Category: story teller

When April Teaches You How to Feel Warm Again

Some days don’t announce themselves. They don’t kick down the door or roll in with thunder. They just show up quietly, like an old friend who doesn’t need to knock. Today was one of those days.

The official coastal temperature — the one the weather folks love to toss around — sat at a stubborn 47°. Cooler at the coast, they say, as if we haven’t lived long enough to know the ocean keeps its own personality. But then I stepped outside, and the sun hit me in that particular April way, the way that says, Relax. I’ve got this.

And just like that, I felt better already.

MSN Weather, in its polite little digital voice, tried to explain it:
“Dominant factor: humidity.”
Which is really just science’s way of saying the air has softened. The sharp edges have rounded off. Your skin isn’t fighting the cold anymore. The breeze isn’t stealing heat from you like it did all winter. And the sun — well, the sun is finally acting like it remembers what month it is.

Stand in the right spot — out of the sea breeze, tucked against a sun‑warmed wall, maybe near a patch of pavement that’s been soaking up the morning light — and the whole world shifts. The thermometer can cling to its 47°, but your body knows better. Your body says 59°, maybe more. Your body says, Hey, we made it. Look at us now.

That’s the thing about April.
It’s not just a month.
It’s a mood.
It’s the first real exhale after months of bracing yourself. It’s the moment you realize the warmth isn’t a rumor anymore. It’s here. It’s real. And it’s trying its best to meet you halfway.

So yes, the coast may be cooler.
But today?
Today feels warm enough to believe in again.
Warm enough to loosen your shoulders.
Warm enough to remind you that you’re still here, still breathing, still capable of feeling good for no grand reason at all.

And sometimes that’s all a person needs — a little sun, a little shelter from the breeze, and the quiet surprise of feeling warm again.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

Who am I?

I published my first book on March 5th. It’s called I Was There. I probably should’ve called it Who Am I, because it’s a memoir, and since I can’t hang a famous name on it, no one really cares. If I were a famous musician, actor, or politician, it wouldn’t matter if my entire memoir was just me sitting by a luxury pool all day sipping fancy drinks made by an impeccable butler — or better yet, a Butlerette in a miniskirt — people would be clamoring to buy it.

On Amazon, where my book is available, I’m competing with the likes of Liza Minnelli, Maya Angelou, Malcolm X, and Trevor Noah’s mother, for God’s sake — all of whom have written memoirs. And that’s just naming the lesser-known ones, except maybe Trevor’s mother, though I suspect everyone but me knows who she is. I’ll add, with sincere condolences, that all are deceased, and underline that I am not willing to die for this book.

I have considered changing the name to something like Outlaw, rewriting it just a bit — not changing the facts, just throwing in more drama and sex. I could confabulate. In writing, confabulation is when you unknowingly fill in gaps with invented details because your mind wants the story to feel complete, smooth, or emotionally coherent. It’s not lying. It’s not embellishment on purpose. It’s the brain saying, “Let me tidy this up for you,” and slipping in something that feels true even if it isn’t. Then I could list my book under Autofiction, which could easily be misunderstood as autoerotica — and that should outsell Trevor’s mother.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a good friend who’s also writing a book. Hers is about murder, and as I said to her, she has a better chance of gaining buyers because everyone knows what murder is. Along with not dying for this book, I’m also not willing to kill for it. And let me quickly add that my friend is not the murderess in her book either. Though I’ll bet she’s a killer in a miniskirt.

I also need to say my book is not boring. The folks who have read it have all been sincerely enthusiastic in their positive reviews. It deals with ten very turbulent times in my life — ten years when this country was an amalgam of ideas, movements, people, music, war, and yes, even sex. I was involved in some amazing moments with some amazing people, some known to history — people who, if they wrote a memoir today, would give Trevor’s mother a run for her money.

But you see, what I did, I did quietly. Not a lot of fanfare or fangirls or fantastic shenanigans. Maybe what I need to do now is go out and do something to call attention to myself. Maybe run for President on the WTF Party — that’s the What The Fuck Party — or maybe the LWRS Party, the Left Wing Radical Scum Party. You may have heard mention of that breed of human; I think they’re currently under investigation by the residents at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

But the truth is, I never meant to make a splash with my book — not even in a luxury backyard pool with fancy drinks being served by a Butlerette in a miniskirt. I just wanted to tell my story to a few friends and family while there was still time. Part of the problem, I think, is that many of my friends thought I was writing a completely different book — probably about my hazy, crazy days in radio, which I barely mention.

If all of a sudden some major publisher caught on to my book, a major studio made it into a major and successful motion picture, and I suddenly had fame and fortune and miniskirt‑clad Butlerettes running around, I know I’d be looking for the nearest exit to the highest mountain I could find.

In short, I think maybe Emily Dickinson was right, and her idea fits my personality better.

Emily Dickinson wrote:

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you — Nobody — too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d banish us — you know!

How dreary — to be — Somebody!
How public — like a Frog —
To tell your name — the livelong June —
To an admiring Bog!

Maybe that’s the whole point: I never wanted to be Somebody. I just wanted to leave a trail for the other Nobodies to follow home.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

SUBSCRIBING IS FREE

A valuable Lesson Learned

A valuable Lesson Learned Ramble.

Learning is valuable—about love, good people, and, unfortunately, bad ones: people lacking a crucial human quality. Some call it a heart, others a soul. As the Dalai Lama said, “Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

I recently learned a hard lesson about self-publishing—not about the publishing itself,the ready-for-print part, the nuts and bolts of it: learning about print, color, page count, the spine the cover  and a weird little item called a widow, which is when a word gets left over at the end of a page and gets pushed to the next page. That was all difficult enough. Publishing, as a good friend who worked in the business put it, “Publishing is not for the weak of heart.”

Writing a book is hard, and writing about yourself is even harder, especially when recounting a story from 50 years ago. Living it nearly killed me; writing it nearly finished the job.

And then I finally got the book on Amazon and wanted to learn more about reviews and promoting my book, so I joined the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) community for writers. I soon learned that while 50 percent of those members are good and honest folks wanting to help a rookie writer, it is also populated by scumbag con artists who will scream death and destruction, and forever banishment from Amazon if you break the rules.

And while it is true that Amazon did get into some trouble a few years ago by allowing fake reviews, not just of books but on everything, from air fresheners to underwear, and for good reasons, they have tightened their review process. But it is not the death toll of you and your book if you unintentionally seem to cross the line. What Amazon does not want is for me to pay Jack and Jill to write a review that says Dan Sanders is the greatest writer since John Steinbeck or Charles Dickens. Even if it’s true, Jack and Jill need to decide thta on their own.

In the KDP community, while most folks are good and helpful, I ran into a few who responded with alarm, warning me I had made a mistake but offering to help. They never mention a fee upfront; instead, they engage in several emails before finally revealing a line like, “For a small fee, I can help you out.” One clue is that although many different names are involved, the emails all look like they came from the same cookie-cutter template.

I was so concerned that I asked my first reviewer to remove their review because it was from someone I worked with 40 years ago and haven’t seen since. A scammer claimed that if someone knows you, Amazon will suspect collusion, but I learned that while Amazon is strict, it isn’t unreasonable.

The main reason I wanted to write this is not to make a Mea culpa, but to warn others trying or considering self-publishing. I don’t want anyone to go in as I did—a lamb to the slaughterhouse. I believed everything would be good, but like any competitive profession, it can be underhanded and cutthroat.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

Nixon lies + Trump parallel Morning Ramble,

Every time I look back at Nixon’s Vietnam “we’re winning” routine, I hear an echo.

Here’s the Nixon highlight reel: • “Vietnamization is working.” (It wasn’t.) • “Peace is at hand.” (It wasn’t.) • “The enemy is weakening.” (They weren’t.) • “I have a secret plan.” (He didn’t.) • “We’re withdrawing because we’re winning.” (We weren’t.) • “The bombing is working.” (It didn’t change the terms.)

And now we’ve got a whole new era of leaders who pull the same trick — declare victory, deny reality, and hope nobody notices the smoke pouring out of the engine room.

Boston folks can smell that a mile away, and I hope the United States still can.

History doesn’t repeat, but the sales pitch sure does.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Book Has Been Released

Dan Sanders grew up on Staten Island and learned early how to navigate the edges of things—family, faith, war, and the long road toward becoming himself. He spent years in radio, activism, and community work before settling in the Boston area, where he writes about the moments that refuse to stay quiet. He lives in what he calls Rambling Harbor with his cat, Shianna, and continues to tell the stories that shaped him, one honest line at a time.

The Road to “I Was There”

It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a straight shot. It was a long road — with detours, breakdowns, and a few stretches where I didn’t touch the wheel at all.

This book took years. Not because I was writing every day, but because I wasn’t. I’d circle back, pick up a thread, lose it again. Life got in the way. So did doubt. So did the internet.

But the story never left. It waited. And every time someone asked — “Are you still working on it?” or “When’s the book coming out?” — it reminded me that I was still on the road.

So thank you. To everyone who kept asking. To those who read the early chapters, who saw the fog and the mountains and said, “Keep going.”

The book is out now. It’s called “I Was There”. Because I was. And now, so are you.

And who knows what comes next — maybe that’s the best part. Maybe even another book

follow this link to the Amazon page: https://a.co/d/01jMzMsm

About Me
I’m a dreamer with some rough edges, a word‑slinger, an actor, a picture‑maker, and a guy who hangs onto the stories that don’t always behave. I write from a small harbor shaped by memory, Boston weather, and all the quiet corners where truth sits down and refuses to move.
I Was There is one road I’ve walked. There’ll be others. There always are.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

Rambling Harbor — Evening Edition Ramble AKA WTF Again

Tonight’s tide brought in a story I wish I didn’t recognize.

Evening settles over the Harbor like a worn jacket, the kind you keep by the door because it knows your shape better than you do. The light goes soft, the gulls quiet down, and the world finally stops shouting long enough for you to hear the small truths rattling around in your own chest. That’s when the news found me tonight — not with a bang, but with that familiar sting that comes when history gets pushed around like furniture someone’s tired of looking at.

Another round of funding carved out of Black museums. A Black heritage sign quietly taken down in Boston, as if memory itself were something optional, something you could tuck away when it makes the wrong people uneasy. It didn’t surprise me, but it sure as hell set something off — not a blaze, just that low, steady rumble from a place that’s been paying attention for too many years.

And this isn’t the first time I’ve felt that rumble. A few years back, I resigned from an organization I’d given time and heart to. Not because I heard the man say anything — I never did. This was all online, all at a distance. But then I read he was running for political office in Texas, and one of his proud public stances was opposition to what was then being called “critical race theory.” That was enough. I didn’t need a speech or a meeting or a debate. I just knew I wasn’t going to stay in a place led by someone who wanted to shut down the teaching of systemic racism and the harder truths of American history. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe the problem isn’t the truth. So I walked. Quietly. Cleanly. And I didn’t look back.

And now here we are again, only the stage is bigger, and the stakes are heavier. Grants pulled from the Massachusetts Museum of African American History because the work doesn’t “align with priorities.” Heritage markers taken down like they were never there. Museums and cultural programs frozen out because they dare to tell the story straight. And the language is always the same — “divisive concepts,” “ideological concerns,” “restoring sanity.” Whenever politicians start talking about restoring sanity, you can bet they’re about to erase something.

It’s the same old dance: erase, rename, sanitize, repeat. Pretend it’s about budgets. Pretend it’s about neutrality. Pretend it’s anything except what it is — a slow tightening of the blindfold. And the people doing the tightening always swear they’re the ones protecting us from indoctrination. Meanwhile, the museums they’re defunding are the ones holding the receipts, the records, the stories this country has spent centuries trying to bury.

And what really gets me is the déjà vu of it all. I’ve seen this movie before. I’ve walked out of rooms — and online spaces — over it. And now it’s happening on a national scale, with institutions and memory and public truth on the line. Every time someone says “critical race theory,” what they really mean is “stop telling the parts of the story we don’t like.” Every time a sign comes down, or a grant disappears, they’re hoping the story goes with it.

So here I am, evening deepening over Rambling Harbor, the tide pulling at the edges of the day, and I’m thinking about how fragile memory becomes when people in power decide it’s optional. I’m thinking about how many times we’ve had to fight just to keep the truth in the daylight. And I’m thinking about how history isn’t fragile at all — but apparently some people are.

That’s the ramble tonight. The Harbor’s quiet, but the headlines aren’t. And somewhere out there, the truth is still trying to speak, even if someone keeps reaching for the dimmer switch.

From Rambling Harbor, I ask again: what do we do now?

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

One of the Unrecorded

I was just doing some research on this book, and as I’ve said, I’m horrible with dates. I always have been, as they drift into ancient history, they become a lost, whirling maze of amazement and often befuddled amusement. Just now, I was looking for someone from my CCNV days, and after a multitude of different search sources and avenues, including AI, it came back.

 “You’re trying to find someone who lived in a world that didn’t preserve itself well — CCNV, Catholic Worker, Berrigan circles, early women clergy. Those people didn’t leave digital trails.”

 I laughed aloud and said in my best Robert Deniro Taxi voice, “You talkin’ to me?” I know. I’m one of them, lost to time, memory, but maybe not to history.

About a year ago, I spent several weeks with on-and-off communication with various federal agencies trying to get copies of my arrest and prison records. I started with the bureau of prisons The Bureau of Prisons stated that they do not retain records beyond ten years,  They gave me a link to the FOIA ( Freedom of Information Act) the freedom of information act said that because of my type of cases any records would most likely be held by the National Archives they may have retained documentation related to this type of case. I wrote to the National Archives, but have not heard back. I am willing to bet no one has ever tried so hard to prove they are a criminal. Even though the law I broke needed to be broken, and I still would love to see my whole records including as Arlo Guthrie put it in the song “Alice’s Restaurant”, a black and white 8 by 10 glossy.

So yeah, I did and still do live in a world that doesn’t preserve itself well.

Part of me hopes we’re not all lost to history. And part of me thinks maybe that’s the way it was always meant to go.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

Super Bowl halftime show.

“6 US states plan on boycotting Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show.”

The second I saw the headline, I already knew the roster of usual suspects: Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Utah, and West Virginia. Of course, it’s them. A few months back, Hall of Fame running back Eric Dick— er—son popped off about the NFL picking Bad Bunny for halftime. These reactions all orbit the same tired idea about who “belongs” in American traditions.

Dick -er-son said in October, “If he don’t like the US, don’t come here to perform.”

Genius stuff from Dick, truly. Puerto Rico became part of the United States in 1898 under the Treaty of Paris. You’d think a man who made a living reading defenses could read a history book, too.

And this whole “if you criticize the country, leave it” routine? I heard that garbage when I opposed the Vietnam War. Loving your country means telling it when it’s wrong and sticking around to help fix it. Mark Twain nailed it: “Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.”

So to Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Utah, and West Virginia: I won’t miss you. The halftime show won’t miss you. The ratings won’t miss you. But your own citizens will miss out on a couple of hours to breathe, laugh, and forget the world’s nonsense.

And if the alternative is listening to Kid Crock belt out,

“Some say that’s statutory, but I say it’s mandatory,”

then boycotting Bad Bunny is a hell of a way to show your love for America.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Subscribing is free

Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Some days, the cultural weather rolls in sideways, and you find yourself watching people online argue about whether Bad Bunny or Kid Rock is the “real” entertainer. This debate misses the core point: what matters isn’t which entertainer is more legitimate, but the type of culture each represents. Comparing them is like comparing a lighthouse to a lawnmower — both make noise, but only one helps you find your way home.

Bad Bunny — Benito — is out there bending sound like light through a prism, turning reggaetón, trap, pop, and whatever else he feels like into something that feels alive. He’s got Grammys, stadiums, and a global fanbase that sings in Spanish with their whole chest, even if they only understand every third word. He’s fluid, political when he wants to be, joyful when he chooses to be, and unbothered by the borders other people try to draw around him.

Kid Rock, meanwhile, is still trying to convince the world he’s the same guy from the “Cowboy” era, even though the world has rotated a few dozen times since then. The swagger hardened into shouting, the rebellion calcified into grievance, and the lyrics… well, let’s just say they don’t exactly age like wine. More like something you’d find in a forgotten cooler behind a shed.

And that’s why—let me be crystal clear—I would choose the Super Bowl halftime show over Kid Rock and TPUSA. Not out of spite or politics, but because the moment feels like a reflection on what culture can grow into, not what it leaves behind. It comes down to the music, the message, the energy—the difference between expanding the world or holding it still.

Bad Bunny writes about identity, heartbreak, joy, pride, and the messy business of being human. Kid Rock writes about… well, sometimes things you wouldn’t want on your search history. One artist is building bridges; the other is burning daylight.

But the funny thing about music is that it’s weather. It shifts. It tells you what season the culture is in. Bad Bunny is a warm front rolling in from the Caribbean, reshaping the atmosphere. Kid Rock is a cold gust from a bar that closed at 1 a.m. and forgot to turn off the neon sign.

Maybe that’s the whole point: choosing between them isn’t really about music — it’s about the kind of world we want to live in. Are we supporting a culture that grows and remixes itself, or one that clings to the past and resists change? This is the real choice at the heart of the argument.

Anyway, that’s what washed up on the harbor today. The tide brings what it brings.

Have a good morning. As the Super Bowl approaches—a time that should be about sports, not politics—I’ll keep exploring the truth about why Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the halftime show matter in this cultural conversation.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

The Face in the Window

From a cross he cried, “Forgive them.”
“I’m not mad at you,” she smiled.
Three times he fell,
Three shots rang out.
From the wood, his blood hit the ground.
From the car, the road turned red.

They say he walked again.
I asked if that is so.
Is this where her story ends?
Or did he know he’d need to be seen again
in this world of doubt and sin —
a world where mercy comes, if it comes at all,
from a car and a smiling face within?

Forgive them.
I’m not mad at you, dude.

And while her heart and name were Good
There is no forgiveness for what the ICE man stood.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

Rating(required)

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Gridiron for Leg Irons

In the winter of
Nineteen hundred and sixty-four
Something was going on,
Called the Vietnam War.

But all we could hear,
At the stadium that night
Was the roar of the crowd,
As we continued our fight.

But older friends
Had joined the fray,
And died in a swamp
Many worlds away.

The play was called.
And I started my run.
As another friend died
Under the gun.

The play I remember
Was Buck-forty-five
As the government kept telling
Us, lie after lie.

Then came the day
They said I must go.
But I stood on the line and shouted
My NO!!

They locked me in chains,
Both hands and
Both feet.
But the mind of the boy
Would not face defeat.

The judge said,
Son, “What will you do?”
I said, “Your honor.
It is all up to you.”

If you think I was wrong, then
To jail, I must go.
If you believe I was right
There’s a great Broadway show.
Perhaps we could go.

And with those words
In the blink of an eye
I traded the gridiron
For leg irons
And two years
At Danbury FCI.

Rating: 1 out of 5.

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

 

from the Edge of the List

So, it’s official: Pam Bondi, Attorney General and microphone wielder, has reportedly directed the FBI to compile a list of “anti-American” groups. The leaked memo reads like a fever dream of ideological purity — targeting anyone who dares question immigration enforcement, capitalism, gender norms, or traditional family values.

In other words, if you’ve ever posted a meme about billionaires, marched for trans rights, or wondered aloud whether Jesus would deport asylum seekers — congratulations, you might be on the list.

I can’t say I’m surprised. When college students began being arrested for writing in campus newspapers, I figured it was only a short walk to us on social media. The ink dries, the post goes live, and suddenly free speech is treated like contraband.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t just a rumor. It’s been fact-checked and confirmed. You can do your own fact-checking, too — the memo exists, the directive is real. What we’re smelling here isn’t the sweet air of liberty; it smells like dictatorship.

The memo builds on Trump’s NSPM‑7 directive and paints dissent as domestic terrorism. It’s not about violence — it’s about views. And if your views don’t align with the administration’s gospel, you’re suddenly a threat.

Do your own fact-checking. Here are the verified fact-checking and reporting links on Pam Bondi’s leaked DOJ memo directing the FBI to compile lists of “anti-American” groups:

  • Snopes – Confirmed leaked memo
  • Reuters – Bondi orders law enforcement to investigate “extremist groups”
  • Ken Klippenstein – Original leaked memo publication
  • Common Dreams – Coverage of Bondi memo
  • Democracy Now! – “Domestic Terrorism” leaked DOJ memo
  • Nation of Change – Memo targets anti‑Americanism, anti‑capitalism, anti‑Christianity
  • Crooks and Liars – Bondi plans to treat anti‑Trump activists as domestic terrorists
  • Factually – Fact‑check summary of Bondi memo

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.