Because they gave up their tomorrows, we can have our todays.
To all the men and women that have so unselfishly given of themselves, we offer a
prayer and a heartfelt ‘thank you’ for all that you have done for our beautiful country.
Although some of our freedoms are being compromised by a government that has too much power and might,
your courage and willingness to serve will be forever remembered.
To all the living soldiers abroad and all those who have sadly passed away, we are remembering you.
God Bless all in harms way.
Happy Memorial Day, folks.
As you’re stoking up your grills and icing the tall boys, look to the sky and say a small, “Thank you”.
Pax,

~m

I continue to remember the day you were born.
5.23.1929
As always, in my mind we are playing catch in the backyard with grass that was green as emeralds.
A juicy hot dog with lots of mustard from Rip’s would follow.
Maybe even a ride on the go-carts, if I was lucky.
With you, I was always lucky.
Miss you, Dad.

~m

It amazes me the distance that disease can create between people and families.
Alzheimer’s takes everything you once knew about someone and throws it in a closet,
locking the door, throwing away the key.
This Father’s Day is the first without my Dad and I’m trying to sort out my innermost feelings.
I will go to the cemetery tomorrow morning with a coffee in one hand and a cigar in the other
and try to remember the man I once called ‘Dad’.
I miss him. I truly do.
Not as he was in the past 6-8 years but in the days when I could tell him a joke and
he would laugh; when I could go to the fridge and ask him if he wanted a beer; when I could say, “Hi, Dad,”
on the phone and he knew it was me replying, “Want your mother?”
I will be with him tomorrow as he will be with me.

This Father’s Day will feel a bit empty, strange and maybe a bit of a relief that
I don’t have to see his withering body sucking on pureed food through a straw.
Tomorrow I will see him as the guy that never missed one damn baseball game of mine,
always called me ‘Michael’ not ‘Mike’, a man that taught me how to throw a baseball and pass a football,
a man that never ever let me down, a man that taught me what it means to be a man.
I still miss him dearly but tomorrow I will begin re-building in my mind the complete memory
of a longstanding hero of mine.
If I die being half the man that he was, I will be truly blessed.
Make time to visit or call your Dad today.
Happy Father’s Day to all.
Love you, Dad.

~m

His soul sleeps,
buried far beneath a long forgotten vertical landscape,
yearning for home . . .
it dreams of places remembered; warm places, complete and innocently raw

The perpetual journey through a cobwebbed labyrinth remains a stygian quest at best,
an unanswered prayer, a dimly lit votive, a quiet cry in the dark
the clouds thicken, the earth cools and a winter of the mind settles in

Rolling waves of emotion yield snowflakes of blue
that fall like sleet, slicing the spirit into oh, so many unrecognizable pieces of what used to be a life; where nothing fits or belongs but must somehow remain

still . . .

Who knows when, this sadly shattered thing will end
Only God knows when it started,
But it’s wearing pretty thin, as the winter settles in, covering the frozen man . . .

ps. love you.
m&m

It’s like watching the slow and dying embers in the
backyard firepit on a sultry summer’s night.
In some ways I understand it, some I don’t.
Maybe it’s meant to be that way.
It’s hard enough to watch someone you love die but it’s the
‘dying marathon’ of Alzheimer’s that really hurts inside.
I had a deeply emotional visit with my father this past Sunday.
I felt this impending sense of detachment from him that I’ve never seen or felt before.
My sister says it’s that way with most patients in the final stretch of the endgame.
I am trying to make myself understand that.
Not doing too well with it either.
The past 5 years have been a sad and long goodbye and although I’ve said it before,
I want to believe in my heart that he is ready.
My father did not cry yesterday which had me scratching my freshly shaved noggin.
It was almost as if he was trying to be strong just for me,
but maybe I’ll never know.
I sat and held his thin and badly shaking hands and really looked at him,
into my father‘s eyes.
My heart was instantly shattered as a lifetime of tender and lost moments came crashing into my mind.
I want many things for my father and not one of them was in this room that has held him prisoner for the past 5+ years.
I want him to walk and feel the rays of the sun on his face again,
love and be loved in return, find the missing piece of the puzzle he’s been searching for since he got sick.
Find my mother.
I want him to find enough strength to finally fade away and find his corner of the sky,
his cerulean peace.
It’s time for my beautiful father to go home.
Because of all the places I roam, I miss having him there the most . . .

Chill.
Grab a coffee, English Breakfast tea, Chai, cognac, scotch, bourbon, water and maybe a smoke,
all depending on where you are in the world of time zones.
Plug in some decent headphones and give yourself 7:40 minutes to just . . .
Chill.
This is ‘Both Sides Now’,  Herbie Hancock from River: The Joni Letters
Hancock is and has been a jazz piano God to me.
Forever.
And believe it or not he is 70 years old. (born in 1940)
At any rate, get a drink, perhaps a smoke and just
Chill.
for 7:40 . . .
Your brain will thank me.
This is musical/cerebral Zen at its finest.

Reading ‘Carver‘ right now.
Please READ THIS.
You will spend 20 minutes of your life and thank me.
This is one of Carver’s most amazing short stories.
Please take the time and read it.
The man was amazing.
Simply amazing . . .

I’m not sure how or exactly when it happened but I am obsessed with the TV show ‘Supernatural’.
If you like funky horror, blood, violence and humor this show is the perfect alchemy.
I blame my daughters Sarah and Jenna for teasing me with owning all 4 of the full season DVD’s.
Whenever one of them is watching an episode they know I will inevitably sit down and watch.
Yeah, I am a sucka.
If you’ve seen my Facebook you already know of my unbridled love for Dean (Jensen Ackles).
As a happy and fully functional heterosexual male, I feel odd and a bit freakish telling you that.
Yeah, I got a Dean ‘thang’ happening.
By ‘thang’ I mean nothing whatsoever sexually although shock was probably your initial reaction.
Hey, listen . . .
I wouldn’t rub his back down with lavender oil or suck on his toes for a squillion dollars.
Maybe 2.
I just happen to think the man is quintessentially cool.
And if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, please, Dear God, bring me back in his body.
The man does things for a pair of blue jeans that some women lust for.
My daughters will read this post, roll their eyes and say, “Dad’s lost it.”
I think of it like this:
Women will look at another woman and say, “Good God, she’s beautiful!”
As guys, we don’t bat an eye, do we?
If it’s a girlfriend or a wife we understand that she hasn’t turned lesbo, she’s just admiring awesome beauty.
But if a guy happens to comment about the looks of another man (as I have done here) most will give you that ‘gee, you’re really queer, huh?’ stare.
Kind of a double standard there, capice?
Dean Winchester is one fine looking man.
There.
I’ve said it.
And I still love my wife.
And breasts.
And nice bums.
And flat tummies.
Writer’s block can really suck sometimes.
Holy freekin’ Moley.
Got salt?
It does a body good . . .

Off in a not too distant somewhere, I hear the shimmering sound of church bells.
Melancholy yet beautiful, their dissonance fills the night air with a longing, a void filled, 
an endless possibility.
Dark grey clouds move low across the sky saturated with change; change of the heart and mind,
soul and body, a chasm of repeating continuation.
The church bells chime on, sounding more and more like a movie soundtrack that once defined your life
as it echoes the pain,
loss of cerebral photographs, and confusion of all the simple things that mattered.
And yet, the sound is oddly comforting, a musical pall of earth tones beckoning pure white light.
I am suddenly aware of the clip-clop of my blackened dirty shoes on the pavement below,
an urban heartbeat, the intrinsic essence of time and space; of a time that
I listened for the sound of your footsteps, of a space holding everything you once were.
You.
My dear, drifting and lonely Father.
If you could only know what I want for you in the most loving of ways.
If you could only hear the beautiful church bells.
But the world will continue to hurt you until you find a way to finally listen.

I have followed Richard Page for almost his entire career.
From ‘Pages’ and ‘Mr. Mister’ to all the background vocals he’s done over the years.
Who is Richard Page?
You have heard him before.
Trust me.
Click here.
Click here.
Click here.
An amazing musician that never got the recognition I think he truly deserved.
Such is the fickle nature of the music business.
Please enjoy his holiday offering.
The deeper message of this song far surpasses all the 70% off Xmas sales at ‘Walmart’ and ‘Macy’s’
This is yuletide warmth, cubed.
And yeah, I always cry at Christmas . . .