Tight as a prison cage, the WILK News Radio studio pulsed with raw energy and colorful strings of apocalyptic lights. That’s the way I remember the decade I spent behind the mic in that corporate padded cell.

I’ve been gone for more than three years, fired in March 2017 for what bosses said were bad ratings and I said was retribution for my fight against Donald Trump and his cult during the 2016 presidential campaign.

I return to those airways Monday, August 31, at 10:05 AM for an interview with host Jason Barsky, a caller this time, there to talk about my new novel, Paddy’s Day in Trump Town.

My book is about a mindset, a bunker mentality that shelters a dangerous bigotry that plagues the lives of many of my former callers who day-after-day saw me as a threat to their way of life.

I saw them as the enemy.

Neither of us has changed our perception about the other.

Neither of us is wrong.

This is a novel about white working-and-middle-class men and women who will do anything to guarantee Trump’s re-election, a warning that Trump will win again unless Democrats pick up their dull pace and excite more people about dreary Joe Biden.

The book is a primer on politics, hatred and Northeastern Pennsylvania ethnic culture. The book is about us. The book is a ticking time bomb.

Tune in Monday.

You better listen.

We’re not bogus knights in shining armor like the online Order of the Black Shamrock.  We don’t play in an LA rock band named Black Shamrock.

We’re a different breed, those of us born in the shadow of the black shamrock. That’s why I chose this dark image to appear as part of the symbolism on my author’s page. 

You, too, might share this mysterious lineage. Some of you don’t know the depth of your roots. So this magic tale of origin, the legend of the black shamrock, might finally set you free.

Once you recognize your connection, I urge you to wield your wisdom. Once you know your true nature, use your power to stand against evil. Mostly, tell the truth.

We’re not Druids but these wise men and women helped us in the past.

Stout-hearted Druids discovered the first black shamrock sprouting thousands of years ago from rugged cracks in harsh cliffs on the raw western edge of Ireland. Pushing to life in tough terrain, this coal-hued three-leaf clover bent to no one.

Our ancient psychic strain grew in pitch-dark night beneath the stars. High priests first wrote of harvesting her seeds to plant in hidden gardens. They used her leaves for tea, a strange brew that warmed the insides and cast shadows on the brain, the likes of which nobody had ever seen and only dauntless seers could handle. Mystics called the visions prophetic. Our enemies called the dreams diabolical delusions. Bards and chieftains, those of us touched by their alchemy, called the shadows ideas.

My ideas are born of the black shamrock. Yours can be, too, but only if you dare. The shadow of the black shamrock can help you unlock outlaw ideas of your own.

Both you and the world will be better for it.

I invite you to join me regularly on this page.

Please come in.

In the dream I’m on a bike. 

I’m always heading home.

Maybe we’re in Mexico, Stephanie and me, hiding out until the time is right for our next adventure. We still live one step ahead of the posse. In America, everybody does.

In my dream the pandemic is over.

We’re getting older, but enlightenment rises through seasoned wrinkles and finds its highest level in an afterglow as colorful as a cold tequila sunrise served with freshly-squeezed limes.

I don’t know any drinks named after the sunset.

I’ll invent one.

I’m wearing my wedding shirt on the bike, the black satin one with white trim I bought in Mazatlan in the Mexican state of Sinaloa. My white straw cowboy hat hangs unseen on my back, dangling from a braided black stampede string.

California renegades know the feeling, those rough and ready storm riders I met during my time on the Central Coast, that raw western edge of America where the land runs out and the cliffs signal the end for some.

We never fell off; we just turned around.

Remember Billy, Dennis Hopper’s character in Easy Rider? He wore a tan cowboy hat folded up on the side. Peter Fonda’s Captain America wore a helmet emblazoned with the red, white and blue of Old Glory. Jack Nicholson’s George wore his high school football helmet.

In one memorable scene, Captain America turns to his partner and says, “You know, Billy, we blew it.”

Billy doesn’t understand.

I do.

That’s why Stephanie and I didn’t blow it.

We’re free. 

We’re defiant. 

We’re good outlaws who don’t buy into the establishment disorder that ruins most mainstream politics and hurts good people’s lives.

That’s why we do what we do the way we do it.

So let’s get ready to ride.

The dream will always exist for those willing to risk the wrath of friends and neighbors who want desperately to challenge the system, to challenge themselves, but for whatever their reasons, fear the unknown.

Don’t hesitate.

No guarantees exist for anybody.

Like the great gonzo spirit once said: “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”