I StumbledUpon a short article one night that stopped me in my tracks.
It was titled, “If your blog disappeared, who would miss it?”
I thought about the question for a good long time and came to the conclusion that, yeah,
there are many people that would miss it.
I do hope I’m right.
I am no egomaniac but I do feel that some folks would, yours truly being one.
I’ve been blogging now for almost five years with no foreseeable end in sight.
It’s been the reaction to my words and thoughts that’s kept me going strong for 5, to be honest.
Some comments I’ve received are seemingly deeper than the posts I’ve written.
It would seem that I’m fishing for compliments here, but I am definitely not.
I have 5 questions for anyone kind enough to take the time to answer them.
I appreciate your honesty and feedback.

1. What is it that makes you visit me again?
2. What do you not like about Smoke and Mirrors? (be honest)
3. What would you like to see more of (or less of) in the future?
4. Would you like to see something different?
5. What is your favorite post and why? (longtime readers only)

There are more questions that I have but I don’t want to keep you here forever
(a little white lie, methinks)
I made this post relatively short to give you a few moments to comment.
I thank all of you dearly in advance.

One night at the Cape all of us went to Baxter’s in Hyannis for dinner.
It was a beautiful night as we sat watching the ferries come and go in the harbour.
Not sure what everyone ordered to eat but no one was talking and I’m assuming it was all good.
I do remember that Mark got an enormous Fisherman’s Platter that looked incredibly good,
no, it was ‘call your cardiologist before eating’ good.
He gave me a fried scallop that was roughly the size of an Aussie cricket ball which I split with Pamela.
It was so good I had to go back up to the counter and get a side order for us to split.
I’ll never learn.
It was such a beautiful night that I suggested we walk Main Street in Hyannis and check out some of the shops.
While the womenfolk were looking at Cape Cod jewelry,
Mark and I wandered over to a leather store across the street.
The rich, earthy aroma walking in was almost narcotic.
I love the smell of leather.
Mark and I were immediately drawn to the hats hanging on a wall in the back of the store; there were porkpies, fedoras (ala Indiana Jones), top hats, baseball caps and one very special hat that I somehow missed.
Mark asked to see a now familiar hat on the very top row.
“Check it out, mate. It’s an Akubra made in Australia,”  He said,
as he showed me the inside label of his hat by the same maker.
I loved the hat he was wearing when he first showed up at the house and now I knew why.
He asked the price ($85) but by now Pamela and all the girls were standing next to us ready to go.
I wanted to buy the hat because I really liked it and I wanted to offer a showing of solidarity to Australia.
Alright, the solidarity part was my brain making up bullshit but I really loved the hat.
I could hear Pamela in my head saying, “You Have Enough Hats!”
I’m thinking now there was a reason I didn’t get it.
Move forward in time to Logan Airport on the Sunday Maureen and Mark were leaving.
Pamela, Hannah, me and M&M were standing at the gate, all of us knowing what was coming next.
Mark patted Moe on the bum and said, “Alright. Let’s go. Let’s get this done.”
Probably some of the hardest words my friend has ever had to say.
The Tear Factory was now open for business but before it closed, Mark took off his Akubra and placed it on my head and gave me a huge bear hug.
“Take care of this for me until the next time, buddy.”
Translation: How Michael got his very first Akubra.
You never forget your first.
I don’t know much about the road ahead of me but I do know this; the next Akubra I put on my bald noggin won’t be from some leather shop in Hyannis, Ma.
I’m thinking someplace much more exotic . . .
Like Queensland, Australia

There are days when my eyes open on the world and I see things as they are.
I notice the difference immediately because most days my vision is subconsciously selective;
I see the things the way I want to see them.
Today, I saw sadness.
I know, big surprise, huh?
On my way to lunch I saw a woman sitting in the rain by a water fountain and she was crying as she talked softly on her cell phone. I heard her say, “Please just don’t . . . ”
It seemed like I was the only person in the screaming city of Boston that noticed.
I felt bad as I walked by but there was nothing I could do.
Truth be told I’m no saint or archangel but when I notice a situation like this it tends to rattle me.
As a writer maybe I tend to notice a tad more than the general populace does.

I got to South Station tonight and witnessed a homeless woman counting, folding and re-folding what I assumed were her only earthly possessions.
She placed them in a rucksack that looked like it had been dragged through a muddy puddle.
And again, people walked by her without so much as a passing glance.
She was far from invisible and the look on her face told the world at large
that she was the farthest thing from a happy ending.
It was profoundly sad.
If it were another day, I may have just walked by as well, too caught up in my own life.
I sat down on the train and scratched my head wondering what highway to nada leads someone to a hell like this?

Many years ago I waited on a woman that bought her daily ciggies from me.
She always tried to look her best in terms of her hair and the clothes she wore but she could never quite pull it off.
I always felt there would be no hot fudge sundaes in her near future.
One day she stopped coming in and I would wonder for years what ever became of her.
My heart sank the day I saw her pushing a rusty old shopping cart on the sidewalks of South Main Street in a bad section of downtown Worcester.
Her cart was filled with dirty cans and empty bottles that she would undoubtedly redeem to get cash for God only knows what.
She was a broken woman and a sad commentary on a reality I pray I never have to experience.
So, is it selective vision?
Lord knows we all use it from time to time because it’s easier just to look the other way sometimes.
Maybe that’s why we also have days that we ‘see’ the world as it is.
And perhaps that’s what keeps us all just a bit more humble and human in the end.
Say a prayer the next time you see a fallen angel walking the walk.
It can only help.

Any questions?

“Hey buddy, if you got half a brain in your head, you can’t park it here.”
This is an actual sign that I saw in Boston on Saturday morning.
Do they have something called a sign spellchecker?

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

Research has led to the discovery of one of the heaviest elements yet known to science.
The new element, Governmentium (Gv), has one neuron, 25 assistant neurons, 88 deputy neurons and 198 assistant deputy neurons, giving it an atomic mass of 312.
These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.
Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, it can be detected because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact.
A minute amount of Governmentium can cause a reaction that normally takes less than a second to as long as 4 years to complete.
Governmentium has a normal half-life of 2-6 years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neurons and deputy neurons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium’s mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization causes more morons to become neurons, forming isodopes.
This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass. When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium, which has half as many peons but twice the number of morons.
Science is amazing sometimes,  isn’t it?

I was up and out of bed at 5:45 this morning, a bit early on a Tuesday but I had some things to do before heading into Boston. I could hear freezing rain ‘ticking’ off the windows in the living room and thought, “Early train.”
Icy conditions bamboozle the commuter rail and taking an early train would ensure me an on-time arrival at work.
The train left at 7:30 and being an express train should have arrived in Boston by 9 allowing me an hour or so to grab a bagel, coffee and a quick glance at the morning paper while sitting on my perch high above Copley Square. (@Finagle-a-Bagel on Boylston St.)
Faulty rail signals, an express train turned local (all stops)
and a medical emergency 15 minutes outside of the city got a very livid Mick to Back Bay Station at 9:50am.
Smack my ass and call me Betty, but I was ready to kill someone.
So much for the leisurely coffee and toasted bagel, so much for a glance at the newspaper, so much for a break from the incessant insanity surrounding the holiday.
Fuck a fruitcake, I was pissed.
And I gave up 45 minutes of sleep to run to work.
Excellent.
That was the start of the day.
I should have stayed in bed and continued scratching my ass.
This was not what I had in mind to start my day.
The month of December has me searching, every single year, looking for something that allows me to make some kind of logical sense of the holidays.
It gets harder every year, folks.
Some years, I’m lucky and it falls into my hands like a subtle grace from heaven.
I remember coming home one Christmas Eve several years ago from wherever I was working at the time.
I felt grumpy and tired, filled with enough vitriolic wassail that I was eager to share it with anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.
It was snowing that night and the roads were all unplowed, (another opportunity for me to curse the Gods) making the going very slippery.
I pulled up to the top of my driveway, turned off my truck and closed my eyes.
After a few deep breaths I said, “It’s over, Michael. Another season is over.”
I got out of my truck and began walking towards the house when I stopped.
Beyond the candles in our windows and the twinkling Christmas tree I could see Pamela and my three girls.
They were laughing, they were happy and they were waiting for me.
With snow falling all around me, my mind took a lifelong snapshot of that image.
In an instant, the world changed and in that snowflake-filled moment, so did I.
I found exactly what I was looking for (and thanked St.Anthony, btw).
That Christmas Eve would turn out to be something magical.
This year, the task is turning out to be something of a scavenger hunt.
8 days left and I’m still looking . . .
and saying my fervent prayers to St.Anthony . . .

On most days my father wears a baseball hat.
Even when he was well if he wasn’t working he was wearing some type of baseball hat.
It was an intrinsic part of his daily get up.
It was usually the Red Sox, maybe the Celtics but NEVER the NY Yankees, God forbid, he would rather die than to be caught wearing one of those.
He still wears a hat these days although he would be hard pressed to tell you which hat he was wearing.
Truth be told, on any given day lately I’d have a tough time telling you what hat I‘m wearing.
I was talking with my sister Moe the other day and
she told me a very interesting story about our father and one of his ‘hats’.
She came down last weekend to see ‘Dad’ and wheeled him down to the quaint chapel in the nursing home for Sunday morning mass. She had called ahead to ask that he be cleaned up and shaved and dressed nicely, the proverbial cherry on the sundae, his baseball hat.
They got to the chapel where I’m assuming my sister knelt and said a prayer or two (thousand) . . .
As she sat back she noticed that Dad’s hat was sitting in his lap.
She swears she did not take it off, she was sure of that.
He took it off himself.
My sister took it as a sign that our father still acknowledges the fact that he is in a place that’s sacred and taking off your hat is something you do out of reverence and respect.
Maybe she’s right.
I took it more as a sign that says she and I will never be alone in this shattered ordeal that’s slowly nearing its very blue end.
Either way, I know that I wanted to remember the moment even though I couldn’t be there.
And though it’s doubtful that our father said one single prayer that morning, I’m confident that he left the chapel with more blessings than anyone else in the place.
And I’m positive he put his baseball cap right back on as he left.

Pamela and I were outside raking the endless falling leaves the other day,
actually it was on our anniversary.
I know, romantic, huh?
It’s a mundane chore such as this that allows the grey matter to play around a bit,
reminisce about autumns past, maybe even give the constantly buzzing hemispheres in my cranium a bit of a vacation from the vagaries of the daily rat race.
I began thinking about my life as being partitioned into ‘seasons’,
and that from where I stand I am currently in the midst of my own personal autumn.
It’s a time of great change, a biological necessity and ever so slight rewinding of the clockwork that makes me tick.
I accept the fact that my life has experienced changes from as far back as my days of ‘spring’.
I do find it sad though that my endless summer has come and gone taking with it certain elements of youth, the embers of the burning innocence that once defined my life reshaping my thoughts on a daily basis.
This is my autumn, I think,
when my eyes focus on an enormous pile of leaves that need to be raked onto the tarp and dragged behind the shed (where all the bad leaves go).
I stare at the pile of vibrant colours,
the burnt yellows and searing reds, like a fire in front of me.
Things change and life continues to change me.
Caught inside the moment, in my mind I see three little girls going down the slide headfirst into a pile of leaves that I’ve left just for them, Pamela running into the house for the camera, never one to miss an opportunity for a silly photo.
I see myself raking, smiling, listening to those echoes of laughter and the beautiful sounds of a fall
that was so damn very long ago.
It’s no surprise that I miss it, almost as much as I miss the old me that was raking those very leaves.
I shake myself out of this melancholy daydream and notice
that the sky above me is a putty grey replacing the daydream skies of an innocent blue from a thousand moments ago.
As I drag another tarp full leaves to the opposite end of the yard,
I smile, because off in the distance I can hear the sound of a rusty swing
going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth . . .
And as the leaves continue to fall, I continue to rake