Paul was one of those people who were smart enough to choose wonderful parents. When he was still a young man, he remembers a buddy telling him, “Hey, Paul J., do you realize they could have based the ‘Brady Bunch’ TV show on your family?” Yeah, it’s true. Paul’s folks were supportive and loving almost to a fault. However, he talks about his late teens with mixed emotions. His folks were forced to deal with Paul’s rebellious streak and while they didn’t fully encourage it; neither did they fully discourage it. His mom helped his dad understand that a creative individual is likely to have some personality quirks. And that it is precisely because Paul had a divergent take on the human condition that he is able to express that state-of-being so artfully. 
 
Because he had chosen his parents so wisely, Paul possessed good size and strength, for his age, plus good speed, above average eye-hand coordination and well above average intelligence. These attributes allowed him to do very well in sports (primarily football and baseball) and to also maintain an acceptable grade-point level throughout his school and college years.  
 
Paul’s dad was convinced that his young son (age 9 at the time) needed to develop self-defense skills so he wouldn’t be bullied. Under his dad’s tutelage Paul became a very effective boxer. As it turns out, his mom passed on her, “sense of justice,” DNA to her son; so, Paul became the defender of the defenseless throughout junior high and high school. What’s more, his dad told him, “If you start backing down as a young man, you’ll most-likely wind up backing down the rest of your life.” Consequently, although he prevailed in a vast majority of the fist fights (mostly bar fights) he was involved in, Paul absorbed more than a few beatings over the years. But he invariably gained the respect of those who bested him and he maintained his integrity in the process. 
 
In 1992, Paul’s bravery was in evidence when he kicked in a car window and pulled a woman out of a burning wreck on a freeway in SoCal. The Commissioner of the California Highway Patrol called a press conference and personally presented our intrepid justice-seeker with the Certificate of Valor, the highest award they give to civilians.     
 
In his early years, when he wasn’t in school or doing school work, you could find Paul playing sports, in season. He had some mottos: “I'd rather hit than eat.” “I never saw a ball, in the air; I didn’t want to run under.” “Why walk when you can run.” You get the picture. 
 
Paul’s dad was the best toy a boy could have. He loved the fact that he had athletic sons (Paul’s brother Dave was/is also a good athlete). He taught our enthusiastic competitor techniques that allowed him to play, “over his head.” Paul batted and threw left-handed. His dad told him if he expected to be successful as a pitcher it wouldn’t be enough to intimidate batters with his physical size and a fast ball, he would need to develop a pitch that broke away from right-handed batters. Then he taught his elder son how to throw a side-arm screw ball. The first time through an opposing team’s batting order it was normal for right-handed batters to jump back right out of the batter’s box in an attempt to get out of the way of a pitch that then broke back over the plate for a strike. Paul got a lot of mileage out of that screw ball.

 

As a basketball player our boy was what you would call a “role player.” He would crash the boards, make the outlet pass, set picks, dig in on “D”, and pass the ball to the shooters. He had a few inside moves but he was a kind-of-a “tweener.” Paul wasn’t a good enough ball handler to play the point and he wasn’t a good enough jump-shooter to play shooting guard and he was too short to play small forward, in organized ball, that is. But he loved to play school-yard or play-ground ball.  
 
Football was Paul’s favorite team sport. In the ‘60’s you played both offense and defense. There were better tacklers on his high school team, but he was effective as a defensive back. On offense he played receiver. Though Paul was not a devastating blocker he was a good route runner and he had “sure hands.” Plus he was fast enough and clever enough to get open with regularity. Paul found nothing was more satisfying than catching a pass, putting a move on a defensive back, and taking it in for a touchdown. Did I mention that he had a crush on one of the high school cheerleaders? He tells of getting goose bumps when she and the squad did his “name cheer” after he scored. 
 
After college, there were very few opportunities to play team sports, at a high level, so Paul focused his athletic efforts on Golf and Skiing. As long as he played once a week and got to the range for a couple of hours once a week he could maintain a 6.6 index (7 handicap). As was his habit, he developed specialized techniques he used in his swing, and he also developed techniques he used to get the most production possible 
from his range-time. Although he was always willing to accommodate another player’s desire to have a wager, of some kind, going during a round, Paul was happiest when he was playing for the pure pleasure of hitting good shots and scoring in the ‘70’s.  
 
Paul took-up skiing in his mid 20’s. He braved the bitter cold conditions at the slopes in New England for a dozen years or so until he moved to SoCal in 1986. He loves to tell the story about the first time he saw two bodacious young babes wearing Daisy Dukes and bikini tops skiing on a run at Big Bear, CA. The snow was soft and temps were hovering in the ‘60’s. Ah… So Cal!  
 
On the subject of his early memories of SoCal, Paul once told me, “I’ll never forget the first time I saw Huntington Beach. After a day of body boarding and girl-watching, I felt compelled to be in touch with my dad. We didn’t have cell phones in 1986 so I found a pay phone, called him and read him the riot act for not having moved us out to “Cali” when we were young.” He went on to say, “I don’t believe I had ever felt deprived until that moment.”  
 
Though Paul had ridden motorcycles since he moved to So Cal in 1986, it wasn’t until 2005 that he got his first Harley. It was a two-tone “Sinister Blue” and Silver, 2000 Softail Deuce. He called it, "the Double Aught Deuce.“ And he thought of it as his, "Magic Carpet.” He loved to take day-trips down into San Diego County over roads like Palomar Mountain Road. He often describes that twisted ribbon of pavement as a series of “rattle snake tracks” or sometimes he might refer to it as a “widow-maker.” Paul explored national parks in Utah (Zion) and in Cali (Death Valley and then Sequoia and Yosemite). Plus he challenged the canyon roads of wine country (Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino). Rte 89a in Arizona is one of his favorite stretches of twisty, technically-demanding two-lane in the South West. After a crash in 2014, which totaled Paul’s beloved Deuce, he bought a 2008 Softail Custom. He calls it, “The Bike of My Dreams.” He’s included a photo of his current V-twin buddy on this page. That color is “Pacific Blue,” in case you were wondering. The copper leaf work on the fenders and the tank was done by a pin-stripper pal. As regards the up-grades he’s made to his two-wheeled example of industrial art, he’ll tell you, “I’m more than happy to talk about my Softail in detail. When you run into me, buy me a PBR draft or maybe a Jack Daniels on the rocks and prepare to be regaled with a litany of those performance, handling and comfort up-grades.”  
 
As it happens, Paul turned his passions for riding American V-Twins into a profitable opportunity. In 2007 he submitted an article about a VTwin motorcycle event; he had attended, to Thunder Press. That’s the Harley Davidson magazine; the one you pick-up at Harley dealerships throughout the country. The editor-in-chief liked his work and after a couple of years, during which our dedicated moto-scribe was a frequent contributor, he promoted Paul to the position of Southern California Bureau Chief. He was actually getting paid to ride! Paul got to cover major events like, The Love Ride, The Laughlin River Run, Vegas Bike Week and Arizona Bike Week. Of course he attended the biggest event of all; Sturgis Bike Week. He maintains, “It is truly a rite-of-passage for Harley riders. I loved riding in the South Dakota, Black Hills. Custer State Park has some challenging two-lane and some awesome vistas, Mt Rushmore is inspirational, The Crazy Horse Memorial is massive, Devil’s Tower is majestic, and though their coloration isn’t as brilliant as the vermillion, hued geological formations to be found in Utah, the Bad Lands possess a rugged, austere beauty.” 
 
Since high school it was apparent that Paul had a facility with the language, both the spoken word as well as the written word. Also, he had been gifted with a strong baritone voice. Further, it turns out he was a natural performer. These factors made his career decision a no-brainer. At the age of 13, Paul sang and played guitar, with a band he had put together, at a high school sock hop. By the time he was 18 he was performing regularly at high school functions, college fraternity parties and local bars, and, he frequently accepted bookings as far away from his home, outside Boston, as Vermont, up-state NY, and one excursion to Chicago. Paul’s brother, Dave, sang and played bass. They called themselves, “The Colt Brothers,” after the newly introduced Colt 45 Malt Liqueur.  
 
Though he was considered to be successful as a singer/band-leader, even at such a tender age, Paul wasn’t truly fulfilled as a performing artist until he discovered Soul Music in 1967. As he tells it, “When I heard Sam & Dave sing, ‘Hold On I’m Comin’,’ I knew I had to learn how to express myself like a soul artist. I studied Soul Singers’ phrasing until I could sing Soul songs without affecting my voice. Soul singers and Soul musicians would honor me when they called me ‘Dripper,’ short for ‘Honey-Dripper,’ because of my mellow, soulful, baritone voice and my smooth delivery.” 
 
Because he was able to express his feelings with ease, writing song lyrics came naturally to Paul. In 1970 a music producer discovered him. The producer hired him to write songs and sing them for an album the man was producing. The guitar player on the sessions was Jeff, “Skunk,” Baxter, who went on to play with Steely Dan and the Doobie Brothers. He took a tape of Paul’s stuff to his personal manager who immediately signed Paul to a management deal. Within two weeks he had gotten Paul 5 firm offers from major recording companies. The manager decided it would be best to sign with Polydor Records, the brand new U.S. subsidiary of Deutsche Grammophon, the largest label in Europe. They were in the process of developing a stable of American artists and they were committed to spare no expense in the endeavour. Paul’s contract turned out to be one of the last mega-deals to come out of the recording industry before a bunch of, idol-worshiping yet egomaniacal, greedy, bottom-line, obsessed lawyers slithered in and screwed-up the process for years to come. 
 
Polydor enticed Paul to sign with them by offering him a $100,000 nonrecoupable advance. That meant that he didn’t owe them any portion of that advance, which net profits from the sale of his album did not cover. Paul remembers he managed to go through around $60,000 of the total advance. Some of the money went for session fees at Electric Lady Land, Jimi Hendrix’ new studio in the Village, in NY City. Some went to cover his band’s expenses. His manager took 25% and our guy spent the rest on things like the down-payment on a white, 1970, Cadillac Deville convertible with a red leather interior. He would say, “Man; I feel like a rock star when I’m driving that land-yacht around.” But, because his album promotion efforts were so sub-standard, there was very little in the way of profit from sales so Polydor wrote off the project as a loss. And, no, Paul wasn’t able to afford the Caddy once the advance money dried up. To this day the man will wax wistful when he talks about it. “One of my most vivid memories from that period, in my life, was the day I was forced to return the Caddy to the dealership.”  
 
While he was recording that album, in the summer of 1970, at, Electric Lady Land, several of the movers and shakers involved in the music industry dropped in, and, to a man/woman let it be known that they thought Paul was going to be the “Next Big Thing.” Ever since Elvis was touted as a white guy who sounded like a black guy, industry mucky-mucks had been searching for that elusive quality in a singer. Paul sounded so much like a Soul Brother that when Etta James’ manager played some of his tracks for her, she suggested that she and Paul should do a duet. She was reportedly incredulous when she was informed that our blue-eyed soul singer was, in fact, “of the Caucasian Persuasion.” Needless to say the duet idea got kyboshed.  
 
Paul was very encouraged by all the hoopla surrounding his fledgling career. He was so confident that he was on his way to stardom and all the financial benefits that went with it that he proposed to the darkhaired beauty (Maddie) he had been dating.  
 
Unfortunately, his manager’s abilities were limited to getting artists signed to labels. When it came to actually furthering a career, the guy was a bust. Paul’s was not the only career he screwed-up. There was a stretch of Joe Cocker’s career when he couldn’t get arrested. Guess who his manager was… 
 
Anyway, by the summer of 1971 Paul realized that he would have to go back to singing and playing guitar in night clubs, dive bars and the occasional concert when he was lucky enough to get some opening act bookings. The thing was; that meant he had to perform top 40 tunes and dance music. Yuck! Paul only wanted to sing soul songs but in the New England area during the ‘70’s that wasn’t always a possibility. He was bitter and frustrated. The highly accomplished vocal-stylist felt like he was wasting his gift.  
 
 As he mentions, in Section 1 of this book, during the early years of his marriage his frustration from the failure of his attempt to become a recording artist, left Paul bitter and defensive. He wasn’t exactly the epitome of a loving husband. His wife’s response was to with-hold her favors; a behavior that left him even more frustrated. While he was treated with disdain at home the ladies at the bars and night clubs, where he performed, were; shall we say, highly attentive. And so Paul spent more and more time out of his house. Finally, he decided it was time to move on from his unfulfilling marriage. But when Paul let his wife know he would be leaving, she begged him to stay. She promised she would change her ways and devote herself to making him happy. Our guy really didn’t expect that reaction from her. So he stayed. True to her word, it was as if she had walked through a door and come out the other side a changed person. Her behavior reminded Paul of the way she had treated him when they were first together. He recalls, “After several years of wedded hell, it was almost embarrassing to be treated so lovingly.” 
 
Paul would love to tell, you, his readers, that they went on to live Happily Ever After but the truth is, for the first 23 years of their marriage, Paul dedicated much of his: time, energy and creativity toward becoming the most obnoxious jerk he could possibly be.  
 
Apparently, he had never emotionally recovered from the failure of his recording career in 1971. His poor attitude was exacerbated because the North Shore of Boston, where Paul and his family lived for 15-years, was not known to be a bastion of progressive thought. The relative pittance he was able to earn, at the time, wouldn’t support much in the way of a desirable abode in or near the city so he and his wife took up residence in the house next her parents home. It had been Maddie’s grandparent’s home. When they died the little old house reverted to the nearest relative (her parents). There was no air conditioning and the furnace seemed to wait until the coldest days of the year to conk-out.    
 
As he explains, in Section 1 of this book, “After 23 years as man and wife, Maddie got so fed up with my manic-depressive behavior, my bullying and my undependability she told me to pack up and get out. That’s when I experienced my Epiphany. I realized that “I” didn’t even like me! But I knew that I could become the man I wanted to be, the man she needed me to be and I was convinced that I could make the changes I would need to in order to be that man. I began my metamorphosis by listing the ways I was failing my wife and myself. Then I tried to come up with ways I could improve my behavior patterns. When I scoured the internet for answers to my questions, I was disappointed by the lack of any practical solutions for my issues. That’s when I began to formulate programs which would help me become more loving, more compassionate, more understanding, and a better person in general. When my wife reacted positively to my new personality, I realized I was on to something. I began to make notes on my findings and before long I had the beginnings of a self-improvement program. Forgive a cliché but I went on to write Happily Ever After…, and, as they say, ‘the rest is history’.” 

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