When I first started working in Boston nearly 8 years ago little did I know of the cast of characters that would eventually cross my path.
At the cigar store where I work I have come to believe that every day is just like Halloween.

There were people like Bill the tobacco eater.
His name will tell you all you really need to know about him. And no, I’m not lying.
Bill has always been partial to McClelland pipe tobaccos.
Don’t know why but I guess they just taste great.
Not sure how the people at McClelland would feel about that.
Bill also had the facial pallor of a year old corpse.
Maybe you’re not supposed to eat this stuff.
Then there’s Snuffers, a strange ogre-like man that snorted more nasal snuff than any human being on the planet.
During the summer months he would come into the store wearing sandals on his feet displaying brownish toenails that were not unlike box cutters.
I remember thinking that the guy could climb trees with those toenails.
There’s Mr. D who depending on the day of the week would speak with a slow southern drawl, ala Colonel Cornpone (even though he had a regular Boston accent)
On his Colonel transformation days he would call me, ‘Maakul’. [Michael]
Sounds almost exotic, doesn’t it?
D has admitted to us that he sometimes wears panty hose around the house when he’s alone.
Bet that does wonders for the property value of the neighborhood should some unsuspecting eye see him traipsing around the house wearing a sexy pair of black fishnets.
I know, TMI.

If I really thought about it I could come up with many more names of folks that should honestly be living in the Odd Fellow Home.
There’s Bucky the gap toothed hooker, Head Wound Harry and Creepy Fedora Boy and on and on.

This brings me to Mr. B.
I met him in the first month while working at the cigar store. He was an older gentleman in his mid eighties by the looks of him and was an avid pipe smoker (of the meerschaum variety), a ladies man (really) and one great joke/story teller.
On one particular visit he pulled out a magnifying glass from his old leather satchel, winked at me and said, “Watch this.”
He stepped outside of the front door of the shop into the sunshine and proceeded to light his pipe with the magnifying glass as curious passersby pointed and smiled at the most peculiar Mr. B.
There was something really likeable about the guy, endearing even.
If you didn’t know him you would swear he was deaf as a haddock but it was usually because he often forgot to turn his hearing aids on.
Before he would leave he would always tell us a joke.
In his later years he would pull out a tattered wallet for his ‘cue cards’ as his memory was slowly going south.

A Mr. B joke he once told me:

A woman comes out of the shower and looks in the mirror.
She’s real flat-chested and says to her husband ‘What can I do to make these bigger?”
The husband says, “Get a little piece of toilet paper and rub it up and down between your boobs for a month and they’ll get big.”
“What makes you think that will do it?” says the wife.
The husband says, “It worked for your ass . . . “

I wish this little story had a happy ending and who knows, maybe it does.
I found out the other day that Mr. B died a year ago in December.
He was 91 years old.
I hadn’t seen him in a while a thought about him the other day.
Google confirmed my suspicions when I found his obituary still online.
I’ll remember him for many things but mostly because he never failed to make me smile.
I have a sneaking suspicion that many people felt the same way.
Funny that I’m not calling him by his full name.
He has more videos telling his jokes on YouTube than I will ever have. [Truth]
Farewell, Norris, my old friend.
I tip my baseball cap to the ever present one on your head.
Heaven just got one hell of a cool guy.
Rock the white clouds, you sweet bastard, rock the clouds . . .

With each new year there are decisions that need to be made.
And I have thought long and hard about this one.
I have decided that I am saying my final goodbye to Facebook.
It’s not that I don’t like it or have security issues regarding weirdos that follow me wanting my social security number or my sexual preference to animals vs people.
It eats such a shitload of my time that I hardly write anymore.
Facebook makes me write fluff, meaningless shit that friends will undoubtedly comment on.
And I have loved that, please don’t get me wrong.
Videos, jokes and funny pictures are great but in the scheme of things the site is killing my creative life.
I love my friends (all of you that follow me) but it’s time for me to go.
There’s stuff on the 2012 agenda that will never get done as long as I keep dragging my sorry ass on Facebook.
I felt that there should be some kind of explanation before I hit that always dreaded ‘deactivate’ button.
With Facebook, Google +, Twitter and Linkedin, I am about ready to shit a social network all by myself.
My FB deactivation should happen sometime next week.
There will be no more posts from me on Facebook after this.
Sorry . . .  {some of you may even be breathing a sigh of relief}
Anyone that is the least bit concerned about my whereabouts should bookmark my blog.
If you want to contact me, you know where I am, folks.
FaceBooking has been a real blast but it’s time for me to hit the books, so to speak.
To all my friends, know that you will always be a part of my life just not on Facebook.
Feel free to drop me a line or visit my blog when you’re surfing the web.
Writer’s write and this writer is too damn far from doing anything remotely close to writing.
Be safe, be well and be happy my friends.
Stop by and see me at Smoke and Mirrors
Until then . . .

~m

It is currently 9:16PM here in Massachusetts.
The countdown is on as are The Three Stooges.
2011 was a year to remember for many reasons and a year to forget as well.
As I get older the passing of time seems to take on less significance than it once did.
Seems it should be the opposite but personally it’s just another year.
Another chance to get it right, another chance to possibly mess the sombitch up.
The house is warm and filled with all sorts of wonderful food and drink.
Jonathan (Sarah’s fiancee) and I just got done smoking a very nice cigar on the deck and for the moment life is good.
Hopefully 2012 will be as good as tonight seems to be.
I wish all of you peace, joy and more happiness and good fortune than your lives can reasonably handle.

For myself, I ask for the grace and peace of the One high above me;
To do more for others than I do for myself,
To smile more than frown,
To love deeply and give freely,
To find the words that move me and the music that inspires me,
and to finally give myself a break for a change.
I am too damn hard on myself.
A few sent angels would be nice as well.

So Happy New Year to you, my dear friends.
Thank you for making my life so worth living.
Here’s to another year of whatever it is that makes all of us tick . . .

~m

The next several days are going to be somewhat hectic as I sell the masses cigars, humidors,  pipe tobacco and everything you can possibly smoke to make the holidays memorable.

I want to thank all that have visited and commented here in the past year.
Although I have been a slacker in the ‘Department of Replies’ know that I have read each and every comment left and that I really appreciate your visits.

I will be celebrating the holidays with family and many close friends and consider myself  blessed.
This is a time for the celebration of love.
And there is so much that I love.

I wish for all of you, tender and sweet dreams, hot chocolate memories, stockings filled with holiday confections and joys of heaven, healing conversation and the ultimate love of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes asleep in a manger.
Somewhere in Bethlehem . . .

I even wish for you some snowflakes on Christmas Eve.
Just not too many.

“One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don’t clean it up too quickly.” ~Andy Rooney

A Merry Christmas to all,

~m

I put my keyboards up for sale a short time ago and truth be told it was harder to do than I thought it would be.
My gigging days are, for now, over.
30+ years of playing has left me gasping at the changes in the entire music scene in general.
[a post all by itself]
Don’t get me wrong, I still love my piano, my Taylor acoustic, my two didgeridoos and will continue playing them
just not in the capacity I once did.
Yes, I will be playing piano at the house on Christmas Eve.
That’s tradition.
While a part of me is sad looking at the possible end of my performing career another part of me is
thrilled to be home on New Year’s Eve.
I’ve toyed with the idea of getting a group together should I reach the ripe age of 70.
The name of said group would be ‘Comb-Over 7000′. (an idea from a close friend)
We could be sponsored by Geritol, Depends undergarments and Poligrip (a marketing frenzy would ensue, no doubt)
People in wheelchairs would get in for free.
With a cane, half price admission.
Hell, maybe we could offer free blood pressure checks at every show.
The possibilities are truly endless.
And the t-shirts could change the world!
I found this little tome I wrote from many years ago and decided to share it again.
Life is cyclical from time to time as is writing.
The merry-go-round stopped here today.
Enjoy my ‘old’ list . . .
Feel free to add to it . . .

You might be too old to gig if:

Ø Before each gig, you find you’re warming up more parts of your body

Ø It becomes more important to find a place onstage for your boxfan, than your amp.

Ø During the second set, you scream for the drummer to please stop hitting those annoying cymbals

Ø You refuse to play out of tune

Ø Your gig clothes make you look like George Burns out for a round a golf

Ø Your fans have left by 10:30

Ø All you want from groupies is a foot massage.

Ø You love shopping the dollar store because you can sing along to most of your playlist.

Ø You hire band members for their values instead of their talent.

Ø Instead of a fifth piece, your band wants to spring for a roadie with the extra money.

Ø You’ve lost the directions to the gig

Ø Prepping for the gig involves plucking hair from your chin or nose

Ø Most of the hair you’ve plucked from your chin or nose are gray

Ø You need your glasses to see your amp settings

Ø You need help on and off the stage

Ø You’ve thrown out your back jumping off the stage because no one would help

Ø You’re thrilled to have new year’s off

Ø The waitress is your daughter

Ø You stop the set because your bottle of ibuprofen fell behind the speakers

Ø Most of your crowd just sways in their seats

Ø You find drink tokens from last month’s gig in your guitar case

Ø You refuse to play without earplugs

Ø You ask the club owner if you can start at 8:30 instead of 9:30

Ø You want an opening act

Ø You check the TV schedule before booking a gig

Ø High notes make you cough

Ø Your gig stool has a back

Ø You’re related to at least one other member of the band

Ø You need a nap

Ø You eat before the gig, you get heartburn then need the nap.

Ø You don’t let anyone “sit in”

Ø After the third set, you bug the club owner to let you quit early

Ø On the breaks, you now go to your van to lay down

Ø You prefer a music stand with a light

Ø You say you double on bass

Ø When shopping, you consider the instrument’s weight as well as tone.

Ø When in the music store, the hip sales people ignore you even though you have cash.

Ø You don’t recover until Tuesday afternoon

Ø You can’t operate without a setlist

Ø You know all the words to “Hotel California”

~m

It is about this time of the year that my spirit usually spirals seriously downward.
NIN downward.
Christmas commercials that are out of whack with reality and songs that say I should be happy do anything but depress the living shit out of me.
That said, I am fortunate and blessed although I don’t often realize that I am.
I have family.
I have three beautiful daughters that love me and are home on Christmas.
I can hug them and tell them that I love them.
I can cook delicious foods that we will all share.
I have friends that stop by on Christmas Eve to join in a celebration of the simplicity of love.
And yet I continue to bitch about anything and everything.
It takes a very special friend to tell you that you are a total Holiday tool.
And I am.
Why I am the Grinch that I pretend to be sometimes eludes me.
Maybe it’s easier being Grinchy than happy.
Or maybe I have to look at the true meaning of the holiday.
This video touched my inner core.
I cried and had goosebumps all over my body.
He is the Reason for the season.
The sooner I truly accept that in my heart, the better off I will be,  I guess.
Seems I have already accepted.
That didn’t take long . . .

~m

ps. Thanks to my friend GerryM for the video link!

After we arrived in Brisbane we needed to get ourselves over to the domestic terminal for our final flight to Townsville.
We were tired. We were stinky. (well, I was stinky anyway)
We needed some food.
We needed to brush our teeth.
All was accomplished when we finally got to our last boarding gate.
We both fell into the chairs nearest the gate and looked around the terminal, in awe of where we were.
“Hey,” I said to Pamela, “we’re in Australia.”
She smiled.
After 5 minutes, Pamela had crazy legs and red ants in her pants and couldn’t sit still so she was up and went to check out the few gift shops near the gate.
I just sat and looked around the busy terminal with people flitting about like so many fleas on a used and abused mattress.
It was then that I noticed a smell, a very nasty smell, the smell of something ripe and obviously gone bad.
Maybe even a badly soiled mattress smell.
It didn’t take long to realize the source of the smell.
It was yours truly.
I must have been too tired to engage my gag reflex.
A shower would be the first thing on my agenda when we got to Chateau Harrod.

On the short flight to Townsville we looked out the little oval bubble of a window at the alien terrain below us knowing that there were people we knew down there.
It was at once a bit strange but oddly comforting.
After we landed, we grabbed our bags from the overhead compartment
(giving me yet another nice big whiff of my seriously stinky underarms).
We came through the gate to see six smiling Aussie faces; Moe, Mark, Mel, Steve, Caleb and Lucas.
[Mel being Moe’s daughter]
Moe came running up to me and threw her arms around my neck before issuing a bear hug of leviathan proportions.
She had tears in her eyes and I was wondering if they were there because she was
#1)  happy to see me and relieved we were both finally there or
#2) the natural repellant that was partying all over my body made her spring tears like she was cutting 100 onions.
Turns out she was just relieved and happy.
We all hugged and got hugged which is a really nice way to enter a country you’ve never been to before.
It was our first (and not the last!) time meeting Mel, Steve, Caleb and Lucas.
They were as warm and welcoming as we thought they’d be.
No surprises there.
It was like we’d already met but hadn’t seen each other in a long time.
It was very comfortable.
As me and Mark loaded our bags in the car, I looked at Pamela and said,
“Guess where we are? We’re in Australia!”
(a reoccurring theme, btw, right Kel?)

We pulled into the driveway of Chateau Harrod and both me and Pamela just stared at a house and its surroundings that we’d only seen via Google Earth and weekly Skype calls.
After a guided tour of the house and our simply amazing bedroom we felt like we were ‘home’ in a particular way.
We both forgot about how tired we were (second wind, thank you) and immediately started unpacking while laughing and telling stories about our multiple flights.
I stepped out the backdoor in the kitchen and into the brilliant Australian sunshine and stretched, both arms over my head.
Good God, it was time for a shower.
I was attracting flies.

There were oh, so many little things we enjoyed while in Oz, some we expected and others that caught us off guard.
The shower at Chateau Harrod was one of those surprises.
The bathroom was small and modest, sporting a toilet with a power that could flush away the body of Elvis in the wink of an eye.
The shower/bathtub had two tallish windows that opened out onto the sideyard but still allowed for privacy.
The sun poured in through the window and seemed to illuminate every single droplet of water coming from the showerhead.
It was not unlike bathing in a sea of shooting stars.
And those stars can get you clean as a bastard, let me tell you.
I could have stayed in the shower all afternoon but where’s the fun in that?
We still had our first real Australian Barbie to attend at Mel and Steve’s and the bus would be leaving soon.
I looked into the mist-covered bathroom mirror and said, “Holy shit, we’re in Australia.”

To be continued . . .

Ps. the post pic?  It made me belly laugh but the ‘Danni Minogue’ thing simply killed me . . .

Gratitude?
A good beginning.
Pamela and I are currently flying our way back to Boston and we are filled with memories
that will last a lifetime.
Over the next few months, stories will be forthcoming.
I just can’t process them now.
Know that this has been the trip of dreams for the two of us.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Maureen and Mark.
Although we have seen many beautiful places while here,
the most beautiful of them was deep within the heart of
the two of you and your incredible family;
Mel, Steve, Caleb, Lucas, Tayla – Kel, Ant, Zoe, Mitchell, Caitlin – Tash, Stick, Wil, Max, Isaac and Miss Stella.
We will miss all of you dearly.
We refuse to say goodbye and will just leave it at, ‘see all of you soon’.
Our love to all . . .
Hooroo!
Michael & Pamela
(have now done Oz)

I have been hopefully given something of a miracle today.
I just wanted to thank those that have chosen to love me as I am; crimson blemishes and all.
This is a small thank you for the comfort, advice, support and unending compassion you have so willingly given to me.
I promise to keep you all apprised of my future progress.
Sweet relief is but a precursor to the hopeful and long awaited end results.
pax,

~m

Be safe, be well, be happy [@Thanksgiving]

~m