhead a few feet in the air. They are small and unobtrusive. Some are angled slightly to pick up a wide scope; some are pointed straight down. But the thing about these diminutive mics is that they are created to do a very big job. And what's more is that this very important piece of equipment is also designed to be virtually undetectable. The only way the audience would be able to tell they were doing anything is if they were suddenly turned off in the middle of a song. Hey. Where did they go?

And these mics remind me of my goals. They are there in the distance supporting my performance below. There is some space between them because there's no need to crowd them together. Too many next to each other would seem like overkill. Not enough would seem like a waste. And the person in charge of setting the levels is sort of an amalgamation of everyone I made a promise to over the years. Everyone who believed that I could do something remarkable. Everyone who smiled and said "You make it look so easy."

Everyone who's not me.

As time goes on in my life I occasionally get an itch that is sort of asking me "are you doing what you should be doing in your life?"

I can never really, thoroughly answer this question.

It's not because I'm overwhelmed, though I often am.

It's not because I'm too busy doing things that I shouldn't, though that often was the case years ago.

It's not because I don't want to answer the question, which seems most likely though is never really an option.

No, the reason I can't thoroughly answer this simple question is because the boxing ring which is my life has become overrun with obstacles which means that there's increasingly less perspective.

I could start swinging at the first thing I saw, but that would most likely just land me in trouble.

I could set my sights on something far in the distance and try to work my way to that corner of the ring, but that would leave me open for problems on all sides on my way there.

I could just climb over the ropes and run for the exit signs, but that would forfeit the match.

Instead, I just care a little less.

That's right. I said it. I said it and I mean it.

Because if there's one thing that can stymie even the best prepared foe is confusion. And if you just take things as they come--calmly and coolly--and not go at them with unpredictable ferocity it makes them think that something is wrong with them. And that's when you can sneak by and say "See ya', sucker!" and head on down the ring to the problems that warrant honest attention.

Simple as that.

If there's one thing I have learned from going the way I have gone is that you can't worry too much. You can try your best and do what you think is right. You can look back and be happy with how you handled yourself. You can hope the fragile world which you have created and maintain can survive the next catastrophe. But you can only put so much into it before you get caught up in the maze you have drawn and lose sight of where the pencil first hit the paper.

You just have to trust that the overhead mics are on and working. They're all around you. If you try to single one out it defeats the purpose of their placement.

Sing.

Talk.

Yell.

Scream.

Whisper.

Hum.

Do everything and anything you feel like as long as it takes the pressure off for a while. The overheads will pick it all up.

What am I doing here?

You're looking at it.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and twenty-seven ... Infinite simplicity.

2009-09-19T12:03:00.010-04:00

I'm so unbelievably high right now.

You heard me.

High.

At least that's what it feels like.

I'm high from the chemical release of endorphins that come with realizing that life just got infinitely simpler.

There are bars on every corner.

There's a bunch of coffeeshops.

And when I say "coffeeshop," I'm talking, of course, about little stores scattered about Rotterdam (where I'm on tour with The Young at Heart Chorus) that sell some of the best weed available anywhere.

And I don't have any inclination to buy any of it--any of it. Not even a little.

Funny how these things happen. When I was here back in 2004 it was the first, last, and only thing on my mind. Whoo boy, I just had to get me some of that crazy weed--every kind they had: Hindu Kush, White Widow, Dynamite, Blueberry, Purple Haze #2, 3, and 5 (I think). There were ten or twelve more. I have them all written down in my journal from that section of time somewhere. You gotta preserve these kinds of journeys, at the very least in a notebook.

But I took care of the essentials toot sweet five years back. I bought myself a little pipe, and a pack of screens, a lighter, some papers, and four or five samples on my first stop. It was awesome, I must admit. Although, I remember the weed being so moist and sticky that it became glommed onto my fingers when I tried to break it up. Then it got stuck to the back of the rolling paper, then to the lighter, then to my lip. There was just sticky weed everywhere! It was so wet it was hard to light, but that's because they mix up their weed in tobacco over here. They don't just eat a half a pound of roast beef, as it were, they put it between some fresh bread and add a little lettuce.

Let's get one thing straight right off the bat: I love weed; I always will. But I don't love it so much that I will let it clutter up my organized head. I just don't have the time or energy to restore it to order if it got messed up, so to speak.

And when I realized that I can do anything--anything--I want, but choose not to, it gets me loopy out of my head like a four star gram of Hindu Kush #2, stuck inside a croissant and washed down my gullet with a tall cup of Americano.

But I sit here in Rotterdam, on my bed, sober.

I just picked up two pairs of slacks at the tailor that I bought yesterday; I may very well get a haircut, too; I'm going to buy a nice present or two for my amazing girlfriend; and I'm sure I'll end up at the flea market, head angled like the corner of a coat hanger, staring at all the foreign clutter.

And I'll probably do that, or I won't. But maybe I'll just fall asleep. I could do that, too. It's all up to me.

When we take the seemingly monstrous task of staying sober--of avoiding voluntarily grasping any number of objects with our extremities (those things that are on our addicts checklist) and we break it down to just that--doing or not doing--it becomes as easy as buying a beer ... or in this case, buying a few grams of hydroponic weed.

It's that easy ... for real.

Believe me. I'm doing it. And if you want to do it in any country, you can too.

I don't agree with the traditional recovery program on many points. But one platitude I can get with is "keeping it simple." Because therein lies the serum. Therein lies the antidote. Therein lies the amazing answer to the question that actually is the question. It is the freaking question! Because how did this all start? How did I get in the position to have to stay away from certain things in my life that could signal sure catastrophe?

Because it was simple.

It was right there in front of me.

I wondered how to do it and somebody said, "Oh man ... it's a cinch ... come here and take a drag ... now hold it ... hold it ... there you go ... "

And it began.

It didn't take a 12 step program to get me my first bag of weed. It sure became that way after I realized I wanted it all the time and so did my friends. That was a total bitch, driving around Fall River, stopping at the street corners with the hoods congregating, ending up getting ripped off on occasion, but more often than not getting a bag of weed.

But that all came after the easy part.

And I have made a conscious decision to keep my life as simple as I can. And that means being open to a million things at once.

Because we are all falling towards the ground, slowly, from the day we are born. And along that arc is a limitless number of gradations--of lines on an infinite drafting compass--and I'm somewhere in the middle right now. And that, dear readers, means I have a clear view of what came before me, and what's in the distance.

And the view I have right now, in all its infinite simplicity, looks downright amazing.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

PS: for those of you who are so inclined to view some of the pictures I've taken so far on this trip, follow this link to my Facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=168281&id=1209860175&l=c035492674

Dank U vel.

Day six hundred and fifteen ... Bargaining.

2009-09-07T01:20:00.006-04:00

I'm sitting here with Jodi listening to a record I bought at a going out of business sale for 60% off. My aunt would be so happy I found such a bargain.

"Then it must sound 60% better!", she'd most likely say.

I put the album on a little before midnight of yesterday, and now it is today.

September 7th, 2009.

It was last year on this day, at 1:20 a.m. that my dear Aunt Lynda passed away after a valiant battle with cancer. I wasn't around when she went. This--just like so many other situations in her life--she planned out to a tee. I had a tour to go on with the Young at Heart, and she made damn sure I kept the dates. Anne, her best friend and co-conspirator throughout the last 40 years or so, was called upon to come up from Virginia, where she lives, and attend to her needs. I call her Auntie Annie as she is as close as blood to me. She has been around for as long as I can remember, and I can remember at least 35 years back.

On or about September 4th I remember packing up my things and getting them situated in my car, then coming back to hug her and kiss her and say goodbye for what I thought would be just a few days. She had such resolve--though she knew that she couldn't beat this disease--to not fret and worry about dying. She had, thankfully, lived a full life and knew it. She was the youngest of three and she also died the youngest, but she kept a healthy disposition until the end. She tried to make life as easy on me and those around her for the most part. This held true regardless of the fact that she was one of the pickiest people in the world.

"I want six bananas, Alex. Two that are ripe to eat today and tomorrow, two that are somewhat yellow with a tinge of green on them, and two that are harder and won't be good for a few days. Here, I wrote it down for you."

"Okay, Aunty."

But when she told me there was no way I was missing this tour I had an idea of what was going to happen: she was letting me go, so she could do the same. She didn't want me around when it happened; she told me that flat out. And she was so sick of the meds, the procedures, the visiting nurses, and the trips to Boston every week (or every few days sometimes), and she had just come to the point where she wanted it to end if it was going to end.

This post I don't want to be overly long. I don't want to wallow in sadness; I don't want to glorify the suffering; I don't want to dramatize what was one of the most emotional periods of my life. But I do want to mark the occasion. I want to note the passage of time in an increment that we use for so many events.

One year.

One year has gone by (in approximately 16 minutes) since a great woman ceased to be. She didn't want a memorial service. She absolutely didn't want it to be in the newspaper. And she wasn't too keen on me writing about it on this template that you are looking at right now. But she also knew that she couldn't control everything, and so she gave me permission to print what I saw fit after she passed on.

As some of you know I had an incident involving medication that didn't belong to me back about a year and a couple of days ago (September 9-16 to be specific), and it took me some time to bounce back from that misstep. But here I am, so close to being completely 100% clean and sober, and I have so much to look back on from that point until now.

And in ten minutes time I will reach over and hug the greatest of these additions to my life. She is a strong, beautiful, smart, and powerful person--someone who can spot a bargain a mile away and could, if she wanted to, peel the markdown price tag off of it after getting it home, revealing its original price without leaving a smidgen of sticker glue, yet knowing full well she had found something of greater value than anyone could convince her of right from the start. And there needn't have even been a sticker at all, because it is she that decided to take it into her possession because of what it was worth to her, not a store owner or someone with a pricing gun. There's a life analogy there. I'm not going to spell it out.

I first made contact with her a few days after my last pill, a mere two weeks after my aunt left me. It would take a good four months before we would say more than two sentences to each other, but then again, these things take time ... like the ripening of a green banana.

And so, one strong woman leaves and another steps out of the shadows. This is how the fates play with their toys, as if from a big duffel bag on the floor of a rumpus room. One woman sends me off with a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and a playful gesture with thumbs at each ear--fingers outstretched and wiggling--sticking her tongue out at me as she's done since I was a baby, and that is my last memory of her in my world.

Another finds her way to me first through the the internet--mere days after my aunt's passing--then, through the help of a mutual friend, subsequently turning my world around with a hug at the end of a concert and a promise to continue contact in the outside world--complete with the amazing detail that it happened on the year anniversary of the passing of my dear mother, Judy, on January 11! How all these numbers and events line up is beyond me. I just have to live within the context of our agreed upon system of documenting the passage of time and acknowledge it as it happens.

Thank you Jodi for all you do.

Thank you Aunty for all you have done.

I miss you but I am not alone; I fear I never will be.

Like the green bananas that I brought you so many, many times--knowing one day soon they would be ready to enjoy in a comfortable pair of pajamas--I am here now, one year later, prepared to continue on with my role in life, letting the bruises not depress me but rather show signs of progress.

Who knew?

I say ... you.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day six hundred and ten ... Party on.

2009-09-02T22:08:00.014-04:00

I just got back from the package store.

Had to return an empty--yes, one empty.

A keg.

And get this: it wasn't really an empty at all; it was still half full. But I can't take credit for draining any part of it. Nor can I take credit for drinking any of the four and a half bottles of liquor, box or bottle of wine either.

Last Sunday I had a birthday party for my girlfriend, Jodi. I chose a select group of people from my friends, and she got to invite the rest which included among them her amazing parents. I had it at my house, outside, and had the whole thing catered by Holy Smokes Barbecue of Hatfield, MA.

I hired my go-to bartender, Gerry, from the old Baystate Hotel. I made peanut noodles a la the erstwhile Amber Waves of Amherst. I ordered some platters from Paul's work, Randall's Farm and Greenhouse in Ludlow. And I got a chocolate tort cake from The Side St. Cafe right here in Florence.

For the last three months I have been planning for this day, making arrangements and worrying myself silly that there wouldn't be enough room for people to hang out, or the music would be wrong, or that people wouldn't show up and there'd be way too much food.

But all that proved to be unnecessary in the end because, of course, people and tasks in my mind are way more difficult than they are in real life. It is the occasion that is important--the intent. And as long as you give people directions and tell them what time to get there everything else will just fall together.

But I had to make sure there was enough booze, too.

Funny thing, this little detail. I remember having my last party around Christmas last year. I bought a bunch of bottles of liquor and not much of it went. That was probably due to the fact that the party happened in the middle of a massive snowstorm and nobody wanted to be driving to begin with, let alone with a couple of drinks in them.

And so, at the end of that party I made the frantic choice to relinquish a 1.75 liter of Jack Daniels. It went with a friend back to the hill towns (he felt bad about just taking it and gave me a few bucks). I kept the Grey Goose and the Captain Morgan though. I put them above the fridge in a cupboard--they fit perfectly and it made sense logistically, and I remembered wishing I still drank because now I had the perfect place to keep my booze--yeah, right. Anyway, I only checked on them once or twice in the last eight months just to make sure that they were still there, and that they were as full as I remembered--they were.

And they stayed full for a reason: they weren't bought for me.

And so it was that last Sunday I went with Jodi to Liquor's 44 on King St. in Northampton, and we rapidly filled my car with alcohol. A half barrel of Sierra Nevada; six bottles of wine and one box; a liter of Grey Goose, and, of course, I replaced that 1.75 liter of Jack that had escaped my house last December. We bought 50 pounds of ice and a ton of mixers: cranberry, Coke, ginger ale, Fanta, orange juice, lemonade and tonic water. We brought it all home and set it up in the bar that I rented from the place downtown. Then we waited for Gerry to get there and start cutting up limes and lemons.

This is Gerry.

Sometime around 4:30 I entered my house to use the bathroom and got a surprise. As I stepped in past the threshold I found myself in a bit of a traffic jam. I had to slow down and excuse myself to get by the line of about five people in my kitchen patiently waiting to put in their drink order. It made me smile. It made me smile because it meant that everything was working like it should. All the pieces were fitting together and bonding at the edges. All the hard looking into myself to find the reasons why for years I did what I did was finally bearing fruit. All the time spent wishing I could be like everybody else who looked like they were enjoying life--desperately wanting to fit in--were a mere memory. All the years believing that I had to turn myself off to make me more alert, clinging to the idea that I had to go completely overboard to be accepted in, were now officially in a shoe box sitting on the shelf, labeled and stored for historical purposes.

And all of this and more--every single last corrupt tendency--was finally proven to me to have become irrelevant. And I could just stand in line talking to my friends holding a glass of sparkling water--which was exactly what I wanted--and feel at ease in my skin.

It's amazing to me to think of all those times in the past that I could have just excused myself and walked away in the other direction from the bar but didn't. All the times I was waiting in line, feeling like death, stepping up to the counter to ask for another serving like a sweaty zombie. It makes me shudder. But I am human. And we, as humans, tend to gravitate towards others in motion; it gives us hope. When we see people favoring a particular doorway, or an exit, or a menu item, or a spot on the sidewalk even--gathered around god knows what--we oftentimes follow suit, because we feel that if they're doing it there must be something to it. And we look around to gauge the reaction on those in front of us to see if it's something we should be putting our valuable time into. And every time I did it I came up--initially--with a positive response. And then, in time--at first mere moments, then, later, years--it all changed.

Strength in numbers only holds true until the results start pouring in.

So, as I started out at the beginning of this long overdue post, I happily brought back the half full keg of Sierra and got my deposit back. I leisurely put back the gigantic bottles of liquor in the cabinet above the fridge and added the bottles of wine in alongside my trusty San Pellegrino.

And there they will stay and wait for my second annual holiday fiesta in December. Unless, of course, a guest comes over and they would enjoy a drink or two. Because that's who I bought the stuff for: anyone but me.

A friend of mine at the party last week asked me how I felt about being sober and providing free booze for anyone who wanted it. I told him that there's only one thing I have to do differently to keep my life going in the direction it is in: to stay sober. That's it. That's all I have to do. And breaking the differences between me and most people I know down to that one important detail will keep me from complicating things.

Life is simple.

Life is man made.

Life is how we see it and how we feel it.

Life is continuous as it is finite.

Life is here if we are here.

And there's not much more to it that I can see. If we let our minds go--our complex and restless toddler of gray matter--we will lose sight of what we really want.

I just have to remember that people and tasks in my mind are almost always way more difficult than they are in real life. It's the occasion that is important--the intent. And as long as you give people directions and tell them what time to get there everything else will just fall together.

And that's the beauty of it all, and I thank my lucky stars that I can see it.

I hope some of you can too.

Thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

PS: Happy Birthday, Jodi.

Sto lat!

I love you,

~Alex

Day five hundred and eighty seven ... The label sticks.

2009-08-10T22:42:00.010-04:00

There's one on almost everything we call our own.

Sometimes it relates a price; sometimes it provides directions; sometimes it heralds the many features that one would want in an item over one from a similar purveyor.

A label.

A small piece of paper with writing most often in a formal, cold tone and font. The writing is usually direct, to the point, and condensed: what it is, where it was made, what you should do with the product and, more importantly, what you shouldn't do.

I think it's funny to see that many people leave on the labels on their electronic gear, such as cameras and laptops, that the company put on before they pack it up.

"10 megapixels" ... "Five times oversampling" ... "HD" ... "PC and Mac compatible."

And on and on.

I like to take mine off because I don't like too much flair on my products. I'm guessing that most people probably either think that they can't take them off, they shouldn't take them off (warranty voiding anxiety), or they simply don't even notice that they're stickers.

I'm a born sticker-taker-off'er, so they don't last long on my things.

The problem I find as I go about my product cleansing is that many times the stickers don't want to leave without a fight. It's like they feel indignant that you would want to remove the message that the factory sent them off with to stand and deliver. The nerve!

Regardless, you go about your task and get that fingernail right under the edge of the label. You get a whole wave of momentum going and you feel like the whole of the world of physics is with you as your magic carpet of text, colors, and symbols starts to take off in midair. And then, without even a shred of warning, the whole plan goes kaplooey and you're left with three quarters of a curled up sticky piece of paper clinging to your finger and a big birthmark shaped splotch of gummed, grainy pulp banging its fists on the surface and laughing out loud. And so, the human that you are, you dig your nail under once again and corral the edges of the recalcitrant residue and, if you're lucky, roll it up in a ball and pick the whole mess off and go about using said item for its appropriate purpose.

Whew! That was a close one.

Sometimes, before you give up and start scraping up the unfortunate mess, you can stop peeling and start at the other side of the label cutting it off at that pass, as it were. You get right up on the other edge, and when you get to the part you had already had success with it all just comes off in one piece ... if you're lucky.

But up until now I have merely been discussing the intricacies of the average, everyday product information label. It's just one piece of paper: plain and usual. It has no agenda. It has no bias. It has no history of prejudice or animosity towards it.

It's just a label ... it can't get you arrested for screwing with it.

Not like the price tag can.

The price tag is a complicated beast. This consumer cornerstone has a whole different set of parameters than the other informative squares, circles, or other shaped piece of gummed paper because this label controls one's option for possession.

When someone purchases an item, after looking at the many labels affixed, it is theirs to do with they will. If it's a gift, we most likely will take the sticker off. Sometimes, though, depending on who it's for, we'll leave it on so as to impress upon the recipient how much we paid for an item, be it either a lot or a little, or to provide a receipt for exchange if needed (the recent trend of receipts without prices--for just this purpose--is somewhat of a delight). When I was a child my mother used to shop at myriad discount stores for clothes and other things for me. Often, the tag on the clothes would contain many stickers from the multiple markdowns it endured during it's life on the hanger. My mom would usually peel them off leaving the highest "list" price possible so I would appreciate what the pair of pants or shirt she had procured for me on her public school teacher's salary was worth. Invariably there would be residue from the sale labels that had been affixed, and this--as well as the fact that it came from a discount store--would alert me to the fact that it had come to me by way of a markdown.

As a child of the Seventies I noticed a few trends come into my world.

Skateboards, cassettes, iron-ons, heavy metal ... and peel-proof price tags.

It seemed like one day they were all just little, plain, solid pieces of sticky paper ... and the next they were fluorescent booby traps. Scored in seemingly random patterns these new labels appeared to be made in an attempt to thwart would-be petty criminals from transferring the tag from a lower priced item to one with a much higher value ...

... not that I ever tried anything like this. I was a good boy ...

But anyway, these new labels started cropping up everywhere you looked. They weren't foolproof of course. A skilled hand could carefully peel the edges all around the perimeter and then get a thumb hold under the center and pull and remove and replace ... if one wanted to.

And, of course, as the decade wore on, the bar code and the electronic scanner would come into play. Whether we knew it or not we were about to become a world where databases replaced store managers, ray gun shaped pricing guns conveyed vital information about everything in your cart, and cashiers were at the mercy of a giant computer in the shape of a cash register.

But they'd never--and they will never--get rid of the price tag, because the price tag is for us the consumer. It is what we use to decide if we are to give our money away in exchange for something someone, or something, made for our use. And there will constantly be discrepancies between what the tag says and what the scanner says, because human error is necessary for human existence. When we cease to make mistakes we will have no use for improvement.

We all have labels on us.

It's easy to say, "you can't put a label on me ... I'm unique." I'm sure some will disagree with me but I believe that there's a label on all of us that shows what we're made of. And no matter how hard we try to remove fully the sticky piece of paper that describes what we do, how we think, who we love, where we're from, where we're going, and what we believe, a residue remains.

I'm an alcoholic.

I've done a great job so far removing the bits and pieces of my life that were starting to destroy me. I curtailed all the dangerous and degenerative habits that kept me from connecting with people on a genuine level. I admitted to myself that I was so wrong about so many ingrained beliefs about what makes me "cool" or attractive, or popular, or interesting (or for that matter, undesirable). I took off the little stickers that showed others what I was ostensibly capable of doing--what I had bragged about intending to do for so long--and just did it.

And now I have this life--this amazing life that I am sharing with my girlfriend, traveling around the world, constructing a scrapbook of interesting images and a skyscraper of raw emotion--and I am unafraid to let my label show. I gave up the aggressive tendencies to be an amorphous individual, unable to be boxed in, always trying to be something different, something indescribable ... something I wasn't.

Because I realized finally that the label that I had tried to affix to myself from another personality--one that I labored over and defended at even the slightest suggestion that, perhaps, it wasn't working for me--was scored throughout to reveal just such a ruse. I was busted fair and square.

Sometimes we look at our handiwork and only see the unfinished outcome.

Sometimes we truly believe that no one will notice that something's not quite right.

Sometimes we just put what we want in our pocket and walk out of the store hoping that the alarm won't go off.

And sometimes it goes off when we go in empty handed.

I'm just glad that my conscience is clean, my goals are clear, and my mind knows exactly how much is at stake no matter how often I ponder what it's all worth.

It's worth everything that I've got.

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day five hundred and sixty ... If I could only.

2009-07-14T19:46:00.013-04:00

I wonder.

I wonder what is going on at the pub down the street?

I can see--and have seen from day one or two--where all the folks from the production I'm in that like to party go after each show. The bars look perfect: dingy, dark, loud, relatively inexpensive, and close to the hotel. I don't go to them because it's not really my thing anymore, but I still kind of wonder what's going on.

I remember being in Ireland with the chorus a couple years ago, white knuckling the whole sober thing. You know, just kind of gritting my teeth and walking hard and fast--hands deeply thrust in pockets--back to the hotel in some sort of mock penance or demonstration that I could, indeed, not go out drinking--that I could just go back and go to sleep and get up in the morning and go do the show.

But that was no fun.

It was no fun because I really would have rather been at the bars, and probably should have considering how things turned out in the end anyway. I mean, did I really prove anything by spending my time on those tours "clean", only to come back and get busted? Not really. All I did was prove that I could make myself fall asleep by 3 a.m. or so after rolling around in bed for four hours. What a difference that made in the end.

So what's different now?

I'm still the same silly, self-conscious, slightly obnoxious, emotional, paranoid, lovable lad that I always was.

I still bring too many clothes on the road. I still swear too much. I still make inappropriate comments to anyone and everyone around me.

But I am different. And this change came from a choice. You all know what that was if you've read this far.

I am my own good time.

I am the party I always wanted to be invited to.

And no one--I mean no one--can possibly prove me wrong.

I don't have the pull of the debauched late night anymore because it finally put its last hard, debilitating hangover on me and I said "when" when I opened up my doors for business. I don't seek the release from hours of rounds of shots and beers and the eventual quest for harder things anymore because it invariably left me with an uncertain, vague and unfinished story that now holds only as much luster as the shiny glowing signs whose light once beckoned me in with their universal, iconic flash ever did. Since I opened up my own joint I don't need to put up ads or neon signs--I don't have to advertise. It's always full up in here. Business is truly booming.

There will always be people to keep my competitors afloat--to fill up the spaces in between the walls, kegs, and walk-ins. Our social strata and reward system, combined with our physiological and psychological response to a whole world of temptations, rituals, validations and releases will make quite sure of it.

Don't get me wrong. Much good has come my way over the years from the nightlife world that is run by the rum. I would always argue with my family that there is so much I would have never done sober. All the people I would have never met, places I would have never seen, jokes I would have never thought of, kisses I would have never attempted, and stories I would have never heard nor imparted are included under that umbrella. But what good it did for me always became rubbed into the cement with the heel of a hangover's boot in the end. And that hurts as bad as it sounds.

Those who know me know it's true; those who don't will just have to take my word for it.

But I made these decisions, and I am the one who will miss out on whatever I will miss out on outside of me. The truth is, I'll never know, because I'm not there ... I'm here. And here doesn't mean, necessarily, my hotel room as opposed to the tasty looking pub down the street. Here doesn't mean, necessarily, the tour bus back to the hotel as opposed to the after party.

No. Here just means wherever I am at any given moment--breathing, thinking, moving, feeling, speaking, singing, playing, tasting, touching, crying, laughing, spinning, dancing, shaking, jumping, laying, sleeping, snoring, waking.

And who's to say that the here I am enjoying is less of an amazing time than is happening right now down the street where I was just wondering what was going on?

Our world only exists from the farthest reaches one can observe with our overt senses, to the heart, mind, and soul of ones indeterminable insides. Sometimes that seems like from here to forever ... more likely it's only a millisecond away.

It's pointless, in the end, to even ask the question: where is the best place to be?

The ads will tell me I'm wrong if I stay home.

The bartenders will tell me the same from behind their registers.

The patrons would most definitely tell me I'm missing out on as much fun as they are having.

Some of my friends might even tell me I'm not living life to the fullest, if they weren't being so good about it.

But it only takes me to have an amazing time.

It only takes this one guy to feel like he is on top of the world--to know that he doesn't need anyone else's approval to shine.

It's just little me here with my little black laptop, on tour, in another part of the world, laying on my bed, eating a candy bar, talking with my girlfriend, playing with my photos, and trying to keep up with my writing.

And that's the kind of revelation that no amount of consciousness altering could possibly deduce.

And that's what they'll never truly tell you no matter who you ask, because nobody can really explain it fully.

Who is they?

Anybody who's not you.

Who are you?

You're that person who was once so many other people interested and involved in hundreds, if not thousands of things. And you learned to accept change. You learned to induce change. You changed without even knowing. Sometimes you only actually noticed you were different by looking back on it. And whether or not you realize it, you're different now than you were yesterday. It's what people do.

It's what people do.

We change.

We grow.

We learn.

Go ahead ... prove me wrong.

Thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

PS: I'm having a fantastic time here in Manchester, England with the Young at Heart Chorus. You can check out my pictures and stuff at http://www.facebook.com/falexjohnson Stop by, say hi, give me a holler.

I'm easy.

Day five hundred and fifty two ... Everything's relative.

2009-07-06T00:04:00.009-04:00

The clock on my computer says 5:05 a.m..

The clock on my phone says it's just past midnight.

The clock inside my body says it's neither.

And the funny thing is, they're all correct.

I'm here, in Manchester, UK, on tour with the Young at Heart Chorus. I'm their guitar player, and they keep me working. It's a good gig--a very good gig. One that not just anybody can get. In fact, if I'm lucky, I'm the only one that can have this job at one time.

Outside my window cars have started to pick up their pace. There's a certain time in the night--I don't care where you are--that the cars just kind of stop coming and going like an abrupt break in a cohabitant's snore ... and then, as if by clockwork, the sound starts back up again and you can lay your head back down and forget you just wondered if everything was all right. There are exceptions, I suppose. Little pockets of highway where it's busy, busy, busy all day and night. But if you average it all out I think I am more right than wrong.

Back in Massachusetts there are people going out to meet friends at bars and coffee shops, perhaps catching a late night snack. The talk shows are in full swing and the movie channels have started to work blue.

Here, the sky is the only thing working blue. Breakfast isn't on downstairs yet, but it's not far off. I haven't turned on the television but I know what I'll find: news, soccer, dramatic presentations, and cheeky comedy. I'm not really in the mood for any of that at all.

I meant to stay up and go out and push the jet-lag as far as I could and then sleep for 8 hours. But after I successfully had a video chat with Jodi I was just about wiped out of any and all energy and laid down on the bed for a minute ... make that almost a thousand minutes. And here I am, awake, a little tired, a little refreshed, imparting how I feel here on this template.

I'm not going to whine about how I miss people, or the way things are back home. That kind of talk nobody wants to hear--even those who are involved in being the things that are missed. People enjoy being wanted, but being the reason someone wishes they weren't where they are isn't always desirable. It's needy. And once I found a reason to be here on this earth, and a person to express how I feel, my needs were fulfilled.

I don't have a concrete concept of money. This, I think, is good for the most part.

See, the last time I was in England I was a smoker and a drinker. I smoked more when I drank, but I smoked every day and I drank every night and so, I probably sucked down about 2 packs a day when I was here, all told, for two weeks. If I had to put a price tag on it, including all the nights out at the bars, I probably spent about $500 a week.

Now, I don't do either. What I do like is using my computer. At the hotel I'm staying at they charge ten British Pounds per 24 hour period, which is about 16 US dollars. Back home I pay 40 US dollars for a month of 24 hour periods, and my phone works there too. But I'm here, I don't smoke, I don't drink, I'm getting paid well and, as I said, I like to use my computer, so I don't have a problem giving them what they want to get what I want. And that works out to about $112 a week.

I could complain that I shouldn't have to pay that, but who the hell am I? Some places I get it free, some places I don't. But I forget all about the places I got it for free because things that come easy don't make our brains work so hard. It's kind of like waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. If you don't put the lights on and just do what you need to do you can more than likely fall back to sleep without much of a problem. You traded a break in one necessary activity to engage in another. But if you're not careful and check your email or go open the fridge to get a snack you've just spun the gears a few too many times and it won't be so easy to slip back into that current of somnolence.

So I just keep moving forward and do what makes my life productive and try not to complain and ...

Well, I really just got up to use the bathroom and now look at what time it is (5:49 a.m.) ... so I'll try to get back to sleep and post some more in a few hours.

That's our show for tonight folks ... thanks for tuning in ... and, of course ...

... thanks for reading,

~F.A.J.

Day five hundred and forty six ... Far from fearless.

2009-06-30T16:00:00.002-04:00

I'm scared out of my mind.

Everywhere I look planes are crashing.

Every time I turn on the news someone is dead.

Even the local news is disconcerting.

The only things that I can consider safe in my world is my house and my friends and in less than a week I have to leave them both. But that is the price I must pay to live a life outside of my safety zone, and that is the only way I can grow.

I wrote about it in the last entry. I mentioned how I actually care so very much what, in fact, happens to me as far as my safety, my health, and my mental well being. I care so much because I am finally opening up my grasp on my emotions and letting another person in, and this means that I not only am responsible for myself in my own head, I am responsible for myself in hers.

This post won't get mushy. That, I promise. In fact, this post isn't going to be that long. I just felt like letting some of you in on how I am doing.

I just celebrated 18 months of being off the bottle on the 27th. I say "celebrated", but to tell you the truth this is the first time I actually realized it since I thought about it last month. And that is just about the best way I can think of to stay sober. In my years of using I didn't think about how many months it had been since I started drinking. No, it just sort of piled up until it became more or less understood. And that's how I want my sobriety to be: understood. It's getting there. I am happy. Moving, trusting, growing.

I have put my music room together, finally. It has taken me a little over half a year but I am just about at the point where I can start to record the music that I have been working on for some time now. It's going to be here when I get back from my trip, and I'm sure I'll have some ideas to work on from a month of traveling. I can't play if I don't work. Luckily, I have figured out a way to do them at the same time. But I can't do one without the other. Work=life.

My obsession with order is still in full effect. It makes me a bit manic, but it really is for the best. "Mis en place," is French for "a place for everything." It has its origins in cooking but it can be transferred to almost every facet of life. An example: I have lots of pens and pencils everywhere. I also have several pencil holders of varying shapes and designs. If I have a hundred pens but can't find one when I'm on the phone, scrambling to document directions or a phone number, then I might as well just throw them all away. I don't want to do that so I keep them where I can find them. Order=ease.

There have been a lot of deaths lately in the news. People are always dying. Take one cursory look at the obituaries in your local newspaper and you will find people who lived right in your town who don't anymore.

A good friend was recently in the hospital for a semi-serious condition. While I was there visiting him I saw the news about Michael Jackson. I didn't feel a thing. It's not that I am hardened to loss or even intentionally callous. I just have to keep my emotions in place and focus on who and what actually matters in my life. My friend, I love; Michael Jackson, I am familiar with. I, at one point, enjoyed his music and even used to emulate him. Now I emulate my friend because he is stronger than most people I know and more talented than many understand ... though that last part, I am sure, is about to change.

I miss my mother like crazy because I just know she would love my girlfriend. She always knew I would find someone who was right for me and vice versa. I would always downplay it because it made me uncomfortable. Now I want to scream it so loud she could hear me in heaven, if there is such a place.

But I realize that this is what life is, nothing more. I can't have it all. I couldn't have gotten sober any other time in my life, and therefore I would have not been ready had we (Jodi and I) met another time when she was on this earth. The minutes roll on and on and the world travels around and around with its billions of people clinging on for dear life, as if an amusement park ride that never started and has no intention of letting up. We can only choose to let go when we have had enough, or when the ride has taken its toll on us and takes us from it. There are always new people waiting to get on and there are only so many seats. It's not fair and it is the most fair imaginable. It must retain a balance, and we must comply. Whether we feel it is unjust is a matter of opinion, and opinions are as fickle as the breath you just took. In a minute you will forget you even just concentrated on it at all.

But I am not speaking directly to anyone. Please do not be offended. I am merely getting this out as quickly as I can. It feels really, really good.

I have a motto that I use sometimes: "If you have to think about it, you're probably lying." It works in many situations. This is one of them.

I am scared to death to get on that plane on Saturday. I am scared to death that Jodi has to get on one in two weeks. These emotions have always been there, except that I used to be able to ignore them one way or another. Now there is no choice but to be aware, because I don't want to miss a fraction of a second of emotion, of time, of chance, of love, of adventure, of desire, of joy, of life.

I have to go now and take care of a million things. It's quite good for me. The more I do anything, the better I get at it. I don't have to worry about what to bring on Saturday. No, that's been made easy by the many trips I've made with the Chorus in the past. That stuff dictates itself in the closing hours of the pre-trip journey.

I have to clean my house, I have to pay some bills, I have to water the garden, I have to soak my feet, I have to have dinner with Jodi and a friend, I have to look out for tacks on the floor, I have to stretch, I have to sleep, I have to dream, I have to cry my eyes out, I have to laugh my head off, I have to take care of a million things ...

... and then I can relax.

Make that a million minus one.

Thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

Day five hundred and thirty four ... Lights out.

2009-06-18T19:22:00.030-04:00

Prologue:

I overheard someone talking the other day, as I often do.

"You know how sometimes you see ambulances that have their lights on but their siren off?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think that means that the person inside is dead and they're in a different kind of rush to get to the hospital?"

Man. Talk about heavy. I have a pretty skewed perspective on life in general, but I would have never put this scenario together in my head.

Since hearing that I notice them much more often. They might be white and yellow; white and red; white and blue; white and gold. They appear all over the country, quietly moving past the reluctantly pulled over traffic, with the lights on but the siren off. I'm sure they didn't forget. They'd have it on if they needed it to be on. They get trained to be under great stress and handle all kinds of situations.

But why do they do it?

Could it be?

Could they be carrying the dead?

__________________________________________________________________

Catching up. Part One: Love takes all of us.

The love of a good woman, or any woman at all, I thought, was as far away from the realm of my possibilities as me ever getting clean and sober.

I had had my chances. I had women in my life that cared for me. One of them even professed to love me. But they were all temporary, and they were all messy. The women in these cases were all trying to date a man who was committed to another. You might say I was committed to many others, but all of those things provided the same thing: escape.

I used to hear it from my aunt and (less so) from my mother. They'd say, "Alex, there are plenty of women out there who would give their right arm to be with someone as handsome, as smart, and as talented as you. But they would have to be legally insane to want to spend their time with someone whose main directive is to be drugged up and drunk all the time."

When a person has become schooled in the art of addiction and abuse they develop many ways to wriggle out of the lasso of reality. They are almost uncatchable. And while they may have many scars from the yellow bristly rope on their skin from its many earnest attempts to ensnare, they remain, on the whole, unbroken.

When I would hear my family talk in this way--knowing that neither one had any experience whatsoever in the art of substance use--it was easy to brush it off. It was easy to call them on having no clue about the subject because I knew that they didn't know. I held the power in this debate. I would react to their words as if they were a foreigner trying precariously to explain something to me in my language, conscious that their timbre and parlance was rough and uneven. Meanwhile, arms crossed, I feigned being completely mystified as to what they were trying to express.

"You have no idea what you are talking about!," I'd say. "It is an affront to me, and casts unjust aspersions upon my female acquaintances both past and present to utter such nonsense!"

When I knew I was wrong I'd pull out the big words from my faux highbrow database.

It didn't fool my folks. They were actually smart; I was--and remain--a good bullshitter with a flexible vocabulary.

And so I'd go from one mess of a relationship to another. A one night stand here; a rebound casualty there. There was even one mixed in over the last twenty odd years that started off on the right foot. I had been trying to dry out for a while, and even succeeding. But once the emotions and anxieties started to kick in it was all over. I drank like a fish and then I swam quickly and nervously away leaving a very nice person confused and saddened.

And then the lasso got me.

It slipped on when I wasn't looking. I had turned my head for one night--one night I thought I could run around the corral bucking up my hooves and snorting into the air. And before I knew it I couldn't breathe. Not in anyway. I reared up on my hind legs and pulled with all my might. I felt the first few drops of blood from the old hard edge of the rope as it dug in to my neck. I tried to look behind me to see who the hell had been so stealth as to get this far. Nobody had ever gotten this close. The nerve! I pulled and I pulled and I beat my feet into the ground. I shrieked into the air and my hot spit flew from my jowls like a round of buckshot--as unpredictable as it is effective.

And then I fell down.

And when I came to and looked around me I knew things were different. I realized that there was no going back this time; I was broken. And when they finally let me out to walk on my own I saw a distinct line in the distance, like a rainstorm on the plains of the midwest that was passing before me.

I was drenched, I was cold, I was shaking, and I was scared. But I saw that the rain had other places to go. It would not be a gradual cessation. The clouds would not inadvertently turn off their faucets, only to start up again at a moment's notice. No. They were in a hurry to get on down the road; they left me alone with a huff and a chuckle.

And I felt that odd feeling of being cold and hot at the same time. As confusing as it is reassuring. It was a systems check. I could feel the effects of extremes from both ends of the thermometer.

I was most definitely alive.

It wasn't long before I could talk to the people who had tried to snare me with those lassoes for what seemed like an eternity. I'm sure it seemed longer for them, for they actually suffered more going through watching me than I did doing it. At least that's how it seemed.

For those involved firsthand, there is sometimes solace in blackouts.

When I dried off and dried out I talked with those people that were my family. I didn't pretend not to understand them. I didn't accuse them of using a language that they had no knowledge of. It was now I who was doing his best to learn the words pertaining to sobriety. It was now I who had only slight knowledge of the subject at hand, and they fluency.

Consequently, I helped them better understand what they didn't know, and encouraged them on the things they did. I made up for the years of forgetfulness; for the countless times I lied; for the things I missed out on--great things, family things that I could have very easily attended but chose--I repeat, chose to excuse myself from.

My mother never got the chance to see me do what needed to be done in this respect. She truly knew I would, though. This was made clear to me on more than several occasions. But the one last person who always tried to lasso me but never could manage a clean roping did. Although she never got to see me pass my year milestone in my new life she had always told me that due to my choices and actions I would soon be ready to share myself with someone else. She believed that I would soon be eligible for a genuine, mutual, collaboration of souls because I was beginning to believe that I could be me as me, and not me as somebody else. She could see that I had stopped trying to buck everyone and everything that tried to reason with me. She told me that I would find someone to share my time with; share my surprises with; share tears of laughter, and share tears of sadness. She told me that someday I would embrace with both arms the person who makes love make more sense than not. And when I did, to never let go. Because the whirlpool that we go through life in whips our fates around at an unbelievable pace, and we may never get that chance again.

I never used to be afraid of flying.

I always thought, well, if I die, I die.

Now I realize that if I die, a love will be lost. Of course this works both ways. And love makes us more than just ourselves. It is a supreme responsibility. It is the most demanding job known to man.

Love takes all of us, if we let it.

Looks like I'm all in.

And on we go ...

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Catching up. Part two: Making plans.

Once again it has been an unusually long time between posts. Not to be too egocentric but there are people who I know enjoy reading my entries that may be concerned to see so few over the last month or so. To them I express my thanks for letting me be a part of their consciousness for so long, and hope my life slows down just a bit so as to more easily transfer a communicative bullion cube to the computer screen. It's not easy to not write a bunch of junk about nothing. Here's to picking the right time to say the right things.

I am preparing to go overseas with the Young at Heart Chorus next month. We've been putting a new show together over the last year. It's near completion and it is as groundbreaking as it is accessible. I can't give too many secrets away, but suffice to say that the music is more unusual (both in the song choices and in the arrangement) and there are many new faces in the actual chorus bringing a renewed sense of vitality and spirit to a troupe of well-travelled troubadours.

We leave on July, 4 and journey to Manchester, England, where we will stay for two weeks. We will be debuting the new show, titled, "End Of The Road," at the Manchester International Festival.

Jodi, my girlfriend, will be joining me there for the last night of performances before we set out on our own adventure traveling through Wales, London, Paris, and finally, to Portugal, where we will be spending ten days in Setubal and Porto, respectively.

I will be attempting to keep up with our journeys through pictures and words via this blog as well as my Facebook page.

That said, none of this would have been possible had it not been for that lasso that snared me almost 18 months ago. I would not have been in the position to find and purchase my home; I would not have been able to write this blog; I would most definitely never been able to form a solid bond with Jodi; and I wouldn't be going to Europe with the idea that I can guarantee--failing an unforeseen emergency--to return in one piece--perhaps with an even better understanding of myself, my girlfriend, and the symbiotic entity that is created when we are together (neither of us ever jibed with the idea that someone can "complete" someone else. For to be an incomplete person upon forming a bond leaves both at risk of damage--augmentation, however, is another story).

And in knowing all of this I realize that I ultimately was able to come to peace with at least one of the people who tried for years to turn my destructive habits around.

She saw the emergency when I could not.

She did what she could to save me the only way she knew how.

She turned on her flashing lights.

She turned on her siren.

And she laid on the gas, knowing that everyone else could tell there was a life still left to save.

Thanks for reading.

~F.A.J.

Day five hundred and seventeen ... The wearing away of the world.

2009-06-02T00:07:00.006-04:00

I've become a bit neurotic as of late.

I knew it would happen. In fact, I kind of welcomed it. What with my changing lifestyle and my self imposed cessation from the kind of things that I used to turn to to forget what worried me, it makes perfect sense.

It makes a little too much sense.

The world is wearing away.

Each time we place a cup on a saucer we scrape a miniscule portion of the porcelain off. Each swirl of a spoon creates its own pattern of scuffs on the inside. And don't think I don't count the erosion from the actual liquid whirl-pooling around and around. It all does a little.

When we put on our sneakers we stretch the leather, string, and glue a little more. As we stuff our feet in each one our sock is pulled back along with it, loosening its overall composition. We pull at the laces, and it, in turn, strains the rivets that run along each side of the tongue. We tie a bow, and stand up to walk, and each step we take wears a little more rubber off the sole. Sometimes, that which we walk on is softer than our shoe bottoms, and it is worn away, but more often than not it is our foot that takes the brunt of the abuse.

Only dressier shoes are really capable of repair, and even at that they can only hold on for so long before they lose their dressiness and turn into work shoes, and then into trash.

And one day we try to put on our sneakers and something snaps. It may be one of the laces, which is an easy fix--maybe even just tying it together, or, better yet, replacing it for a couple of bucks. But one day our sneakers will just stop being useful. It's not so easy to fix a sneaker as it is a dress shoe or a boot, as I mentioned, so we just toss them and buy some new ones. And from the moment we take the balled up tissue paper from the toe of each one it begins to wear down.

I feel like this a lot these days. But it's not because I actually am worn down--quite the opposite. I am living a life I only dreamed of, and then, even at that, I never really ever had the kind of imagination that could invent such a reality. I feel alive and well with each keystroke, every inhale, every blink, every step I take and each time I lock eyes with another human.

But I am ultra aware of the brevity of our time here. And so, I feel that I must write or become complacent and comfortable with the unexamined life. And that just will not do.

I clench my teeth constantly to the point where one of my back teeth has become extremely sensitive. I've been seeing an acupuncturist for a few weeks now and I think it's helping a bit but I still do it. It's maddening. It's not quite like grinding. I think I just like feeling the pressure of one tooth against another. If I keep doing it, in time, I will just wear down all of them. I don't think chewing gum helps, but I do that sometimes to strengthen my gums.

What does this all mean?

It means that I have realized that one of the byproducts of my abstinence from drugs and alcohol is that everything matters now.

Everything.

However, I realize that I can't let this get to me or else I won't be able to enjoy the sublime facets of the conscious world like cucumber water on a sweltering day, or the brush of a hand from a loved one triggering a frantic spider dance, awkwardly locking fingers, squeezing, sighing, and smiling.

But what it does do is to make me ever so sure of what I want to do with my clarity.

I want to create. I want to perform. I want to clean. I want to recycle. I want to laugh. I want to dance. I want to eat. I want to exercise. I want to watch the best and the worst movies ever made. I want to think up a joke that will bring tears of laughter to the right person. I want to swim in the ocean and come up with eyes red from salt and hair that is tangled and mangled from the ocean's tousling. I want to walk under the moon and wink hoping it saw me. I want to kiss until I can't feel my lips, and then kiss twice as hard. I want to be so out of breath that I may pass out, but so full of life that I feel I'll never die.

And, of course, I will indeed die some day. But I can't spend my time worrying about that. All I can do is keep doing the things that may extend the time I have randomly been assessed, and stay away from the things that will most decidedly pull the curtain early.

And here is where I realize that my neurosis regarding the inevitable and everlasting erosion of everything and anything in our world can coexist with my calm and contentment.

Because each time I put on my sneakers; each time I swirl my spoon around in a cup of fresh coffee; each shirt I manhandle with haste putting on as I run out the door, wearing a little of the wood off its edges with each slam behind me--each time I do any of these things, if I do them with a clear mind and a clean body I give myself that much better of a chance that I will be able to enjoy what is left of them just a little longer. I may live long enough to see the pair of sneakers to their end. I may see the day when I notice a chip in the enamel of my favorite coffee mug and have to dispose of it. I may escort my favorite shirt, if not to the point of the curbside, then at least to the point where it gets put in the box with my other favorite shirts I can't bear to part with. I may see the day when I need to get a new front door, from all the times its welcomed my presence and those of my world who pass in and out.

Because all of these things were made by us. Some were made to last longer than we do; some not even close. And they will keep being made until supply exceeds demand.

Even though my neurosis of the wearing down of the world had to be the inspiration for me to write after almost three weeks, there is a pleasant byproduct of this all.

I realized that once we stop wearing away our world, we stop worrying about it.

I know you know what I mean.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pour myself a cup of coffee and throw on some clothes and shoes. I'm going to slam the front door shut because I'm probably going to be late for work. I'm going to put a few miles on my car and a few more hours on my guitar strings.

It's what I do.

And I'll thank you all for reading this post, like I always do, and hope to do it again tomorrow.

Here's to life, to love, to laughter, to contentment ...

... in fact ... here's to everything!

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

A note to my readers.

2009-05-23T08:31:00.003-04:00

Hello.

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

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

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the weekend,

F.A.J.

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

2009-05-13T23:41:00.009-04:00

Time has always amazed me.

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Mom! Stolat!

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

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

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

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

Sometimes it's all too much.

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

It started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, it made me smile.

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

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

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

And I smiled again.

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

"Twenty minutes."

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

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

"Will do."

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

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

So now it is 10:04 a.m..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Mom. Sto-lat!

Love, Always,

~Alex

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

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

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

2009-05-08T15:24:00.014-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~F.A.J.

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

2009-05-05T11:32:00.008-04:00

We live in short sentences, six words or fewer.

Do or die.

How sweet it is.

Eyes on the prize.

One day at a time.

Live for today.

May the force be with you.

Live fast, die young.

Don't worry about it.

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

But we like to keep it brief.

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

"Do the little things right."

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

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

Do the little things right.

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

Do the little things right.

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

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

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

Do the little things right.

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

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

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

They become a littler thing.

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

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

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

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

2009-05-01T20:45:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew then that we had a good thing going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It worked!

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

They were.

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

And then the lights dimmed and the show began.

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

It was time to go.

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

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

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

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

(my apologies for the fuzzy picture, Brian).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

... so we occupied it.

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

It was 12:01.

This was the scene directly across from us:

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

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

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

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

Then it opened for real ...

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

I swallowed hard and cracked my knuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

... as I hugged a giant.

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

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

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

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

And who could argue with that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

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

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

Thanks Gramps. I miss you.

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

2009-04-28T12:06:00.014-04:00

I'm planning quite a delightful trip.

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

... that is, since 1985.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

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

2009-04-21T10:34:00.011-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to do it for me.

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

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

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

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

And then it hurts like hell.

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

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

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

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

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

2009-04-15T18:18:00.015-04:00

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

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

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

"Yes ma ... "

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your immediate family knows all of this.

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

Boom!

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

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

Did I just get goosed?????

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Maaaaa!!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

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

2009-04-09T09:35:00.019-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

And it's as good a bet as any.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lightweight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, you don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was as good a bet as any.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and fifty eight ... Illumination.

2009-04-03T23:56:00.007-04:00

I felt safe by myself.

I should rephrase that: I felt comfortably encumbered with what made up the group of important people in my life.

But that has all changed in a big way.

My dear aunt stopped letting new people into her life after a while. She told me that she was through with all that because she had all the people she cared about, if not right where she could see them, then only a short drive away.

It was much easier that way, I suppose. Except, of course, when the people who you care about start to slowly pack their bags and head out the door of this world for points unknown. It got pretty scary for a while there when my mom was sick. We'd spend hours talking--my aunt and I--about the pros and cons of having a large family, a small family, no family. I would always argue the angle that no matter how many kids you have, it doesn't mean they are going to turn out right. To say "Oh, I wish I had had children," or "If you had a few kids there would be someone to absorb some of this loneliness and pain" may make sense to a certain degree, but you're leaving a lot of things to chance here. I'd just have to reel her back in and hope that my words made sense to her as she just shook her head and wondered aloud, "Why, Alex? Why"?

I've never been one to shy away from making new friends. I am a very social person by nature and love to share experiences with others. A laugh becomes an endurance contest when shared with someone who thinks like you. The falling down, clenching your gut and gasping for air--while not, on the surface, sounding a desirable condition--can bring about a release inside and out that can last for hours, if not a couple of days, as you wonder why your stomach hurts, then, remembering the cause, chuckling to the air as your mind blends the experience on high in a matter of a few seconds.

But to partake in this kind of emotional pipe bomb one needs to be open to accepting the company of others. And for the majority of my aunt's life she had my mother for that.

And then she was gone.

My aunt had not kept out everybody, though. She had made a handful of women friends at work when she taught at Durfee High School, in Fall River. After my mom died they became closer and started doing things together on a regular basis. They would go out to eat with coupon books in hand. They would go to music nights at a local cafe. They would get together over an ice cream sundae and talk for hours, laughing, sometimes, until it hurt.

She learned to laugh again with new partners, this very solitary woman. The rhythm was different with them than it was with the woman named Judy, who had learned the delicate breathing dance of a laughing jag with her sister. But it was honest laughter nonetheless, and that was what counted. That was what made life fun. That was the salve that healed the wound ... slowly.

And then she was gone.

And that left me.

Now it is my turn to take the reigns and let new people into my life. I haven't had anyone to hug and hold and tell them I love them for a long time. Not that I consider my current partner a family figure in that way. But the emotions are similar. It is a longing for protection that you wish you could put in a bag, zip up like a sandwich, and send out the door with them to take to wherever they may go, whenever they may need it. Because the world has always been a maddeningly random and dangerous place to live. Unfortunately, it's the only place to live. And lately it just seems that things have been getting out of control, and we hear stories about horrendous tragedies a bit more often than ever before. I know I'm getting old, but I'm not that old that I can't notice the changes in real time.

And so, I now have a new commitment to a special person. And every time I look at her I feel I have a bond that is as strong as the ribcage that holds my heart in my chest. It was not designed for easy external tampering. No, to access that space is to disrupt the whole of the body and that is always a precarious venture.

I also know that it is not just I that feels this way--which was so often my lamentable downfall--but rather a mutual discovery of emotional treasure dredged up from deep within the depths, but still, under the muck and the rust of past travesties intact, legible, and worth more now than anyone could have imagined who might have set sail from shore with its precious cargo on board so many years ago.

And just like nobody plans on a shipwreck I must go about my days expecting to make it to the other end of the ocean. I must not flinch or take my eyes off of the future for longer than it takes to look at my compass. Because on any given day there could be a million variables that test our mortal coil. There could be a danger that lurks within us that is ticking away, waiting for a randomly perfect time to strike. There could be someone who has no idea what their actions may bring about waiting to take the wrong turn or neglect to notice a blinker in the distance. Who knows when or if I will need somebody to reel me back in hoping that their words make sense to me as I just shake my head and wonder aloud, "Why"?

And this new thrillingly mutual liability continuously surprises me. I now have someone who thinks like I do some of the time, and, thankfully, has no idea what I'm thinking the rest of the time. I have someone who makes the innocent air between us thicken and conspire, conducting conduits of expelled breaths and emotions around the landscape of our waltzing facial features. I have someone who can laugh long and hard almost to the point of fainting before calling a time-out so we can both regain our composure, and then, unpredictably starting again with a heave and a jolt, almost feeling as if it might go on indefinitely, interrupting--if not making obsolete--the daily rigors of life.

We fall asleep slowly, relaxing our minds to match the bulb in the dimmer-switch lamp, almost asphyxiated from energy deprivation.

It stays that way through the night; the power surges let it vent.

We wake up and open the blinds, but we don't shut off the lamp; we don't even know it's on.

It's only when the sun goes down again into its own finished basement that we realize that we never did turn it off.

Then it is brightened once more--we need it's light again so we feed it with electricity--and then, predictably, it is dimmed down just before sleep comes.

It wouldn't make much sense to have two lamps on one table next to each other, each one making up for where the other's beams can't reach.

Meanwhile two bulbs gracefully turn down side by side, both connected to the same source of energy, each wondering how they came to be on the same table, each knowing full well that one could very well burn out--and probably will--before the other.

And they go about their day, hardly aware that they are still giving off light, until the nighttime comes and they see each others beams and ask aloud ... are you glowing for me?

And, of course, we know the answer before we ask the question ... but we just have to ask anyway. We like to hear us talk.

And we turn the dimmers up and read each others faces until it hurts our eyes. Then we turn down our bulbs again and go to sleep.

And we hope to see each other again in any light.

And we hope to see each other again.

And we hope to see.

And we hope.

Thanks for reading.

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and fifty three ... Larger than life.

2009-03-29T15:28:00.015-04:00

Oh, how we inflate the unknown.

I remember, as a kid, understanding the world of celebrity in an unorthodox way.

Anyone who grew up in the Seventies knows that, besides Star Wars, the biggest celebrity swarm involved a few hundred inventively cut swaths of fleece, adorned with ping-pong balls, foam rubber and fake fur: The Muppets.

The two titans of this group were Sesame Street's Bert and Ernie ...

... now that was a revered pair of icons. I seem to recall there being a short period of time in my life before I realized they were puppets--when I actually thought the world contained creatures that existed as they existed; it didn't last long. I kind of remember wondering if I was ever going to get to spend time with them in their world, on their block, like the lucky children I saw on TV who got a chance back in the 1970's. That was when the show was new, fresh, and exciting. Back then, the world felt to me as if a can of day-glo paint perched above the threshold drenched my existence daily as the TV warmed up ... and the door opened in.

But there was a certain disconnect with it all. Because while I knew Bert and Ernie weren't real people, they were real celebrities. Lunch boxes, sippy-cups, and any number of toys I remember as a child sported the classic odd couple. Jim Henson and Frank Oz would eventually become household names (Henson more than Oz until Yoda came along) but they were more or less names on the back of record sleeves and at the end of TV shows. They were the genius, but I wasn't immediately aware they were the genies, too.

Things changed as I got a little older and became a puppeteer myself. I understood the way a simple hand movement can signify a grand gesture. I realized that the reason that The Muppets made it before a host of other puppet-related shows was because Mr. Henson understood the importance of anatomy and the process of movement and physical communication better than his competition. When a person speaks they don't move the top of their head up ... they move the bottom down. In other words, to become more realistic when simulating speaking one must move their thumb down rather than the flattened fingers up. This is simple anatomy. It's harder to achieve when you are just fooling around with a sock puppet, flapping your hand open and closed, but, done right, it is a truer representation than some of the more pedestrian children's shows.

That said, it's still just a guy with a hand wrapped in fleece.

It interested me to no end to watch the "making of" shows where you got to see rare glimpses of Mr. Henson and Mr. Oz performing their craft while the cameras rolled. You could see them staring at monitors in front and to the sides of them while the Muppets, overhead, traveled in a sort of alternate reality, disregarding the fact that their puppeteers were not only not looking at each other ... they weren't even looking up.

And then came Muppets on Ice.

Ugh!

What a ruse! This was, to me, the epitome of incongruity. This represented the shift in trust between creator and audience that I felt was grossly corrupted.

This was a travesty.

I mean, think about it. You watch television and you see the Muppets and children interacting on the set. The selling point seemed to be that the Muppets, for the most part, were equal size or a tad smaller than their real-life children actors. This made sense for so many reasons. It was malleable for purposes of interpretation, but it more or less ran by a pretty consistent rule book:

Kermit, Robin, Roosevelt Franklin=small.

Oscar, Bert, Ernie, Cookie Monster, Grover=equal size to a 7 year old.

Big Bird, Snuffy=gigantic--larger, even, than the tallest adult.

And then, we are expected to believe that somehow, when you throw a pair of ice skates on these guys each and every one of them are now not only bigger than the children they had previously cavorted with, they are gigantic!

Some may call this nitpicking; I just like to follow the laws of physics when I can, even when discussing fictional, fabricated, anthropomorphic creations.

This same breech in trust can be said for Disney. Are we to believe that Jimminy Cricket--when introduced into the "real" world of Disney theme parks--is the same size as Goofy or Donald Duck? I mean he's a freaking cricket for christ sakes! But put him back behind the lens of the animator's camera and he is shrunk down to ten times the size of his largest animal character.

And worse than that--worse than the inconsistency that comes with dismissing the rules of perspective stature--is that the people inhabiting these iconic characters are so far removed from the creator that any actor with intermediate skating ability can put on the costume and go out and attempt to convince the average second grader that they are the real deal.

They are so far away from the real deal that only Santa Claus could hope to compete for blind faith as strong as this.

And it is in this gross misrepresentation of an initial idea that I find more than a few connections that help me stay sober.

You may call this a stretch, and if you've gotten this far I thank you for keeping up with my train of thought ... I swear I can explain ...

You see, I fell in love with something that was once my size or a little bit smaller.

It was friendly, it was funny, it was exciting, and it led me into situations and surroundings that I had only heard tell of. I became connected to it on a very basic and fundamental level.

Sure, there were times when it got a little bit bigger than me, but I managed to remain in control of it for the most part. I let its unusual voice project from my body. I let its eyes see for me while I monitored my progress by looking away. I shared its character.

And this worked for a surprisingly long time--twenty plus years. And then, almost without warning, the laws of physics and convention failed and I suddenly became wrapped in this character. This once desirable iconic aura of the wild one--the Joker--seemed to overtake its creator and I quickly began to act not as an operator, but as a full-blown, larger than life puppet--a caricature--my most striking features unflatteringly blown out of proportion so even those in the cheapest seats could see my every twitch. And though on the outside I was instantly recognizable to even those who only knew of my reputation, it became clear to me that the person on the inside was not only becoming increasingly unnecessary but was also beginning to fail to perform even the most cursory of functions with any level of success.

I couldn't see through my eyes anymore because they weren't really mine; they were my character's.

Luckily, the time came when I realized that what represented a figure who had once possessed a place and a time of relevance and productivity was now moving on a plane of existence where the laws of convention did not apply. It was confusing even to me. And the people who once shared time with me were now uninterested. I would have to bring the show on tour--to leave and find a new audience--if I wanted to maintain a level of what was then my definition of happiness.

Or I could take off the costume and pack it away. I could unzip and remove, for the last time, the body and head that had needed to be fabricated larger than life (while disregarding the esthetics that had facilitated its creation) and stepped out and into the light as who I really am.

And when I did I realized that I was still recognized as an entertainer. I had retained my skill for attracting attention. I couldn't have shaken that part of me if I tried.

Because it was all my idea to begin with. And, that being the case, there would always be a connection.

Everyone who sees me now tells me how happy they are that I am back in control.

But I can tell from the look in their eyes that I wasn't ever really fooling anybody but me.

Thanks for reading,

F.A.J.

Day four hundred and forty four ... User friendly.

2009-03-23T11:10:00.008-04:00

I've been away for a while, I know.

It hasn't surprised me that it's been almost a week since I dug into the Qwerty keyboard. That's mostly because I remember posting the last one; it was in the morning and I was in a hurry. I hadn't posted an entry in a few days and I do like to keep the mill gears churning. But it seems this has been happening more and more as life starts to speed up a bit.

And here we are almost a week later and I don't really have much to discuss.

But I think I really understand why that is. You see, this blog started out as therapy for me. I spent 208 of 365 days last year typing, typing, typing away, trying to balance, in print, the morbid details of a life fraught with substance abuse next to stories of my remarkable and loving family (add to that my penchant for reliving the somewhat idyllic adventure that was growing up in the 1970's and 80's, and you have my M.O.).

I wrote incessantly mostly because I had to. I was holding this desire for a tangible increment of a year of alcohol abstinence up to the light in an effort to attach a numeric value to an emotional renovation. I feel like I have succeeded, but, as anyone who has attempted to rid themselves of undesirable propensities, it never really goes away for good; you just get better at keeping it from showing up unannounced.

Now the place is almost exactly as I had envisioned, and my job is to maintain its current state, picking up the bits of trash as it gets discarded on my lawn, mowing the grass, and shoveling the snow (and thank you again, Robert. It was a long winter).

Not to imply that I am done with my (ugh ... I hate this word) recovery ... but I always knew that, ultimately, if I were to ever succeed with my plans for a better life it wouldn't be with the constant mantras and regurgitated reminders of the sordid past that are entailed with other programs.

I already stress enough as it is trying to remember to buy half and half.

I realized that, just like almost everything in life (for me, anyway) you can only beat yourself up so much. You can only read the instructions so many times before you can put them away in a safe place.

I have a big box of instructions. This is no analogy, folks. I really have one.

I keep it nearby in a cabinet, full of all the many and confusing pages--some in English with foreign translations, some in Japanese with English tarnslations, and some just have pictures with arrows, lines, and smiley faces (and frowny faces, too).

And for each set of instructions I have a corresponding product. There's one for the universal remote (excessively essential for reference); there's one for the coffee maker (essentially less necessary but still worthy of retention); there's one for the TV (great to have in case of a problem, but maddeningly verbose); and there's a whole book of pictures and arrows that came with my IKEA stuff. I probably only needed to use them once to assemble the coffee table or shoe rack, but I keep them in the box with the others because they symbolize a successful procedure of putting many parts together to form one useful whole. They also hold a special place by eschewing text for illustrations, thus essentially eliminating the need for multiple translations.

I try to not collect too many documents that could get recycled, but this box is orderly, it's nondescript, and it's where I can find it in a jiffy.

It gives me comfort to know it's there even if I don't call on it often.

I have fewer and fewer needs lately. But on the off chance I require a new beard trimmer it will invariably come with instructions. I may not even need to read them once to understand how to operate said electronic device, but I'll take the instructions and put them in this big yellow box to save for reference--to have a little piece of paper with a short set of instructions written ten times in ten different languages.

I'll have help when, and if, I need it.

And that's sort of where I am right now. I realize that this blog has become more of a travelogue at times. I enjoy writing what some may call memoirs. But most of all I enjoy having this resource at my fingertips for when I feel like life is closing in on me. I have a reference point to where my life has been--from a week ago tomorrow (fretting about recycling)--all the way back to what things were like when I was a teenager, pushing the boundaries of my mother's (ultimately) limitless love for me.

And just like the cache of instructions I keep in paper format in a big yellow box in the cupboard, I have this portfolio of sorts.

So, I guess I don't feel so bad about not keeping up with my writing. I'm sure those who read this journal would rather me not just publish a daily stream of drivel simply because I can (and believe me, I can). In fact, my aunt used to drive me nuts asking me, incredulously, "I don't understand how you can keep writing day after day after day. What's going to happen when you run out of ideas?" And I'd just tell her I'll deal with that when it happens.

I think I just share on a less regular basis because my life has changed. I'm busier with my music, and I'm presently sharing my time with an amazing new person. I guess when I started this whole thing almost fifteen months ago I kind of hoped there would be a day when I didn't feel the need for this journal as daily therapy. I kind of hoped for the time when I didn't necessarily run out of ideas but rather were so full of them that I had no time to distill them to a series of connected thoughts.

And that brings us to today.

Now where did I put those damn instructions?

The way I see it, I can tell how well made and intuitive something is when I come across their instructions in the big yellow box as I'm furiously flipping through to find the black and white tome that tells me how to turn the "sleep" function off on my TV (as it's powering down every 45 minutes). I'll see the pages--perhaps still sealed in plastic--and realize that I never did read them.

Sometimes simplicity in design can make for better living. Sometimes things work best when we are unaware of why, in fact, they do. Sometimes knowledge isn't power ... sometimes it leads to a short circuit.

And in saying that, I also know that just because something hasn't shown its intrinsic complexities doesn't permit me to throw away the instructions.

Because if you're like me, even if you only have to read steps A through K to get something to work, once it starts doing what you want it to you usually stop reading.

That said, thanks for getting this far along with me. Here's hoping we can just keep it all in the big yellow box for a good long while.

F.A.J.