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The Magician A tail of true proportions about being the "behind the scenes" person at a live music show.

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The Rosary A narative about the origins and beliefs behind one of the world's oldest prayer tools. Works Cited A list of the sources used and quoted in The Rosary

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Excerpts from the Book: Indefatigably, Incessantly, Momentarily Erect (the Trials of Tony)

the Not Newsletter, Christmas, 'Ninety-seven..

The Magician

The lights burn colored paths through the smoke-filled room as the last note is struck on the guitar, the last beat of the heavy bass drum, vibrating the very structure of the building. Jimmie, the lead singer says, thank you, letting the charged audience know the song is over to the eruption of screams even louder than the music that was no longer playing.  The audience starts bouncing up and down in front of the stage as if they were the heart of the building, pumping life saving blood to the farthest reaches of the basement to keep the place alive.  And they were doing a good job!   Their sweaty bodies so close together that when they raised their arms above their heads to applaud, their hips rubbed together.  Robert stands alone in the back of the room, soaking it all in, mesmerized by the excitement and success of it all.   Music, they say, brings the life out from the soul and exposes it for all to see. Music helps us laugh and cry, remember and forget. When asked about his gyrations on stage, Elvis Presley responded, it's what the music does to me. This is what the music does for Robert.

Robert is the one nobody knows, but without him, this emotional, sweaty, dancing mob would be at home watching Friends on this Thursday night.   Robert is the producer of this show; the behind the scenes magician who is content with a good show and a good audience.  Not because he doesn't need the money, because he does, but because he loves the music.   Probably more than these ticket holders here tonight.  But it's not easy.

And it's not always like this.

In November, 1984, he had met some young longhaired guys in a pizza place.  They started talking because they all had long hair.   Robert was a disc jockey playing music for high school dances and weddings.  He didn't have the talent to be in a band, even though that's what he really wanted.  These guys knew where to rent a ballroom and asked Robert to promote the show for their band.  It became his job to call radio stations, newspapers, sound companies, light companies, beer companies, and insurance companies.  His job as promoter became putting all the pieces of the puzzle that make a live show happen together.

Tonight, as the producer standing here with a sold out crowd, perfect lighting and smiles coming from the owner of the club, it seems so long ago.  His memory makes him smile at no one in particular, but everyone at once.  He knows most of these ticket holders think it was the bands' idea to come here; like they really wanted to come and play in this town.  The reality was, Robert told them the name of the town backstage, right before they came out.  Robert smiles to show his love for the music and fades into a memory six years ago.

The security company had shown up in three stretch limos and all the men jumped out wearing full-length leather coats.  The leader was a huge as Hollywood Hogan with twenty-seven-inch biceps.   A real no-nonsense kind of guy.  All the security men formed a semi-circle around the door of the makeshift office at the National Guard Armory; waiting for their orders.  They might as well have been henchmen in the new James Bond film.  "First things first," their leader began, "where's my money?"  After counting out the stack of hundred dollar bills twice, he asked, "what do you want us to do?"

Robert had made his instructions clear and simple:  two at each door, two on the money in the ticket window, and the rest float.  That's when the phone rang.  The local police chief.  "Are you the manager of that band there tonight?" he began.

"No, managers only make five percent. I'm in it for a lot more than that."  Robert wondered where this would lead.

"Are you having a dance or a concert?" he asked. Could anything else go wrong? Ticket sales were way down. He was sure to lose money.  Now, what was this new wrinkle?

"Like I told the city council three months ago," he began, "it's a concert, but I think these people will stand up and dance."

"Then it's a dance," the chief retorted. "You got a permit for a dance?" Robert didn't.  He only had a permit for a concert.

"How can I get one today?" Robert hoped.

"It takes a vote by the city council. They have to call a session and review your application, take a vote, and you have to pay the ten dollars for the permit."

"Doors open in ninety minutes. Can we do it that fast?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm having a concert."

"I'm coming in there. If I see people dancing, I shut you down and you go to jail."

New orders for security: No police come in without a warrant.  No exceptions.  If they wanted to play hardball; Robert knew that game, too.

But tonight he is the producer, not the promoter and although Thursday is not always the best night to have a show like this, this one is smooth and the music is perfect. None of the police crap about a "dance" or "concert" tonight.  Jimmie Van Zant is on the stage, singing all those Lynyrd Skynyrd favorites. Billy-his stage right guitarist- is tearing into Sweet Home Alabama like it was the first time he'd been in front of a cheering crowd. If only these Yankees knew what these words meant, but what the heck. It's the music they love, just like Robert.  The same music driving him to do what he does.

Money has always been tough for Robert.  It's not always there. The time in Waconia was his first promotion and he made a couple hundred bucks.  Not bad. Then the show in Austin made fifteen hundred in one night back in '85.  In ''86, there was that big outdoor gig. Thirty K in ones, fives, tens, and twenties. He was throwing it in the air and rolling in it in his hotel room bed.  Then six weeks later, in Rochester, sixty-five thou went into the toilet. Gone. It's never coming back.  But it did.  When he lost everything he owned (including a recording studio and record label in the '93 fight over "dance or concert") again, he thought he was done. But it was just last year when he was three hours away by car and Dr. Hook said if he wasn't paid within the hour, the show was off.

Robert called a friend and sold his Harley Davidson over the phone for half what it was worth. The catch? The buyer had to put two thousand dollars in an envelope and give it to the band within an hour.   The show was one of the best ever, but he misses the bike.

"Come in here for a minute," Karla, tonight's promoter, screamed into his ear. Back in her office she could not stop smiling.  "This is better than I ever expected.  I'll never doubt you again."  Two months ago, Robert had been her booking agent.

"Youth and good looks take the back seat to age and wisdom once again," Robert spoke softly, knowing his twenty years of wins and losses were finally stacking more on the "win" side.  Both "back of the scenes" players stopped for just a moment as the band meticulously began the quiet, opening notes of Freebird.

If I leave here tomorrow, Jimmie sings, would you still remember me?  For just a moment, Robert thinks about his wife, who loves this song. She is paving the way for European tour, working in Italy tonight.  They both would rather she was here.

So does Karla.

Robert looked at Karla and remembered when he sat on her side of the desk, when he had to hand over the money to the important players.  When he was the one who was buying the bands from booking agents that didn't or wouldn't produce the shows with him.  This is now Robert's other favorite part.  The "Art of the Deal," as Donald Trump would say. Robert loves to make promises that no one else will make, and he loves doing what he said he would do. He remembered painfully that time when the money ran out before he ran out of people to pay.  There just wasn't enough to pay everyone.  Telling a band you'll pay them tomorrow is not what they care to hear. Tempers flared when he told them what they didn't want to know, but tell them he did, even though he hated it. He knew he was deserving of their anger, but the money had run out, they had to wait.  And after selling almost everything he owned, Robert did pay them the next day.

When the guitar solos tear it up in the second ten minutes of Freebird, the anxiety only he knows, because after twenty years, he hides it well, disappears as Karla produces all the cash, setting it out in a separate pile for each person being paid tonight.

A big pile for the artists, and a little bitty pile for Robert.  As producer, he fills the road manager's shoes tonight and collects the money for everyone. If it weren't for the percentage he gets for the merchandising at this show, he'd have nothing after his expenses.

Nothing but the memories of another great show.   And another deal put together from beginning to end by him.   And another free front row seat.   And a back stage pass.

And a long drive home.  And another show tomorrow night. Does it pay the bills? No, but it's what the music does for Robert.  The magician nobody knows.

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This is a unique story, in that it's true.  I believe even the names have not been changed, as the inocent wish to be identified.  If you would like more information about this far away place, click here

The History of the Rosary From 1970 to 1999

"Come on, kids, it's time to pray the Rosary." My mother meant so well when I was a kid. But I hated praying the Rosary. I thought it was so boring. I often fell asleep. I was a Catholic kid lead by rules without explanation, politics, guilt, and the ever boring prayer. By 1981, I had left the Sunday Masses, the Rosary, and the one true, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.

Our Father, Who art in heaven, hollowed be Thy name. (MT 6:9)

Through the 1980's, I heard other people speak without researching, about the "ungodly" practices in Catholicism; mostly about Mary, the Mother of Jesus, and the backbone of this prayer called the Rosary. I usually pretended to ignore the nay-say-ers; having so little interest. I guess there is something about having that stuff hammered into your head through years of Catholic schools that makes it hurt just a little bit, though. I remembered all the things they said, albeit not verbatim.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. (MT 6:10)

By the late 1980's, I developed a curiosity about the origins of the Rosary, and the devotion to Mary shared by most Catholics.  Of course it took me ten years to read up on it.  My first questions, posed mostly to Catholic priests, yielded the name of St. Dominic. I had never heard of St. Dominic before 1998.

Give us this day our daily bread. (MT 6:11)

In her biography St. Dominic and the Rosary, Catherine Beebe explains: "In 1216, Brother Dominic was praying in a woods when the Mother of God appeared to him. She instructed him on how to pray the (way we do now). Mary instructed him about the Divine Mysteries of (Catholic) religion; Divine truths that God has reveled to us, but that (people) cannot understand." (108) I wondered about the accuracy of this account, since there were no written records of anything in 1216; or at least there was very little.

And forgive us our trespasses; as we forgive those who trespass against us. (MT 6:12)

Prayer and belief are personal.  Very personal.  I have always tried to live by the words of comedian George Carlin, recorded in 1975's Class Clown LP: "Religion is a lift in your shoes, just don't make me wear your shoes if I don't want to."  I always felt that since my religion was my own, I didn't need anything anyone else had to say. But "they" say that God works in mysterious ways and I can account for that.

And lead us not into temptation. (MT 6:13)

I was tricked.  Hoodwinked. Conned. Misled. That's what happened.  I thought I was going to see Rome for ten days. I ended up in what must be the most Rosary-driven village on the planet!  If I'd known that's where I was going, I would have never agreed to go to Medjugorje (pronounced: MED jew gore ee ah). But I went.  And I met (and lived with for six days) a woman named Marjianna (MARY ah na).  Marjianna has (and no one has been able to disprove this) experienced apparitions and conversations with Jesus' Mother, Mary, for about eighteen and a half years now. These visions occurred every day until about a year ago, and now return twice each year on her birthday and on Christmas. There are six people who have been experiencing these apparitions together, but now only four receive daily visions, and Marianna and one other receive bi-annual visits.

But deliver us from evil. (MT 6:13)

I didn't start to believe so strongly just there, it was the part of the trip that landed me in a town called Dubrovnik in a country called Croatia that shook me up.  This town of three thousand or so people had 47 churches within about a twelve square block area. Inside one of these churches I found myself staring at a glass case with a young man inside.  He was a very young man with curly blond hair.  I can't tell you about his eyes, because they were closed.  He was dressed in Roman sandals and a woven skirt-looking thing; the clothing of the day in the third century, Rome.  But this boy wasn't resting. He wasn't playing the part of a Roman man in some weird play.  He wasn't sleeping.  He had a three-inch long gaping wound in his neck.  The boy was dead.  And he had been for (near as I can tell) 1600 years.

Even though the boy was dead for so long, his skin held the color of a youthful, healthy, vibrant person. His blood had been cleaned away, but his wound was left for all this time exposed. Nothing had ever been done to preserve his body. And my body started to shake.

I read on a plaque that he had been asked while a blade was against his neck to renounce his love of Jesus Christ, he refused, and his throat was cut.  He was seventeen.  At seventeen he was asked.  And the proof is lying here in this incorruptible body. There was no pretending.  No maybe. No wonder. He was there, and his name is St. Sulvano.

So, I started to believe once again. And I made a friend of Jesus. And six months after my visit, while experiencing intense personal pain, I learned again how to pray the Rosary.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with You. (LK 1:28)

The Catholic Rosary is made up of 150 Hail Mary's, 15 Glory Be's, 15 Our Father's (the Lord's Prayer), and 15 "Mysteries."  A "Mystery," according to David Lay from the Office of Adult Formation, "in deep theology is not something to be solved, but a source of deep inexhaustible meditation and pondering."  This description lends a little more clarity to the one already offered by Beebe earlier.

Praying the Rosary lifted me from the pain and heartache associated with being separated from my new wife for extended periods of time, but I'm not the first to use the Rosary to be lifted up from what is certainly considered "dark"  circumstances.  Quoting David Lay again, "The popularity of this devotional prayer can be attested to Pope Pius V in 1572 where he set aside a liturgically recognized day known as "Our Lady of the Rosary."  Today this feast is celebrated on October 7th.  The pope's pur-pose behind this was to thank God for a great naval battle over the Turk Moslems who far (outnumbered) the Christian forces in manpower (1571).

Pope Pius V attributed this (victory) to a great response to his plea that everyone pray the Rosary for victory.

If you believe in any God, you should believe in some form of prayer; a way of talking directly to your God.  If you believe in a loving God, then you most likely pray in a friendly manner. This can be difficult when "life in the 90's" gets in the way. But if this is you, then you could think about prayer as if you were spending time with a friend. But how do you keep friendships when you barely have time to say hello in the elevator? After all, "Friendships take time to build and effort to keep," says William Bennett in his written collection, The Book of Virtues (583). With this self-evident truth before us, taking the 15 to 20 minutes required to pray the Rosary seems to work well for the "helping build" part of the friendship with God.

Blessed are You among women. (LK 1:42)

As for the other end of the Rosary question (why pray to Mary?), my personal thoughts are simply this: If you want to win a man to your cause, first win his mother, and ask her to help you persuade the son. And for that purpose, again, the Rosary is second to none.

Now that I am a Catholic again, it is not for the politics or guilt, but because of an understanding of the finality of my own human existence and a knowledge that Jesus did say to Peter, Upon this rock I will build My Church (MT16:13). And I use the Rosary daily, often all 15 decades, but rarely do I fall asleep. After all, do our friends like it when we fall asleep while talking to them?

And blessed is the fruit of Your womb, Jesus. (LK 1:42)

My reasons for knowing how to pray the Rosary may be different than the ones my mother tried to teach me, but I don't think she cares about that. She still thinks I should be a priest, but somehow she seems happy enough knowing I use my knowledge.

Works Cited

Beebe, Catherine  St. Dominic and the Rosary Vision Books. 1956

Bennett, William. "Friendship"  The Book of Virtues. 1993

Carlin, George  Class Clown Little David Records. 1972

Lay, David."How and When Did the Rosary Get Started"  Office of Adult Formation. (1999)

www.dwc.org/webpage/rosary1.html

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An Introduction to: Indefatigably, Incessantly, Momentarily Erect, (the Trials of Tony)

INTRODUCTION by  JANE STURGIS of MINNEAPOLIS, MN After reading this book, it is quite evident that life is full of many trials and tribulations.  This book describes the journey of life that Tony has taken. This book is based on truths, and by reading this you can gain some insights on how people change.  There is nothing worse than hearing that people can't change, because this simply is not true. Someone once asked me, "Who ever said life was fair?"  He questioned why people are constantly whining about things not being fair.  In essence, he was telling me that we must take life's journey in stride.  No one ever said that that journey would be easy.  And we have choices to make throughout that journey.  And much of our destiny is based on those choices. And The Trials of Tony shows you that no road is perfect, and that many times things happen for a reason, we just may not know what that reason may be at the time.  Life can offer much pain, emptiness and despair; but it can also offer things of grandeur you'd never imagine!  Such as the good friends that help you get through the bad times.  The friends you don't know what your life would be like had they never entered. For most of Tony's life he was in depression, but most adult children of alcoholics are; the problem is no one ever knows it until hitting that final wall.  A realization that how we are managing our life just isn't working.  Most of it relating to being raised in a dysfunctional family; a family that didn't teach self-esteem, good boundaries, or positive forms of communicating your needs.  Social skills needed to survive in an adult world. Tony's wall came later in his 20's.  Earlier than most ACA's; usually that happens in your late 30's to early 40's.  By now he has a son and was divorced.  After more pain in his life, and just before finishing out his tour with the U.S. Navy, God decided Tony needed to meet Rhonda (an Eskimo at a liquor store).  This was something called GRACE. For no apparent reason, someone comes into your life for a brief innocent moment, but changes your entire outlook.  It was at this time he learned sometimes you have to let go and take a chance on people and things.  Why not try first, rather than waiting for it to be earned?  Slowly, as he began working on himself, and focusing on standing on his own legs, rather than looking for someone else to make him feel loved, he found you must "Let Go and Let God."  A difficult concept to implement after looking for happiness in others for nearly 30 years.  He knowingly began to work on the concept of loving who you are first, because he knew by doing this he would enable himself to experience true love with another; all after much self-help and therapy. There is nothing worse than hearing that people can't change.  That simply is not true. Read this book and see.  Tony's poetry depicts life as a teenager, to a young man in love, to being a father.  His poetry explains life's journey into manhood and fatherhood.  Yes, our journey in life can be difficult, but if you walk your path, and let someone else walk his or her path next to yours, you can still walk together.  To do this, you must do what you like best, and not worry about the rest. Tony's writing comes from the heart.  If you get one thing from this book, may it be that throughout this journey in life, if you implement the Serenity prayer, you will reap far more happiness than you ever imagined.

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ONE I believe it was the summer of 1976, or maybe the fall of that same year when I fell in love for the thirtieth or fortieth time in my life.  At the ripe old age of 13, I'm sure that's how many times I had fallen for the girl of my dreams.  Actually, I don't know how many times I had a terrible case of "puppy love" by then, but I do remember it was at that time that I discovered poetry. I remember snooping in my brother's "private-never-go-in-there" drawer in the room that he and I shared and finding what I still consider to be one of the best love poems I have ever read.  I started learning from that poem; added to it, stole from it, and tailored it so that I could get away with calling it my own.  I showed it to a few girls at school and found a brand new way to fall in love again.  Unfortunately for the young lady who wrote to my older brother, the guys never reacted to poetry the way the girls did.  I'm quite sure I had more success getting attention with the opposite sex than she but, I owe all my beginnings to her. Now at 29, I have put that first poem, as well as all the others I have written into this collection.  By this time, I have had that first poem in my collection for so long, I can no longer remember how much of it is mine and how much belonged to her.  Because it all works so well together, I will include it all.  I do remember the title is hers.

I do remember the party when I met Tami, however.  It was a summer time party.  I was freshly 15 years old.  There was a keg of beer and a mutual friend who didn't lock his car... Tami Was Here I met you at a party on a summer night, You asked me for a walk in the starlight. I said, "why not, I only live once." And I didn't want to feel like a dunce. We sat in somebody's car Not caring where we are... We played a tape really loud, In the sky there wasn't a cloud. You decided you wanted 'nother beer, In the dash I carved, "Tami was here." I thought it was kind; I hope Steve didn't mind! Then we lost touch for a while; And I hoped you wouldn't lose your style. I didn't see you for a long, long time. All I could do was pantomime... I carved "Tami was here" in the nearest tree, Because I wanted you for me. All I thought about was you, In everything I'd do. Then I saw you back in school, And you really looked cool! Then, with nothing else to do, I thought I'd just talk to you. I asked you for a date. You said, "Yeah" but I was late. Then I read, "Tami was here" in that tree, And I really wanted you for me. Because all I think about is you, In all of everything I do. When I stayed after school, You sat and watched me play pool. And at the concert the next day, I thought you were going away. Then we couldn't talk in study hall, Remember when we had a ball!?? Then I saw that goddamn tree, And I wanted you to be with me. I think about you all the time, Tami, all I do is pantomime. That's why I wrote this poem for you; Because I love you, I really do. I must tell you these things inside, For no more can it be denied: Every time I see your face, I want to be alone with you in our special place. I hope you understand what I'm trying to say, Because only with you I want to lay. I carved "Tami was here" in the nearest tree, Because I wanted you to be with me. I think about you all the time; It's great to think that you are mine.

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By the time I was 16, I could drive and I had a job.  I even had a car.  And most importantly, Otter started showing up in my poetry.  Otter's real name is John.  Later on, his stuff will show up in here, too.  I imagine, although I haven't asked him, that he has copies of some of my original works in his piles of high school poems, too. John was my best friend in high school.  I remember the day I talked to him for the first time...It was in junior high.  I was in the parochial school and he was in the public school.  My school was so small that we didn't have organized sports and his school was good enough to let us play on their junior high teams.  John and I played football together and rode the same bus home after practice. I didn't really know too many of the other kids, but I had been the prodigy of my older brothers and it was rumored that I smoked cigarettes and drank beer.  I never admitted this to anyone, being 13 and that being something that would have me kicked off the team.  One day John saved me a spot on the bus and whispered, "Us guys that use cancer sticks have to stick together."   It was from then that we were tight. Of course, John remembers it was me who, two years earlier when we were at the same school, lifted my pantsleg to display the clearly protruding pack of cigarettes in my socks.  I don't remember that, but it probably happened. Anyway, he'll come up again later.

Janet signed my book, too: "Best of luck with your poems.  They're great! Keep it up!"   Well, okay, Janet...if you say so... I think it's important to interject that I was not always as depressed as it sounds in this poetry.  I was just under the impression that it was supposed to be painful.  I mean, I thought all poetry was painful.  Why else would the girls share so much pity?  Why else would they get so emotional?  And it worked.  And it was true.  I never "made up" how I felt when I wrote.

One day (one???) I was depressed.  Nothing new here.  I just didn't have another person to share the blame.  Just me being depressed...

Why Why does it hurt so bad? Why am I left so sad? Why doesn't she care? Why can't she be there? Why was I such a fool? Why does she seem so cruel? Why does it seem like a joke? To her and so many other folk? Why am I the one; To whom this must be done? Why can't I let go; Of this love filled with woe? Why me, Lord? Why me? Why can't I see? Why do I love her so? Why can't I let go? Why can't I sleep at night? Why isn't she at my right? Why am I suddenly alone? Why won't she please come home? Why is my life like this? Why can't I face what is? Why do I refuse to understand? That she's a girl and I'm a man? Why do some men fall From the push of a girl five feet tall? Why do I cry all night long? Because she thinks it's right and I think it's wrong

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THREE I remember meeting Patti that summer.  Like it was yesterday.  It was June 12, 1979.  I think about 1:30 in the afternoon.  I was looking for a job in the town she lived in about 15 miles away, so I showed up wearing a tie.  I managed to meet her neighbor who was so stuck on John a few weeks earlier.  The neighbor talked me into coming over to meet Patti.  I don't think Patti was expecting me at that moment; she was lying in the sun in her back yard, in her swimsuit.  She had a smile that could start a war.  The most beautiful girl I had ever laid my eyes on.  Somehow, the neighbor had said enough things about me so that Patti was interested before she ever met me.  Why she was after is still anyone's guess.  She and I managed to date on and off for the better part of a year.  My junior year. Now this is a special moment.  This is when I get to introduce John's stuff.  .  This was the year I was seeing Patti.  This was the year I took poetry seriously enough to take a class on it.  This was the year of my first couple cars.  This was the year of my novel. (My novel is definitely another story.)  This is the year I was turned down 14 times for the Homecoming Dance! The first day of school was one I decided to attend.   And in the first day of poetry class, we were told to write a poem for the next day.  This was no problem for me; I just pulled something out of my bag and shared it.  John, on the other hand, wrote...

Your Special Way There's a sparkle In your eyes, It's bright and shiny, And tells no lies. Your smile can brighten The dullest day, And your words Mean what they say. You're around In your special ways; You leave the guys In a daze. There's a magic In what you do: It can keep us all From being blue. You're as graceful As a dove, And I think It must be love.

It was about a week later when the "illness" took over.  I called Shirley and she asked that I not call her anymore.  I don't remember her being rude or mean, just matter-of-fact.  It was about 10:30 at night.  I hung up the phone, picked up a cigarette, lit it, and started to shake.  Patti asked what was wrong.  I stayed silent.  Her mom (who was used to frank and personal conversations with me) said, "If you want to talk, you come and find me,"  then she disappeared into her room. Patti approached again and took my cigarette, which had been burning my fingers; I was still shaking.  Patti was frightened.  I mumbled John's name.  Patti called him.  He lived 20 miles away.  She would bring me to his house. I was still shaking, mumbling, smoking, and burning my fingers with the cigarettes.  Patti wrapped me in a blanket, helped me into my car, and drove to John's house. John's mother is a registered nurse.  She asked me if I took anything.  I said I couldn't find anything.  John waited a day or two before laughing. John drove me to my parents' house, where I started crying.  I was still shaking and I think, for the first time, I smoked in my mother's presence.  I whimpered and shook and smoked until I fell asleep.  When I woke, John wasn't trying to talk to my mom anymore; he was gone. I stayed numb and at my parents' house a few days before going back to my apartment.  There are many things about growing up the way I did that I wish were different, and many things I wouldn't change if I could.  Moving out is one that I wouldn't change.  The reasons that I left are things I would.

Up to this point, I haven't mentioned much of my drug use and I've only briefly mentioned my drinking and maybe that's so I don't influence any young readers, but now, it cannot be avoided.  I can summarize now that my use of marijuana and alcohol affected almost all of my decisions in one way or another.  Since I started smoking grass before I started writing poetry, I  guess you could say it was a huge part of who I was at the time. I do believe it was my own depression that brought about the drug use, not the drug use that brought about the depression; although the drugs made sure I stayed depressed.  I say "drugs" because there were many.  As I mentioned before, there was speed, grass, and booze; but there were mushrooms, cocaine, downers and hash, too.  I did stay away from needles and acid, fortunately.

I'm sure glad that not every woman who came into my life got a poem.  I don't think I could come up with that much variety, but by the second semester of college, when I was working at the roller rink (were I started only because employees got to skate free), it seemed I was in full stride again. Jane was one of the "snack bar girls" at the rink.  I was a d.j.  I had begun to make it a point not to date anyone that worked were I worked (which back- fired most of the time).  Besides, Jane was cute.  I mean really cute.  I think we dated two weeks. Jane went to the same college I did, so we had that in common, and one night we decided to study together.  We didn't have any of the same classes, but we were going to study together. About 10:30 that night, a friend of hers showed up with some kind of emergency.  I don't know if they staged it or not, I know she was gone...

While She Was Away I'll be alone tonight, But everything was going so right. I guess my luck ran out So I'll try to summarize what it was about. I guess I know most of it, But their timing was off a bit. It could've happened another time, another place; But it removed her happy face. Now I'm alone. And on my face it's shown; How much I wish she were here! In my mind it's all clear. But mass confusion has set in: What must I do to win? Why can't I see That this was meant to be? I miss her so God, why did you wish her to go? Our feelings just began to show. Her face was beginning to glow. I know I was doing good. Just like I know I should. If I treated her just right, She let me hold her tight. Sure, she'll be back again; But that'll be when? I wanted her to stay. I wanted it today. I'll do just fine. Finish my play and dine... On pickles and coffee... Maybe some pop 'cause it's free. It wasn't supposed to end this way. Not tonight.  Not today. I'll do my homework some more And wonder if it's worth the eyesore. I'll dream of her all night; As I lie awake, so uptight. And I'll look forward to tomorrow, When I lose all my sorrow. And I smoke too much when she's away.

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Even though I was in my second year of college, I had only accumulated the credits first quarter college freshman.  I was just realizing that college was not part of my future, but at this moment I was in English 101 for the fifth time, thinking I might pass this time, when I started gazing out the window.    I was totally ignoring what was happening in the classroom when a song started running through my mind.  Soon, I had two, then three songs jumping around in my head.  I just had to write something...

My Heart I look outside and I see the rain; It doesn't take much to feel the pain; I wonder why I expected anything Last weekend. I look around to find nobody care; They just can't see the pain I wear; From last weekend. There's a pretty girl in Iowa Thinking, "I just wanna come with ya." There's six in Rochester thinkin' the same damn thing... I'm thinking I just need my wings. I fell in love on a summer day; I got burned again the same old way; I'll freeze all winter 'cause the pain of burns Doesn't keep my heart warm like the warmth of hers. I wish I was in love again; I wish I could find out when; The Good Lord came and gave to me: The same damn thing I wanted to see. And it went right through my heart. I don't know if it'll happen again; I'll just try and try and hope that when I love again, so will she; So only we will be In our own eternity; 'Til death do us part; So it won't hurt my heart; The way it did before. Before I became cold and sore. There's a fossil trapped in a high cliff wall; My heart's on fire and I'm in for a fall; It's my soul and I'm trapped all alone; I just want something waiting at home; 'Cause it's time I found a new start.

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If you want to read more of the book, you'll have to email me and order it.  Of course, the book comes with pictures.

NOT NEWS LETTER, 1997 COPYRIGHT 1997, Your Idea Publishing, 2300 Pine St, Hastings MN 55033 ________________________________________________________________________     A young mother looked into the nursery one evening and found her husband standing silently by the crib, looking down thoughtfully. In his face she could read his wonder and admiration, and she went to him softly and took his hand in hers and said, "Penny for your thoughts."     He looked at her and said, "I can't understand it.  How can the manufacturer make a crib like this for $595.?      Heelllooo good readers!!! Hello to one and all...It seems like I just get my Christmas letter mailed out when I have to sit down and write another one.  I guess it's good (at least for now) that I only do this once a year.  Could you imagine me doing this monthly?   Na...me neither. We all have been created for the sole purpose to love and to be loved.       Mother Teresa. No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of it to anyone else.            Charles Dickens   So, 1997 comes to a close and there are so many things that have happened to me and around me this year.  For the first time, I was the sole provider of my income.  I mean, as an entertainer, I did not get any outside employment. I also finished my first book this year; Indefatigably Incessantly Momentarily Erect (the trials of Tony). While this is a poetic and autobiographical journey through the trials that I remember, it could also be a "how to" book.  The first pressing sold out and the next pressing should be available sometime in early 1998.   Also in 1998, The Color of Her Eyes is expected to be released.  This is a book entirely of fiction.  Both books were penned by me and published by Your Idea Publishing.   1997 brought some tragedy with it as well.  My mailing list was reduced by one this year with the passing of my dear friend, Sue Cantu.  She was a friend of mine from my days in Texas and will be dearly missed.   Maybe I should get right to the point.  I mean there's so many things I want to share, not the least of which is my computer.  For the first time, I'm on my own computer (although four of the five previous Christmas letters were also done on computer). He that would live in peace and ease must not speak all he knows nor judge all he sees.         Ben Franklin So, last year I asked everyone to name the author of a poem I had included.  Most of you (okay, I'm going with all of you), have now forgotten the poem in last year's letter.  So, for you, here it is:      Fat in the pillared dark      Thrush music went-      Almost like a call to come in      To the dark lament.      But no, I was out for stars;      I would not come in.      I meant, not even if asked,      And I hadn't been.   In order to find out exactly who it was that wrote that, you'll just have to keep reading.  And last year's hint:  His life ended the same year that mine began. For all the sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: It might have been.          John Greenleaf Whittier And now, something from my own pen: Autumn Colours I asked the Lord why the leaves in Fall; Change their colors and look so tall? "I'm too busy," the Lord said to me. "Perhaps, maybe you should ask the tree." So, I asked an Elm one beautiful Autumn day; And she told me, "because it's time to go away." "I change my leaves to be more beautiful today So you will miss me when I'm gone away." So, with dreams of sugar plums dancing in my head, I open one eye, then I get out of bed. If I don't move on this road of life today, Who's gonna miss me when I'm gone away? I could wait until Fall for me, And try my best to bloom and be The man I want remembered as me When I'm deep in the Winter Sea. But I think it'd be better still If today I can complete my will. If I wait 'til Fall comes around, I won't have time to echo my sound. So, I'm off and running without desperation: To paint my leaves in quiet concentration In Spring and Summer to show a tree I won't wait to show the one true me. AKP   In 1993, I wrote in my Xmas letter that I believe you can choose your friends but not your family.  As of this writing, I'd have to say that that was not entirely accurate.  I have never been happier than I am now, and I have chosen my family.  Actually, they very much could have chosen me, but I'll take the credit.  And it reminds me of the words of Robert Frost (also quoted in 1993): We love the things we love because they are.   So you may have already guessed, I no longer live in the little one room apartment in the little town of Burtrum.  I no longer have the ability to walk around my little apartment wearing nothing but my underwear without offending someone.  Playing my guitar is also not as easy as it used to be, but I still play, and still write songs.   According to Reader's Digest, there are 3.5 million millionaires in the country today.  8 out of 10 of them accumulated their own wealth (rather than inherited it) and 67% are self employed (verses 10% of the general population).  Most of these wealthy types have neighbors who don't know they live next to a millionaire.  And a full 95% own stock.   You see, there's still a chance for me! The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter. Mark Twain   I did some research on this Xmas tree idea, and came up with a story about St. Boniface.  It seems he was trying to convert idolizers in the 8th century in Germany.  To convince them an oak tree was not sacred he felled one on the spot.  As it fell, it cleared everything in its path, save one small fir sapling.  Calling it a miracle, St. Boniface concluded with, "Let this be called the tree of the Christ Child."  The Christmas tree was born.   That reminds me of another bit of Christmas that I learned.  I used to think the term "Xmas" was a pegan reference to the holiday without mentioning Christ.  Turns out I was wrong.  X is the first letter of the Greek word for Christ: "Xristos."  So it's just another language, not another belief. The great use of life is to spend it for something that outlasts it. WM James Goodness is the only investment that never fails. Henry David Thoreau   According to a television morning newscast: The farmers in Annapolis Valley are pleased to announce that this year there will be an abundance of apples.  This is particularly good news because most of the farmers haven't had a good crap in years. If you can't learn from your mistakes, there's no sense in making them.   Okay, okay, you've been waiting long enough.  I'll tell you.  It was Robert Frost.  You know, the poem from the first page and from last year?  That's the one.  That's who wrote it.  One day, I'll write something so profound.   My favorite book is still The Book Of Virtues by William Bennett.  It is now available in paperback as well as The Book of Virtues for Teens and  The Book of Virtues for Kids.   Another of my favorites is called Lend Me Your Ears, which is a collection of all the great speeches from any time in time.   Of course, it goes without saying that my all time favorite book is...The American Heritage Dictionary . Christianity is one beggar telling another where he found bread.  D.T. Niles The ideal man bears the accidents of life with dignity and Grace, making the best of circumstances.      Aristotle   I was wondering one day about Santa Claus.  I was wondering why and how.  So I found a book and read.  Turns out, he did not die in a helicopter crash as I was once told.  It turns out, the real Santa never saw a helicopter in his life.  But he is real.      It was the mid 300's, AD, when a very thin, very tall man could be seen walking through Russia, Greece, and Sicily.  He would wear a twin peaked miter, red cloak and a long white beard.  I guess after 1600 years his miter bent down to look like the funny red cap we see on Santas of today.  He wore this outfit in these countries at this time bringing "goodies" to children.  I never did find out if he made a list and checked it twice, only that he always had something for children.   I also learned that he did not have any reindeer, either.  Fact is, he pulled a donkey.   His name was Nicholas, and we know him today as Saint Nicholas.  He is the patron saint of sailors, and was displayed on the first Dutch ships to make it to America, circa 1500 AD.  The Dutch spelled his name "Sint Nikolass", which became "Sinter Klass" here in the new world.   About a hundred years later, the English took over and "Anglo-ized" the name to Santa Claus.  His stories and traditions did not change until 1822, when a teacher wrote a poem for his children that changed everything about our dear St. Nick except his size.  The poem, of course, is called "Twas the Night Before Christmas."   Between 1863 and 1886, a cartoonist for Harper's Weekly named Thomas Nast slowly added Santa's girth.   The idea that Santa still visits us is more than an idea.  It is true.  Santa comes to see every one of us.  Why?  That part is simple.  He loves children.  So does Jesus.  Toys show up.  They just do.  How?  Who cares?  So long as it does, we celebrate Christmas with toys for kids.   I'm sure glad I never grew up. Oh, yeah, did you know the very first recording in history of recordings was Mary had a Little Lamb?  Or that the very first poem created on American soil was Hush-a-Bye, Baby? Last year I made a collage of lines that where mailed to me from everywhere in the world and I thought it worked so well, I better include it again.  So, from actual letters sent to me by actual people... Let's get this over with as soon as possible. What's an FNP?  Consider yourself hugged to pieces.  And I don't mean that in a bad way.  I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Diana says hi.  Indicate the number of meals and dates desired.  Except for my doctor practice, I work as a beauty consultant for Mary Kay. Have it blessed ASAP.  Call.  I am not.  Cancer is such a lonely word.  I'm sure I'll dig it like the one from last year.  We will have kegs at the dance.  Don't start FooFooing your dreams. Have you found someone to sing with you?  I'm so depressed.  I love my hair.  She is as comfortable as possible at the moment.  Maybe I've finally snapped.  Chase your dreams! Don't tell me this! You don't want to be chased the rest of your life, do you?  I consider laughing and smiling very useful.  You can't expect too much about relationships from someone who spends more time with four legged creatures than two legged ones. A non-polluting company that uses only recycled ideas and biodegradable employees and non-toxic holders.  I have no concrete idea what this one will say.  It's imperative that you take action.  I'm the cutest.  What do producers really want?  Who's listening?  I only wish there was something I could say that would excuse my lack of communication.  Sad to say, but very true.  This moving is a lot of work-where did I get all this junk?  Summer is almost over.  I spend 9-12 hours a week on the outside and the rest goes to my mind and heart. Hey, at least you didn't send me a hairbrush.  It happened in a moment, but it changed the world forever.  Price zone.  I bet if you wadded this up and stuck it in your underwear, you'd remember me for a long time.  Thank you for being her friend.  People I have come to know and love in so many peculiar and unexplainable ways; except one...You're crazy!  I tell God about you.  That was five years of transition on one page.  This will be the first Christmas I've spent alone.  Call the coordinator nearest you.  My family can be very controlling. Write it down in history.  I do have some pride.  Our world is now a little softer, a little sweeter, and a whole lot more wonderful.  I hope you don't believe that I am.  We welcome any parent that would like to go on a field trip with our class.  Who loves ya?  Please accept my apology.  We always hear about the bad, but seldom do we hear about the good.  I'll be sure to get there one of these times.  You made my day.  Drop us a line.  Sturgis would be a blast!  I missed talking to you.  Friends don't forget; they just remember slowly.  You were great!  Perhaps part of my purpose in your life was to remind you to act on your dreams.  We will need to talk about a couple important things.  When haven't I been foolish?  I know why God put you in our lives.  You’re not an easy person to forget.  I finally found time to write.  Talk to ya soon.     I must add at this point, that I don't have anything wadded up and stuck in my underwear.    From the book, Real Magic by Wayne Dyer, we read:    Develop a conviction in your heart that prosperity truly belongs to you...listen to these words from St. Mark 11:23-24: "Whosoever says to this mountain, 'be removed and cast into the sea' and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will come to pass, he will  have whatever he says.  Whatever things you ask, whenever you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them." Ask for what you want; your spouse can't read your mind. In closing today, I stumbled onto a poem to leave with you written by one of my dearest friends: Teardrops Share others your laughter Your heartiest songs, But think of me sometimes When hours are long. Tell others your joys, Your happiest of schemes, But dream of me sometimes In your tiniest of dreams. I give you my Teardrops; For didn't you know, Since the beginning of time It has always been so. The sweetest of smiles A person can make, Is the one that so carefully Covers an ache. (PDG) The very first Christmas Not News Letter went out in 1993,  and was mailed to 12 addresses.  In 1994, that number grew to about 20.  1995 had me buying 48 stamps for my little "not" news letter.  Only by word of mouth, 1996 had grown to give the post office enough business for nearly 80 people to read my little letter.  1997, while  I miss Sue, still managed to grow. As of this writing, I will mail copies to 13 states, plus Minnesota, as well as Russia, Philippines,  and Hungary. I guess I didn't know this was supposed to be a dream for me to chase.. A few years back, Robbin Williams starred in one of my favorite movies, Dead Poets Society.    It was in this movie that he had the following lines:     "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute.  We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.  And the human race is filled with passion...Poetry, beauty, romance, love; these are what we stay alive for.  To quote from Whitman, 'Oh, me, oh life, of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless of cities; filled with the foolish; what good amid these oh, me, oh, life?'  Answer: That you are here.  That life exists.  An identity.  That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.  That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.  What will your verse be?" I love hearing from each and every one of you, the comments you have about this Christmas letter I send.  Feel free to write me. If anyone is missing copies of the previous "Not" News Letters and would like to have one, feel free to write and ask.  I don't charge for them, but if you would like to help with the postage, I won't be insulted. The merriest of Christmases to each and every one. God Bless....

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