(Continued from previous chapter.)


One of the more interesting things to me was once or twice a year, when I was young our family made it to the Inner Harbor, later it was a lot less frequently as it was a matter of protest for Dad not to go to the Inner Harbor as a protest about Mayor Schaefer and the subsequent democratic administrations running Baltimore city.

He would eventually come to feel that Mayor Schaefer's creation of Harbor Place and the development of the Inner Harbor as a positive for Baltimore, but he still disliked the attitudes regarding Baltimore's Crime and juvenile problems because he felt it was not high on their priority list. So to speak, it was money over people and the quality of life for Baltimore residents.

But every time, even the now rare occasions, Dad would always be walking around the Inner Harbor with us and talk about the time he saw this ball floating in the water, then he realized it had hair so he called the police. He would point out where he was and the dead man in relation to him and felt the whole process of retrieving the water from the harbor as irreverent.

"The police boat came up beside him, hooked a sling around him and a hoist took him out of the water and put him up on deck, but the body stayed in the position as if he was still trying to swim."

I always wondered how I would react if I found someone's body and if the image and stories would forever stay with me. When I was young, most of the neighbors were old and either were moved out of their houses by their children or died. My grandmother wasn't the type to say if they died in their home.

Two doors down was the Strobble's, and they moved or passed away and the house was sold. When I moved into my grandmother's house, I noticed a man was living there, but rarely saw him. In fact, I only saw him once when he was in the front porch vestibule of his house looking out and I waved, then he waved.

I was owner of my house when Miss Marge, my next door neighbor had unexpectedly found herself accepted into a retirement community and had to sell the house. I thought it was funny to see her move out and the house refurbished before the sale.

It was sold to a guy named Ryan, who moved to Baltimore as he transferred from his workplace down south to the headquarters located here. With a new neighbor, you always worry about who you will get and how it will change your world.

With Ryan, it was no problem and struck me much as myself; one of the nicest, most easy going persons around. I was happy that he didn't mind my property and likewise, I didn't bother him about his and we kept the other abreast of things happening on our street. Also like me, he was divorced, yet still had a comparable attitude with mine...

So to speak the divorce didn't turn him into a party hound chasing after anything he could get. I think he told me, "I'm not looking for that, and I have to work too hard anyway"

It was on a Saturday that I was out walking Oliver, the beagle, and we always head down the street towards Old Harford Road. I did notice items the driveway of the second house down, but with a lot of kids around, cluttering up driveways with toys, it didn't stand out to me so I kept walking.

That Monday or Tuesday, I was at work and working unusually hard, was totally fatigued. With the split-shift, I was having even more trouble catching up on rest and looked forward to going home, drinking a couple of beers and going straight to sleep. But once I hit the bed, I was unable to go immediately to sleep.

I remained in bed and decided it was best to force myself to try to get some rest. I didn't understand why an agitated mood came over me, or why I couldn't fall to sleep as tired as I was. Then I got the bad feeling that there was something really wrong with the house, so I got up and explored the house for the cause of those feelings.

I walked around and smelled for gas, checked the carbon monoxide detector, light switches. Everything in the house seemed muted, and a slight smoky fog seemed to also be hovering. Upstairs, in the basement and then the living room, everything seemed to check out as fine.

I was going from the living room looking into the dining room and saw this human figure trying to materialize. It only added to my aggravation and I yelled out, "Oh come on, I don't have time for this haunting shit!"

I opened the bedroom door to go back to bed, and there was a weird illumination coming though the draped curtains from the outside. Doom! All I can feel is doom coming in from outside. I don't understand why?

I went to the window and spread the curtains and looked outside, it was strangely brighter outside with the greens in the yard looking washed out. In the light, there was a strange shimmering and suddenly there was an unexpected, "Bang!" on the window and I jumped back.

I was amazed of the bang because there wasn't anything that produced it, and then I realized, I was lying in my bed now looking up at the ceiling. I checked the clock and I had only fifteen or twenty minutes of sleep, and though only 2:30pm., I knew with the amount of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I wasn't going to be getting any more sleep.

I got out of bed and took a nice, long and hot shower. Since I have no fan, I have to crack the window and while toweling off, I heard Miss Isabel (the neighbor across the street) and the mailman in Ryan's back yard talking.

I didn't completely understand the conversation, but it struck me that Miss Isabel's dog was loose, so I hurried up in drying off and then got dressed. I grabbed my leash and met Miss Isabel and the mailman in the back of Ryan's yard.

"Miss Isabel, do you need help getting your dog?"

She looked at the leash and said, "No, it's the neighbor (pointing to the Ryan's next door yard), he's out lying down."

"Is he alright?"

She kept pointing, and through the bushes I could see the man's feet, then I saw his body. The mailman chimed in finally, "This has happened to me before. Look, I have to get back to work so Miss Isabel will call this in to the police and I can be found on the next street over if the police need me."

He left, and Miss Isabel haltingly said that she will call the police, but the way she was walking told me she was afraid to do so. "Miss Isabel, do you want me to call the police for you?"

"Yes ... That would be nice."

I went inside and got the phone and went back out and I placed the 911 call, "Hello, my name is Michael Kohlman and I reside at this phone number. We found a body in the back of a neighbor's yard and it is obvious he passed away."

"I understand you believe he is deceased, but he may be unconscious so could you check again to see if there is any movement?"

"Look lady, his arms and legs are black and his abdomen is bloated!"

"Oh ... I see. I'll get things started for you."

"That will be great, and I promise I will check just to make sure there isn't anything that I can do."

My inclination was to go back inside and grab a camera, but Miss Isabel was back with me and I apprised her of the situation and my plan to check him to make sure he has passed. I didn't expect her to follow. As I was walking up his driveway, I realized with me having the ability to sign cut, I should have asked myself, What are the objects in the driveway?  Which could have lead to his discovery much sooner.

"Look, Miss Isabel. I prefer that you didn't follow me, but please keep in mind this will most likely be considered a crime scene; so don't touch or move anything."

I walked past a shoe, then a cane, then another shoe, glasses, a wallet, etc. Out back just short of his back door steps, he was face up in somewhat the position of a turtle turned over on his shell. His face was blackening as well, but he didn't have an unpleasant look on his face, it struck me as more a concerned look. I noticed that his shirt was also opened and thought, He has a chest tube in him?

I seemed to me to be a natural death, and I heard the ambulance was dispatched and on its way since the fire and police stations were about a mile north on Old Harford Road. I escorted Miss Isabel to the front of the house and waited.

The paramedics arrived and I took them back and they basically took one look and said he is dead, "It is now a police matter," so they got back in and drove off. It wasn't even a minute before the police got there and it was one of the supervisors. He was an older man with stripes on his arm.

"Are you the witness?"

"Yes, as well the mailman and Miss Isabel."

"The ambulance hasn't arrived yet?"

"They came, pronounced him dead, filled out their form and left."

"What! Why did they do that?"

"They told me they wanted to go back into service as fast as possible."

"Damn, it! They know then need to stay with the body until we show up. OK, this most likely will be a crime scene so I need to know how you disturbed it."

"The crime scene is intact, I didn't touch anything." I walked him around back and showed him the body, and explained what happened; but he seemed intent on thinking I had to have disturbed something in the crime scene and asked me several more times. "Please rest assured that I didn't touch or disturb anything, and made sure that Miss Isabel didn't as well."

"Well tell me then, how did you figure out he is dead."

"Come on! Look at him, his arms, legs and face are black and his belly's bloated. He's been here for a few days."


"He left too, and said he can be found on the next street over if you need to talk to him."

"Jesus Christ, he knows better than that too."

About this time, the police cars started arriving and I was shocked. They would get out of their cars and run over to check out the body. They all asked me if I disturbed the scene in any way, and I informed them, "No." It seemed none would outright believe me and as a witness, I was told another officer will take my statement.

A young officer then ran to his car and pulled out the crime scene tape and seemed to be to gleefully stringing it up. Until, another police car arrived and he put the tape down and ran over to him to tell him what he saw. The two of them went to the back to view the body; leaving me to thinking, Jesus, and they are worried about me disturbing the crime scene...

I know what I saw, but was amazed that now police cars were spilling in like ants, and every available parking space on the street was now occupied by a police car. I stopped counting at thirteen because I was becoming disgusted.

OK, my step daughter was coming at me with a knife, and it took four cars several more minutes to converge on my house and the first two who saw me standing out front, damn near hit each other to leave the scene and stuck the next two with dealing with it all. Now, they are having a convention over a dead body that died of natural causes.

One of the neighbors took it upon herself to scour the neighborhood for evidence, and another police officer mentioned that he heard the next door neighbor might be involved and wanted to know what I thought of him and if those two had problems with each other.

He was serious too, but I damn near pissed myself laughing. "I know Ryan, and he's like me, the nicest guy in the world." It figures, he's just like me, the nicest guy in the world, that's probably why they don't want to believe us.

"He's easy going and no one has ever had a problem with him. As for the neighbor that died, I found no evidence of foul play and to be quite honest, he was rarely seen and no one ever talked to him. What makes you think Ryan could have done something?" 

"Well, for starters I heard a neighbor found a knife on his back porch." That busy body! What was she doing snooping around his back yard? "That doesn't make sense to me because I was back there thinking Miss Isabel and the mailman were trying to catch Miss Isabel's dog, so I was back by his back porch and didn't see any knife."

"Well, that's what I heard anyway."

"Sir, to be honest, I saw the man and he appeared to me to have passed naturally. I saw no evidence of foul play. There wasn't any dried blood, and even if the wounds would had sealed, I know what they would have looked like and his clothing wasn't punctured or cut. I think he had a chest tube in him?"

Another police officer also asked about the knife on the back porch and I said the same thing, but he added, "The neighbor said the victim's car is also missing, so we are trying to track it down."

"Well, I do know that Ryan owns his own car and works at this time. Sir, I'll be honest; I think he died naturally and foul play wasn't involved as his wallet was in the driveway all weekend and still has the money in it."

In order to find out who the deceased neighbor was, they went through his mailbox and at least got his name. I would come to call the neighbor, who I only waved to once as, Mr. Frank.

I sort of got a kick out of this, and had a laugh envisioning one of the greatest neighbors I know as a murderer. I looked around at the parade of police and pretty much figured the pot was spoiled with incarnations of the original story. I was still waiting around to be interviewed as a witness, and some of the police who didn't know that, screwed up the story about how this was witnessed.

Yes, I do consider that neighbor to be a meddler; yet with a little tolerance, I loved her for it as she kept an eye out for the neighborhood and kept me informed about what was going on. Something I could accept or dismiss. She walked up to me and said, she may have found evidence down the street and wanted me to look at it.

We made it to the corner and showed me a latex glove that was left behind. I told her, "No, I don't think it is because there aren't any obvious signs of blood or the finger tips having abrasions. Besides, I've seen that glove there for over two weeks."

She also wanted to know my opinion of how a latex glove would come to be laying in the gutter. "Well, to be honest the stores are having problems with the prostitutes shoplifting boxes of gloves and using them instead of condoms."

I had to ask her, "Are you the person that found the knife on Ryan's back porch?"

"Well I found a knife and pointed out to the police, but it was one his front steps. Not the porch either, the one's on the sidewalk."

Now that made absolutely no sense as we occasionally have problems of the neighborhood teens sitting on them, but I haven't seen that for a long time and with my work schedule, would have seen them doing so. "Could you show me the knife?"

She took me to Ryan's front steps, leading from the sidewalk and showed me the knife which now had an evidence tag beside it. "Well, it makes even less sense to me now because that is a $200.00 to $300.00 knife, and the teens wouldn't have anything like that. I do have an idea about whose it is."

I yelled out, "Hey, were there any police officers around here and left their knife behind?"

It was funny to see a few police officers checking their pockets, but one spoke up, "Yea, I was around there when I was putting up the crime scene tape!"

"Is this your knife?"

He too checked his pocket and with a grimace walked over, "Yep, it's mine." He had to find the officer that tagged it as evidence, so he can get it back into his possession. I thought, No wonder why they really screwed things up with my step-daughter and the household.

I asked permission to grab my camera to photograph the evidence tags, and was told I could photograph anything but the body. I went inside and got my camera, and also made the informing phone call to my employer of what happened and so I would be late to work because they have yet to interview me.

A while later, a uniformed police officer came to get my statement and though it was only two paragraphs long, the officer insisted on me answering the questions she had come up with saying the courts would want explanations.

Just before I left, I found out the police tracked down Mr. Frank's car to a hospital parking lot. The rest of his family was from out of state, but they came down for the funeral. It turned out, that another neighbor from across the street, saw Mr. Frank get out of a taxi cab the Friday evening before, so he must have died shortly after that and rested there for four days. Because the weather was unusually cool, it helped to preserve the body.

I felt we were lucky to find Mr. Frank when we did because the next day, his body would have split open and we would have all found him by the smell, which would have lingered long after they removed his body.

It turns out he was away at the hospital for a couple of days and decided to check himself out. The hospital wasn't happy with this and made him sign himself out, but refused him his car and kept the keys which also had the house keys on them.

He must have been making his way around back to the spare set, when his body gave out and he collapsed, struggling to get in the house to call 911. I have no explanation for what I experienced the day his body was discovered, except that Mr. Frank's spirit was trying to get someone's attention to find his body, or the coincidence with Miss Isabel and the mailman.

It is definitely the strangest feeling in the world to know more about a neighbor after his death, then before. I honestly feel he wanted to have his body found and his story told.



After the December, Beer and Bacon; I had every intention of writing 98ROCK's story and throughout the new year, would shoot off an occasional Email to either Scott Reardon the Producer of the Morning Show, or to Dave Hill, the Program director.

I didn't want to be a pest and turn them off of having me come to the studio, so I kept my requests to three or four times a month. I was happy I had a framework of chapters outlined and the questions I wanted to ask the various personalities.

I also talked with many of the workers from the Beer and Bacons as well, the Fells Point and Towson festivals which only fostered me in really wanting to see and talk to everybody in their work environment. January went by, then February and by the time it was March, I pretty much gathered that no one at 98ROCk was interested in me coming to the studio, or writing their stories for that matter.

But that was also something I had to know, so I planned to ask them at the Saint Patrick's Day, Beer and Bacon held at the Loonies in Canton. I was able to get hold of both Scott the Producer and Dave Hill early on and they both told me about the same thing.

"No, we like you idea and want you to come to the studio. You just have to keep trying and we'll get you in." I appreciated the enthusiasm, and really hoped it would work out into fruition. Then there was a noticeable chink in my plans...

I have seen the program director, Dave Hill as everything from the super cool rock man with his long bleach blond hair and rocked out clothes, to the depressed, "Fiddler On The Roof," garb he wore in his concerned and depressed state, as Mickey and Amelia took on the daunting task of hosting The Morning Show.

However this time, he was sporting a grey suit coat, but underneath it was an olive drab T-shirt with the image of Patty Hearst on it, in her beret and holding her submachine gun. I had to inquire and found out he got hold of it down south and being a member of the Hearst Corporation, had to pick it up. I liked the sense of humor about it, but it filled me with dread and I had thoughts about canceling the whole writing affair.

I loved the Saint Patrick's Day, Beer and Bacon held at Loonies, because that is the only bar who seemed to offer my favorite drink. I started at 6:00pm with a Manhattan and already had a couple of draft Guinness's, so I was well on my way to my desired state of inebriated being and anything else would have been sending me overboard. Well by 6:30am, they already had to mop up someone else's vomit and I didn't want to be known as, "That guy "as well.

But for whatever the reason, I still thought that William Randolph Hearst was still around and in control of his own corporation. I walked back up to Dave Hill and asked, "Is Patty Hearst your boss now?"

"Yes, she is the head of the Hearst Corporation."

"What about, William Randolph Hearst?"

"He's quite dead."

"What?"

Suddenly my wonderfully affected mood was one of straight sobriety, which I was not liking under the circumstance, I put a double shot of Jameson in my hand with the crowd now telling me, "Guzzle it! Guzzle it!" I took a sip, swished it around in my mouth and passed the air past my nose and let her slid on down." The crowd was now demanding, "Shot! Shot! Shot! ..."

Since I had the stage behind the ongoing show, I told them, "Look, Jameson is a top notch whiskey and I prefer to savor the taste as well the buzz." 

Do I drop my 98ROCK writing project or continue on with it? That was question now going on in my mind. The thought process continued, Damn Patty Hearst of all things ... It does make sense she is the head of the Hearst Corporation, but why her? Doesn't Randolph have any sons or something? (Not knowing the whole story until I researched it for this book.) I was put off by the whole thing, but decided to try to think it through before deciding to cancel my writing project.

-

In my mind I had not only met Patty Hearst, but had a bit of a relationship of sorts with her, and most likely the one person who will be the most surprised about this admission is Patty Hearst herself. Growing up, I lived in a very controlled household with Dad coming home from work and reading, as mom put the family meal on the kitchen table. Dad insisted we'd eat and even spend time silently at the table for a period afterwards.

But then the television news was also on at this time, and it was during the Viet Nam war dad still insisted we eat dinner together; but in front of the television so he could get the latest news on the war and later President Nixon and our bites of food with interrupted with Dad screaming at the television and cussing out the news.

The neighbors thought he was yelling and cussing out us and led to their opinion he was a very abusive man, though he rarely yelled at us per say and never cussed us out. It was during one of those dinners I heard over the television, the news that Patty Hearst was kidnapped and it was something that horrified and concerned me very much. I had the sense that she was in grave danger.

At the time, I was reading heavily in my, "To the room!" punishment for not handing in my homework. As my own act of rebellion, I read and studied my ass off, but never completed my homework assignments, as I irritated the teachers with getting good grades on all the tests.

Even at the age of nine, my preferred area of study was involving the whole variety of psychic phenomena; including the theories and practices to bring any development of such about. I loved ghost shows and the television series, "Kung Fu." One important book was the, "Roots of Consciousness," and couple on Eastern meditation that made astral travel possible.

That night, I astrally sought out Patty Hearst in an attempt to make sure she was doing OK and to possibly learn a location. With half a night consumed with this failed endeavor, I went to bed to get a few hours of sleep.

It was during a dream, I found myself in a woods and walking down a trail when a teenage girl asked me what I was doing there. "I'm trying to find you because you are kidnapped and I fear for what could happen to you."

I thought it strange that she busted out laughing, and couldn't believe anybody would care for her enough to actually seek her out. I couldn't believe how affectionate she actually seemed to be, and she simply said, "I'm alright and I like you, I would find it comforting if you just meet me here every day and we can take walks together."

I woke up and totally didn't believe the dream actually happened, but every night there she was waiting for that walk. We'd walk through the woods, down trails, cross streams and skip stones or try to look for gems. I just dug being with her and enjoyed every minute my mind, or the astral world would supply.

At the same time, I was more glued to the television for the latest news on Patty and to be quite honest, not believing how they presented her. To me, she was the freak girl of the century! I loved the freak girl dress, and the fact that while a total woman, she had that tom boy element of exploration and adventure. No matter the images or television portrayal, I couldn't wait to go to sleep and be with the Patty I knew. I ran it through my mind as both overwrought imagination, a total fantasy, as well a possible psychic encounter I will never figure out.

Then making the news, were the images of Patty Hearst and the bank robberies, as well her appearing with the submachine gun with the National Symbionese Liberation Army; while making political statements. I was speechless and could only think, and yelled, "Holy fucking shit! What's going on with my woman?"

Dad's reaction was unexpected. Instead of showing anger or surprise, he simply put his years of work from Juvenile Services into practice and said, "I got it now, she's nothing more than a juvenile delinquent who is doing everything possible to, 'drive her dad nuts.' Rich girls tend to do this." I had no idea why he saw humor in this as his usual reaction when one of the kids under his supervision went bad like this was pure anger and disgust!

"Mike, holy fucking shit? You're woman?"  Oops...

That night I couldn't wait to get to sleep, and when I found myself in those woods, I wasn't patiently waiting or simply searching, I was on a witch hunt! When Patty found me, he immediately demanded to know what is wrong.

"I've seen you on TV, what the hell is going on? What the hell are you doing?  Machine guns, robbing banks!"

She busted out laughing and instead of being a girl friend, this time she was more like an older sister. This attitude just pissed me off that much more. "Mike, so much of life is just bullshit! What you are seeing on TV is bullshit, so don't worry about it. Come on, I like walking with you, so let's take our minds off of this and have some fun." Hell, I couldn't refuse and was glad to see the girl friend back, as we chatted and threw rocks.

There wasn't going to too many more of these dreams or projections, as a short while later she walked up to me and said, "Mike, everything's fine and I am going back home, so I have to say goodbye and there won't be any more of these walks with me." It made me sad, but I got a wonderful hug out of the deal, as we wished each other the best in life.

That waking day, I was shocked to see on the news that Patty Hearst was indeed found. I couldn't wait to see the next detail as she was facing a lot of criminal charges and wondered what would be happening with her. Hell, I think it was my Dad that called it the best, "Mike, nothing's going to happen to her, her Dad has all the money necessary to get her off and most people probably get a laugh of it happening to that family since they usually report the news and the Hearst's have their enemies."

I don't remember the outcome of the trial, but they said she did those things because she was brain washed and not under her own control. Dad laughed at this and said it was more likely that Patty Hearst brainwashed everybody else. He then went into a diatribe of how it seems like the delinquents are more in control of the system then the parents and authorities. Something his death wish upon me would also reveal.

Something like this only happened with one other notable person. Nadia Comaneci, that Romanian gymnast who wowed the world and became the darling of the 1976 Olympics. She wowed me too, but while she was perky cute; it was something I sensed about her with her spirit.

When I received my World Book Year Book, I was happy that she managed to make it in it, and I periodically read the article. I couldn't wait until the next Olympics and was shocked to see her appearing to be much older and while she didn't do as well as she did before, I still routed for her to win.

Sometime later, I expressed to God, I would like to meet her and dreamt I found myself in a small courtyard garden, with a cast iron fountain in the center of the courtyard, but the place struck me as too modern. I loved the paved patio and the plants all around and looking at the small cottage like house, the large sliding doors opened up and Nadia asked me what I was doing there. I didn't at all, like the air of suspicion in her voice.

"I just wanted to meet you." This became an impromptu question and answer session; at times she seemed concerned, at others irritated that people sought her out because of her fame. But there was still the quality of an interest at people's reactions and she told me that I passed and will share with me her true self.

She invited me in and showed me what she thought was one of the neatest things in life, "These sliding glass doors." She explained why, as she slid the door back and forth and how it made her feel of value and wealth. Personally, the whole affair made me feel uneasy as I wondered why something people have where I live would be such a symbol of wealth in her mind.

I still told her, I understood why she loved them as my father ... I imitated him saying, "Well, don't look for us to have them! They're too expensive, not energy efficient. They also, let people look in as much as you look out and they are too easy to jimmy, so they can break into your house." She laughed and said my father would make a good communist, but I advised her, "No he wouldn't! He never knows when to keep his mouth shut and suffers enough because of it in America."

She laughed and told me, "I think you're right. Do you?" I then laughed.

She wanted to show me the most important thing in her life as the whole house was filled with dolls, so much so I couldn't believe it. What bothered me was she called them her friends and she liked the idea that each doll had a special spirit in it that knew her and always tried to make her happy.

I questioned this in my mind and asked her about the friends she had, and she became very sad saying there is no one she could trust. She joked she was the person they only put out on parade, and while flattered, she hated that. Her parents were there, but struck me as very ghost like. In many respects, there weren't any different from American parents, but they were very quiet and stoic. I felt a definite void between them and her.

This dream of Nadia raised far more questions with me then I ever thought imagined. I found it very distressing to see such a beautiful girl, to be so sad. I had no recollection as I couldn't create a house like that because, it definitely wasn't American and had that quaint European feel, yet the only images in my mind because the images of dwellings from communist bloc nations that were the dingy and run down public housing or the opulent, over done state houses of the leaders.

In time, a little would come out about on Nadia Cominechie and every time it would send a sick feeling upon me. I heard a reporter talk about her substantial doll collection and also eventually it was mentioned she attempted to commit suicide and struggled with depression.

I was totally shocked to see her on the news after the Berlin Wall fell, to find out that she had just defected with an American of Romanian origin and she said they were lovers. My only thought was, She's just using you, but, 'the best of luck guy.'

What came out of her mouth was how she planned to be a, "Greedy, irreverent, and totally hoggish Westerner." While that was a paraphrase, it was the way she said things which led me to interpret her words that way. I could only think, My God you not only swallowed the propaganda, you actually believe it; best of luck because the west isn't really like that.

There would be slips and slights, occasionally reported and speculated on in the news, but when I saw another Summer Olympics, it was nice to not only find her a commentator, but also hooked up again with her former coach, Bela Karolyi. I think she ended up the relationship with the person that helped her defect and married another gymnast. I doubt I will ever figure out those dreams, or even determine if there was any degree of accuracy, but they remain special to me.

I finally was able to laugh at it all. Doing such a project of writing a book about a radio station wasn't as daunting or intimidating as the results from dreams; be they, quirky and with thoughts of astral travel involved.
 

- 

With my mind quickly returning back to the Beer and Bacon, I made the decision to hold off any cancelation of the writing project until I could think it though a lot better. While the Jameson seemed to soften the thoughts, it didn't eliminate them. However the show and their attracted creatures and characters did help to distract me.

With the radio show being live, one always had to pay attention and with my photography I also had to keep an eye out. The Baltimore Sun newspaper had a free offshoot called, "The b." That was the second year one of their photojournalists was there.

The year before I wondered if he had followed me as similar ones where published, but we were both very friendly towards the other. I kept an eye on him and he definitely did his own thing as I did mine, we once again chatted.

[After the event, I published a poem called, "Saint Patrick's Fill," which used a couple of Beer and Bacon photos. This time, though I know it was the case, I was looking at the same photo I had taken in The b. Great minds think alike.]

I was happy 98ROCK gave me access behind the broadcast area and I had to be both respectful and observant as there was a whole host of wires to navigate around. I didn't want to be known as, "That Guy," who knocked 98ROCK off of the air. First, I loved the fact that I got another angle on the Morning Show broadcast, as well able to incorporate them with the crowd. Second, Jen the Body painter (make-up artist), was working her magic with a model.

Since the model was virtually naked, there was a curtain covering up a little cubby hole in the bar. I loved the fact it made me a bit of a Peeping Tom and got some good quality photos of Jen working on the model. A favorite was catching the closed curtain with a image of Jen painting on the model in a mirror next to it.

I also did a couple of photographs of the person they had participate on the show, Brett the Irish Comic; a huge man who was dressed as an Irishman, in a kilt and always carried a gallon stein with him. He had a series of cardboard signs that explained the he was a Leprechaun who was in need of beer and out of work. To top it all off, his last sign read, "Come on, I'm Black Irish!"

Next up was Jen, as she talked on the show as the woman modeled her painted body of painted denim short shorts, with a green bikini top that was laden with shamrocks. Afterwards the model walked around. It was there I got a bright idea.

I handed Brett the Irish Comic a $1.00 bill for a photograph, and agreed to his stipulation that nude photograph of him would cost another dollar, though not on the table. I paired him with Jen's model for a very cartoon like photograph.

What amazed me was with the crowd, I achieved something I immediately termed as, "Satellite Celebrity Status." I was amazed that I had the crowd getting into what I was doing with the camera and really helping me out with crowd control and helping to set up my shots for me. It made all the difference in the world as I was getting all the photographs that I wanted in a room you couldn't otherwise move in.

Just as the show was over, I knew to go to the bathroom a couple of times before I left for the long walk back to the Inner Harbor. But it was a walk that quickly proved a bathroom delusion as I had to go once again to the bathroom about a quarter of a way to the destination.

My desire to use a bathroom was met with, "Our toilets aren't public," "Fuck off, we don't let anybody us them," or simply, "We don't let strangers us them, get lost." At around the halfway point at the Cross Street Market, they too refused to give me the key to us them, which I laughed at since they are always complaining about the lack of business and financial troubles.

I now felt like Diogenes of Sinope, that cynic philosopher; who wandered the streets searching for a man willing to die for a good cause. I finally found an attendant working at the exit of a parking garage and asked him to use his bathroom.

"Sorry, we don't have bathrooms for public use."

"Sir, it's like this. I am at the full point in my bladder and I have just about enough time left to make it around the side of your building to pee on your parking garage. I know you have to have a bathroom for employee use, and I would like to do that instead. I won't be using it for drugs and there's a dollar in it for you."

He took me to the bathroom, just inside of the garage and it became one of the most pleasurable experiences I had in a long time. He wanted to know where I was at and told him the Beer and Bacon, held by 98ROCK and hosted by Looney's of Canton.

He wanted to know what I drank to put me in such dire straits with my bladder, "A Manhattan, four of five Guinness drafts and two shots of Jameson whisky."

"When did this all start?"

"6:00am."

"Damn you drank all of that, and you're not walking around here all fucked up!"

"My mind wouldn't let me get all fucked up!"

"Damn, boy! I'm glad to have talked to you; you're a hell of a lot blacker then me!"

From there and it was bock on the trail to, "Attman's Deli," on Lombard Street; an old school, New York style delicatessen. I had planned to also do a poem for them and their wonderful food, so I pulled out my camera and took a couple of photos first.

The long line still had plenty of distractions to keep my attention away from thinking about writing 98ROCK's story, as there was the constant bumping of people, then trying to figure out what I wanted from the menu, as well as with each step, the scents of the food changed to the delight of one's nose, as good as any premium Japanese incense. The bread just on our side of the counter, the bread being steamed as sandwiches, the pastrami, corned beef ,..

In their Kibbitz room, I enjoyed my Lombard Street, which is a double-decker of pastrami, corned beef and chopped liver with Russian dressing. I also bought a tongue sandwich to take home. It is there I decided even if 98ROCK doesn't adhere to their promises, I would still write their story to benefit their fans, as well for the hopes of an article.

I was hoping to get that promised support as it would have lent a lot towards making a work they would like to read and also possibly publish. I made the decision to drop what I was doing and start work on it immediately.



I very quickly discovered the, "But..." in working on the story. Since I wanted to get started, I shot off an Email to Scott the Producer and it went unanswered. After several more, I started shooting them off to Dave Hill, the program director again, and they too were not answered.

I kept with it, for two more months and frustratingly, to no avail with the lack of response from both, it went from frustration to infuriation. Since I perceived Mickey as the leader of the show, I decided to send him a personal Email, with the full explanation of what I wanted to write, how I wanted to present it, as well the other aims.

I never received a response back, but the next day there was curious talk coming from him Mickey in commentary form during the Morning Show. "Now look, some of you'ze wants to get to get to know us better. I'm telling you that isn't going to happen, but I am going tell you a way that you can ... We all host events that sponsor use as personalities, you can come to these, patronize our sponsors and talk to us. Eventually you will get to know us a little better."

---I definitely felt this was directed for my benefit and could only think, What the fuck! Mickey's the asshole always complaining no one is writing about them, or if they do the station is only mentioned if it is something negative, and it is positive, referred to a, "local rock radio station." In my opinion, a lot about the show and how Mickey was, explained a lot to me right there. I considered Mickey's little talk, a good reason for cancelling the whole project, but decided to give it one more try, because I really wanted to do it.

Mickey also talked about how hard it is to get into the station as everyone wants to. I knew this for a fact, as at every Beer and Bacon there are those people that show up and try to get on the air, and are largely ignored as the show is already planned.

I did consider doing my work taking Mickey's advice, but it took only a short amount of time to decide not to. Mickey didn't realize that I spent about $60.00 on tickets, two mandatory drinks and food to catch one of his shows. I was hoping to talk to him then and give him the framework of what my work was all about as well, as what I would like to do with it afterwards.

In two half-hour breaks between the shows, Mickey was outside smoking cigarettes and talking with his fans. He said he remembered me and liked my idea, but thirty seconds didn't go by with him someone walking up and just butting in, interrupting us. I only needed about two minutes to explain things and another two minutes to see if he could help get me in the studios to conduct my interviews, and get the needed information. Still, I got not more than thirty seconds before someone else interrupted us, which always took us back to square one?

I figured between the cab fare and spending my money at the events, each attempt would cost me $100.00, most likely yielding me the same results of everyone butting in and interrupting us and I didn't have any faith that any personality would hang around afterwards to accomplish this either, even for ten minutes. I figured it would cost me in the thousands, which was foolish considering my house was in jeopardy and I was eating enough Oodles of Noodles as it was.

I was getting so disgusted, if I didn't start writing, I was simply going to say, "Screw it!" and drop the project. I choose to take week off to write and hopefully finish the work. With two weeks before that happened, I shot of a rash of Emails, letters and phone calls to answering machines.

With absolutely no response, on that vacation, I simply started writing my work about 98ROCK, "Performance Problems - Production." Saturday and Sunday, was fairly involved, but it was an easy recollection of providing the start of 98ROCK and they unwittingly found themselves and use in my production of a high school rock concert for, "The Two Stoned Kids."

I managed to get the body of the other stories out about a chapter a day, but it was more work, as four to six hours a day was devoted to research, and two to four to write, post, or respond to reviews, as well making corrections.

I covered the personalities as some like Stash as he had his own story recovering from a life threatening brain injury; or I incorporated other notable 98ROCK personalities like Sarah Fleischer into chapters a bit broader. I was happy to get a little input, from not only Stash and Sarah, and a little background from Mike Anderson as I decided to add a chapter on the assistant producers.

I was very happy over this and sent each a few more follow up questions, or a contact number if they wanted to reach me. I gave them a little bit of time, and even delayed finishing their chapters hoping for another response, but didn't receive any.

With Stashes story, he was interviewed by WBAL-TV, but he had taken the link down and it took about four hours to find it again on the internet, and I used a combination of the details from the interview, and my recollections from talking to him at the Fells Point Festival. Likewise, there were people that appeared on the show, I termed satellite personalities and I reached out to them, but they never replied back.

For two complete weekends and the week in between, I was spending four to six hours a day researching and four to six writing and posting the chapters. In the end, I also decided to collect and add my 98ROCK inspired poetry as well.

I felt I wrote the book on 98ROCK well, yet while happy with it and my efforts in writing; I wasn't satisfied with the end results. I left it posted and occasionally will link it, but it had neither the quality, nor depth of personality from the personal stories that I was really hoping for.

I also dropped my idea about approaching Hearst to publish is and having already spent about $300.00 in the post, didn't feel it would be worth the risk of publishing it myself, especially since the best venue for selling it was this 98ROCK and their merch(andise).

I also scrapped my plans to use the material to create an article for the Wall Street Journal as it only covered what previous reporters wrote about and didn't have the spirit and personality about it I was trying to convey. With no studio, there was no photography on the day to day operations of the studios, as I like the idea of producing a photo-essay for publication as well.

I did let the members of the station know that I completed it and Sarah Fleischer and Stash let me know they liked what I wrote about them, but no one else responded. At the next Beer and Bacon, I think Dave Hill, the program director mentioned that he checked it out and liked it, but the Morning Show producer and cast of the Morning Show, didn't seem to remember me sending the link.

Sometime later, Scott Reardon the producer and Dave Hill both said, "No, we want you to visit the studios, so keep trying to contact us.

It left me completely flabbergasted, and with Scott I espoused, "The book is finished, so I really don't have the need to visit the studio anymore. I didn't want to keep calling you and be thought of as a pest, but also I can't do that because I have to work for a living."

Many writing projects I try is like that, where it is considered a great idea, yet people stop short of helping provide me with what I need to really do a good job with things. Unlike the months with trying to pursue things with 98ROCK, most other ideas weren't worth the waste of my time, so I usually dropped them after a couple of attempts. Usually they forget anyway.