The Breast of Times.

It was the breast of times. It was the worst of times. Haggard, overworked, underpaid, and underlay'd, I wrestled while parking my car in Producer/Director Phil Messerer's gated lot, dressed in a cervical collar - My left arm numb and ripping with pain. An imbalanced buffoon had moved me into position while wrecklessly out of control video -taping for his show on Halloween (Samhein to Celts and Neo-pagan-hippie-Shaman-Americans who are generally in search of meaning deeper than the Catholicism and holier than football), and managing the pain successfully at first, it had degenerated into a gimpy state that made me feel a bit Quasimodo in stature. Put a pencil in my left hand and call me Bob Dole. Praise "Bob". I had just rehabilitated myself to the point where I could wear heels again. That took me two years. Boys rarely know how to handle their toys, and when confronted with a woman with Capital Hills, something inside them screams "BARBIE DOLL" and they - like a bull in a China shop - feel they may handle you like a peice of plastic - indestructible, built for rough housing, always reacting to abuse with the same editorial blue eyed stare and Mona Lisa smile of approval that Barbie always sports - Even when a four year old gives her a haircut -

"You looked wrecked," said Madman Messerer as he observed the bumbling tact with which I moved resulting from limited arm and neck torque. "Here - Have a 'Flying Dog'." My eyes popped with delight and like a Pavlovian Dog my mouth watered - Good ole Philly coming through unaware he had just offered me my favorite beer as remedy for a lack of slack. As I heard the air escape from the popped top, and watch the craft brew pour into my designated frosted production stein, I suddenly heard the ripping licks of all the Maryland musicians I have the privelidge of running and jamming with when I am in Maryland - Home to Flying Dog Brewery, my folks, and some of the best unsung Blues and Beyond musicains every to learn a single lick of bluegrass - Amen. Awomen. A couple beers too, because I believe as the ancient Chinese and Druids held true - Alcohol is a gateway to the spirit world - Hence the term "spirits" for liquor in our language. Yea, verily, even the great Padmesambavha, who conquered the demons of India and brought Buddhism to Tibet stopped in the mountains for a three day drinking binge that the late great Hunter S. would be proud of - And I - "Gone with the Gonzo" am no exception. I too, a prophet for a profit, believe in the healing powers of a gooood craft brew. "Did Seamus tell you this be my favorite beer?" I asked Messerer.

"Flying Dog is number one on all our lists now," said Messerer. "They just bankrolled our movie."

I had just finished reading George Strahnahan's book "Phlogs", founder of Flying Dog Brewery. Ralph Steadman, the illustrator for Hunter himself, does the art for Flying Dog. There is Guiness and the is Flying Dog. There is not much in between except maybe some good 12 year old single malt scotch or something better -

The news Messerer dropped on me like a New Year's ball - I must confess - Wetted me a bit - "A touch, a touch, I do confess" - Between the legs. We were set to make our movie after all.

"I need you to concentrate on your character," Phil told me. "Start wearing whips on your hips and learning Yiddish. Bone up on Son/lover myths as it applies to those tales in Hebrew traditions and beyond. You are a great talent, Liz. We don't want to lose you to some bumble stumped injury. We are gonna cut back on your stress load. Drink up," he ordered clanking his stein into mine. "We are going to be infamous."