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 . . .

Sarah and I went to visit my father yesterday to feed him lunch and sit with him for a while.
Lately, he’s been overly emotional for reasons I may never be privy to.
The minute he saw us, he broke down completely.
I feel terrible saying it but I’ve almost gotten used to it now.
I had to.
My empathy for him that once seemed to be an impossibility to avoid feeling
has now turned into an acceptance of sorts that boggles my mind.
He was in the rec room that overlooks the city waiting to be fed.
I wheeled him to his room where I know it’s quiet and had Sarah get his lunch.
He’s a finicky eater these days around everyone except my sister and me which makes total sense.
His diet is now 100% pureed making his meals look more like and artist’s palette than a meal.
I learned yesterday that spinach makes my father cry.
On his plate were potatoes, spinach and something that would resemble pasta and meatballs in the ‘baby food’ format.
20 years ago, the thought of drinking an Italian meal through a straw had never occurred to me.
My father’s daily nutritional needs are now thrown into a blender ala ‘Bass-O-Matic’.
And I wonder why he cries?
I can’t get away from the feeling that a small part of him is frightened.
Not of me or Sarah or Maureen or Pam and the kids but he seems almost Fear Factor scared.
My sister says he’s a tortured soul and I would have to agree.
There are so many things that run rampant through my mind as I feed him, spoonful by blessed spoonful . . .
(I’m looking at a rainbow hovering over Boston as I write this. Truth)

there was the day we brought my mother to assisted living and took my father back to our house for a BBQ.
That may have been one of the last times that I actually ‘had’ him.
He was making sense and I could talk to him and he could understand me.
He was profoundly sad about bidding farewell to his wife for two weeks but at least he still liked the taste of beer (something he’s since lost long ago)

Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . .

the soft, cool grass beneath my feet in the backyard as we played catch after he got home from work.
We never talked when we played catch but there was conversation that he and I understood.
Especially when he threw a ball with some mustard on it, smiling as I caught it.
That was my own personal field of dreams.

Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . .

the Christmas night I went to the facility he was staying in and found him in a self-induced sugar coma after polishing off an entire bag of Dove’s chocolates that someone had given him.
There were candy wrappers everywhere, discarded like wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
He seemed ready to do jumping jacks, for Christ’s sake

I keep praying for a rainbow in his future but he’s having one hell of a time seeing through the gauzy reality he’s currently living in.
I finish giving him lunch and to my surprise he’s eaten everything save for the Popeye spinach soup.
I’m happy because he has a belly full of food but he’s the farthest thing from a happy ending because he knows it’s time for me to go.
I kiss his forehead and say, “I love you, Dad,” to which he replies, “Yeah.”
Sarah and I walk to the door and she says, “Bye, Grampa.”
More Wally tears.
We walk down the corridor to the elevators in silence as I allow myself to cry a bit on the inside
wanting badly for the seemingly inconsequential goodbyes to finally end.
It’s then that I have an small epiphany; as I feed him lunch, he’s actually feeding me.
It’s a Communion of sorts between my father and I.
I change my mind then and there.
And all of a sudden I don’t want the goodbyes to end.

Kinda hard for me to believe this guy did ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ in 77.
I didn’t listen to him then but I’m sure as hell listening to him now.
This blew me away.
Gun control for the masses.
Every single goddamned day another constitutional right gets thrown in the
shitter by these bureaucratic boneheads.
Republican & Democrat.
How do you spell bullshit?
I love Nugent in this interview.
Rock on, dude, rock on

I’m thinking many people have wondered about the origins of my URL,
or not.
I’ve based my email addresses on Steely Dan song titles
simply because I didn’t want
an email address like  dan22677hj_kko0@yahoo.com.
Steely Dan song titles worked great;
hence bookofliars@gmail.com
(Book of Liars is a Dan song not currently on YouTube)
Okay, now I’ve let my little secret fly.
Now go and listen to the tune that ultimately gave me my URL . . .
(and a few email addys)
If you’re a Dan fan from the Boston area,
they’re appearing at the Wang in late July.
Go to Steely Dan.com  for more info
I’m on vacation that week but for some reason
I’m not bumming about it at all . . .

We don’t need no steenking, Swine Flu!
Get out those face masks, people.
And decorate the house with ‘em . . .
Pooh was definitely a conservative.

Everyone knows that I am the ultimate theme junkie and that’s an understatement.
I found this current theme called KillerLight created by Simon Smith sitting peacefully in the WordPress.Org
‘new themes’ archive.
I had to have it for a number of reasons.
I decided to visit Simon’s website this morning and I left a brief comment regarding
the animated background (which is simply incredible).
His response was swift and gracious.
I noticed something else while I was there though.
Simon and his sister are planning a skyjump on April 7th to aid the Alzheimer’s Society and Cancer research
in the UK.
How fitting is it for me to be using a theme by someone raising money for a cause I so deeply believe in?
That said, click on the sky above and visit Simon’s website.
If you can’t donate anything, at least offer a few words of support to him and his sister Becky.
This is a great cause for an even better reason.
Thanks for the template, Simon!
There are reasons why things happen the way they do though there’s no reasonable explanation.
Can you say ‘Godwink’?

There’s no end to his nefarious mathematical machinations and assiduous dedication
in finding you the biggest friggin’ refund on your taxes this year.
(whether you deserve it or not)
He’s H&R Block with the social charisma of Manhattan all in one.
If he can’t get you the refund you truly dream of, he’ll go all Dirty Harry on somebody’s ass until he does.
Just don’t call him Admiral!
His name is Doug.

Got this ‘Hero’ post idea from Kat.
Click on the Admiral above and visit her blog.
Links to the Hero Factory and posting details are there.
I had a blast with this and laughed my keester off when I saw my final result.
It’s ironic that my dad was once an accountant.

Let me know when you create your ‘Hero’ and I’ll link to them below this post.
Could be fun to see what everyone comes up with.

*General Kind Philanthropist ~Annie

*The Astonishing Whipped Nine Tails ~ Moe

*The Extraordinary Lasered Jones ~ Cowgal

It’s only in the darkest of times
that you ultimately find out who
your real friends are.

The first guitar I ever received was in 1964.
It was Christmas and I was five years old.
It was one of those Roy Rogers guitars made out of some unknown kind of wood with shitty nylon strings.
It came with a rope strap as well which gave me some pretty serious neck burns after wearing the guitar for more than 5 minutes and trying to act like Elvis Presley.
The guitar itself didn’t last very long though because supposedly they don’t like being stepped on or dropped.
I ended up doing one or the other. Ooops.
I destroyed the thing.
I‘m thinking it must have sounded like crap even though I didn‘t even play guitar back then.
It was six or seven years later that a song on the radio would ultimately change my pre-pubescent musical life.
I can remember the first time I heard, Vincent, by Don McLean and how I heard every single note he played on his guitar.
I was going to teach myself how to play that song no matter how hard I tried.
Problem was, I had no guitar.
The internet now has webpages of the actual tablature. Click here.
But Sears & Roebucks sold guitars at the time (a scary proposition, knowing what I know now) and had one for 30 bucks, and I loved everything about it . . .  well, from what I could see in the catalog anyway.
It looked just like the guitar that McLean actually played (in my mind) though it wasn’t even close.
Sometimes if you wish hard enough the universe co-operates.
And co-operate it did.
New England was covered in 8″ of snow the very next morning and I had no school.
I put on my snow boots, grabbed a shovel and entered the working world of shoveling driveways.
Jesus Krispies, it was hard work.
Shoveling driveways didn’t pay too well either, maybe four or five bucks per.
Looking back on it, I should have made more, for cripes sake.
Maybe the neighbors were just cheap bastards, I don’t know.
I shoveled all morning and went home at noon to eat lunch before heading back out for the afternoon.
By the time the sun was dripping into the lavender and salmon horizon, I trudged back home, physically and mentally beat.
It felt like I’d shoveled 500 driveways when in reality I probably shoveled 6.
I sat in the dining room and counted my money.

“27 bucks?”  I muttered.

I hung my head in disgust and sheer exhaustion.
My shoulders hurt.
And my feet were wet.
I hate wet feet.

“That’s great, Michael! How much is the guitar?” My mother asked.

“Thirty, I’m almost there,” I said, still pissed.

A few days later she took me to Sears & Roebucks and paid the balance I couldn’t afford.
The one thing I’ll always remember about my mother was her uncanny understanding of my intense love for music.
Little did she know she’d lit a fire that still glows, though not as brightly as when I was 13, but it’s still there burning inside me.
Her lasting gift to me, perhaps.
If you’re curious, I did learn Vincent, note by blessed note and can still play it to this day.
I went through two 45′s to learn it but it’s amazing how much it taught my ears.
Maybe it’s not so ironic why the starry, starry night sky reminds me so much of my mother.
And sorry about the mishap with my Roy Rogers guitar, Mom.
I really didn’t mean to do it . . .

*On a more personal note, while writing this story, I was trying hard to think of what brand the guitar was and as I listened to my Ipod Nano (thanks, M) ‘Harmony’ by Elton John came on.
Everything clicked.
The guitar I got was a ‘Harmony’.
Truth.
Roy Rogers is riding tonight . . .